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Chapter Text

Deputy Rick Grimes was sat in the driver’s seat of a parked police cruiser, the faint creak of his leather seat blending with the distant hum of cicadas. He was in his early thirties, with sharp, observant eyes that scanned the horizon, even in moments of stillness. His face was clean-shaven, the sharp lines of his jaw emphasized by the afternoon light filtering through the windshield. His beige Cook County Sheriff's Department uniform was crisp, the neatly pinned badge on his chest catching a glint of sunlight.

One arm rested casually on the open window ledge, his fingers drumming lightly against the cruiser’s door as if tapping out an absent-minded rhythm. The brim of his standard-issue hat sat low, shielding his eyes from the harsh sun, yet not enough to obscure his focused gaze. The radio crackled faintly with static and distant chatter, but Rick seemed lost in thought, his posture relaxed yet undeniably alert. There was a quiet strength about him, a mix of small-town decency and the weight of responsibility etched subtly into his expression.

Beside him, in the passenger seat, Officer Shane Walsh lounged back with a confident ease that matched his broader, more imposing frame. Shane was a few years older, with a rugged jawline and a cocky smirk that rarely left his face. His uniform matched Rick’s—beige and crisp—but hung a little tighter over his muscular build. Shane unwrapped a greasy burger with one hand, his other clutching a carton of fries precariously balanced on his knee.

“Hey,” Rick started, his voice carrying that easy Georgian accent. “You ever think about it… What do you reckon is the biggest difference between men and women?”

Shane paused mid-chew, a fry halfway to his mouth. His eyes narrowed slightly as he considered the question—or maybe just pretended to. Then, with a confident shake of his head, he smirked and said, “I never knew a damn woman who knew how to turn off a light.”

Rick raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching with the hint of a smile as Shane continued.

“I swear, man, they’re born thinking that switch only goes one way—and that’s on.” Shane chuckled, shoving the fry in his mouth and washing it down with a swig from his soda. “Doesn’t matter if it’s a bathroom, a kitchen, or a damn hallway. Every light’s gonna be blazing like the Fourth of July if a woman’s been through there.”

Rick let out a low laugh, shaking his head as he took a bite of his burger. “You’re gonna get yourself in trouble talking like that.”

“Nah,” Shane said, flashing a lopsided grin. ““I swear, I’d come home and the whole house would be lit up, so then it’s my responsibility to walk through every room and turn off every single light that this chick left on”

Rick bit down on his burger, suppressing a grin as he glanced sideways at Shane. Through a mouthful of food, he managed to ask, “Is that so?”

Shane’s face lit up with exaggerated confidence, and he leaned back in his seat with a wide grin. “Ohhh, yeahhh, baby,” he drawled, dragging out the words like a late-night radio DJ.

Rick shook his head, already knowing he’d regret encouraging this, but Shane was in full stride now.

“Same chick would bitch to me about global warming. Yeah, you heard me. Global freakin' warming.” He paused, his hand frozen mid-air with a fry pinched between his fingers, his expression one of mock seriousness. “Now, here’s where I wanna make my point, Rick. If her—and every other pair of boobs in the world—could just figure out that the light switch goes both ways, then maybe, just maybe, we wouldn’t have so much damn global warming.”

Rick nearly choked on his burger as he barked out a laugh, turning his head away to avoid spraying crumbs across the dashboard.

Shane continued, his voice rising as he painted the scene. “I mean, come on, man! It’s not rocket science! Flip up: lights on. Flip down: lights off. Simple, right? But noooo. And here’s the kicker—when I actually bring it up? When I dare to politely suggest, ‘Hey, sweetheart, maybe turn the lights off when you’re done?’”

He paused dramatically, looking at Rick with wide eyes. “You know what happens? She hits me with this look, man. Like I just walked up and slapped a damn puppy dog across the face. And then—then! —she whips her head around, does her best Exorcist impression, and screeches, ‘You sound just like my father!’
”
Rick burst out laughing, a genuine, hearty laugh that filled the cruiser and made Shane grin even wider. Shane threw his hands up in mock defeat.

“I swear, Rick, this chick’s been hearing the same damn thing her whole life. And yet—yet!—she’s still too damn stupid to learn how to flip a damn switch!”

Rick laughed harder, his shoulders shaking as he leaned back against the headrest. Shane’s triumphant smirk slowly softened into a chuckle as he joined in, the two men sharing an unfiltered moment of camaraderie.
The smell of grease and fries lingered in the cruiser, and the radio crackled faintly in the background. Outside, the sun dipped lower in the sky, painting long shadows across the quiet road. But for now, in this little pocket of time, it was just two friends sharing a laugh—two weary deputies stealing a moment of lightness in the middle of a long shift.

The laughter between Rick and Shane gradually faded, like the final notes of a song trailing off into silence. Shane shifted in his seat, his broad shoulders slumping slightly as his grin gave way to something more subdued. He glanced over at Rick, his voice softer now, less cocky.

"So… how are things with Lori, man?"

Rick sighed, long and heavy, his gaze drifting out the windshield toward the empty stretch of road ahead. His burger sat forgotten in his hand, grease soaking into the paper wrapper.

"It’s like she’s pissed at me all the time,” Rick said quietly. "Even when I’m trying to fix things, trying to do right by her… she just gets all impatient, like I’m wasting her time or something."

Shane nodded slowly; his expression tight with an unspoken understanding. "Shit, man. It'll pass eventually. You know how it is. These things… they blow over."

But Rick wasn’t done. He hesitated, his brow furrowing as he stared at the steering wheel. When he spoke again, his voice was steady but tinged with hurt.

"You know what the last thing she said to me this morning was?" Rick’s eyes flicked briefly to Shane before looking away again. "She said she wonders if I even care about her and Carl anymore."

Shane winced slightly, a sharp exhale escaping through his nose.

"She said that, Shane. Right in front of our ten-year-old son."

The weight of the words hung heavy in the air between them, the earlier light-heartedness now completely gone. Rick's jaw tightened as he stared down at the crumpled burger wrapper in his hand.

After a long pause, Rick spoke again, his voice low and cold, his words deliberate.

"The difference between men and women is… I’d have never said something like that in front of Carl."

The silence that followed was thick and uncomfortable. Shane shifted in his seat, his usual bravado absent. He wanted to say something—anything—but words felt clumsy and useless in the face of Rick's raw honesty.

The heavy silence inside the cruiser was shattered by the sudden crackle of the police radio. A dispatcher’s voice, sharp and urgent, filled the space between Rick and Shane:

"All units, we have an armed robbery in progress at Dalton's Jewellery Store, corner of Fifth and Pine. Suspects reported armed and dangerous. All nearby patrols, please respond immediately."

Shane’s head snapped up, his earlier sombre expression instantly replaced by sharp focus. Without hesitation, he leaned out of the open window, quickly dumping the remains of his greasy lunch into a nearby trash can on the sidewalk. The crumpled wrappers and half-empty soda cup tumbled into the bin as Rick’s hand tightened on the wheel.

The cruiser’s engine roared to life as Rick stomped on the accelerator, the tires screeching briefly before gripping the asphalt. The vehicle lurched forward, surging into the flow of traffic with a commanding presence.

Shane grabbed the radio handset, his voice steady as he spoke into it. “Dispatch, this is Unit 12 responding to the armed robbery at Dalton's Jewellery. En route now.”

The sirens wailed to life, their piercing sound slicing through the thick Georgia air. Red and blue lights reflected off car mirrors and storefront windows as Rick weaved skilfully through the midday traffic, his eyes locked on the road ahead.

The cruiser skidded to a halt in front of Dalton's Jewellery Store, its tires squealing against the hot asphalt. The flashing red and blue lights reflected off the polished glass storefront and spilled into the street. Rick and Shane flung their doors open simultaneously, stepping out with the precision of men who’d done this before.

Both deputies drew their handguns, their movements quick but controlled. The afternoon sun glinted off the polished barrels as they moved into position behind the cover of their vehicle.

"Hold on, Rick," Shane said firmly, his voice low but commanding. He glanced at Rick with an intensity that cut through the adrenaline-laden air. "Backups on the way. You don’t have to charge in there, alright? Lori would kill me if I let you go in there without a vest on."

Rick froze briefly at the mention of Lori, his jaw tightening as his eyes flicked to the glass storefront. His grip on his revolver shifted slightly, but before he could respond—

Pop! Pop! Pop!

The sharp crack of gunfire erupted from inside the store. The sound was deafening, echoing out into the street and rattling off the nearby brick walls.

Shane instinctively ducked lower behind the cruiser, while Rick pressed himself against the side of the door, his breathing steady despite the chaos unfolding in front of him.

"Shane," Rick said, his voice steady but urgent. "Get around back. See if there’s another way inside. We can’t wait for backup. Someone’s in there—they might already be hurt."

Shane hesitated for the briefest moment; his eyes locked with Rick’s. He understood the weight of what Rick was asking—it wasn’t just a tactical order, it was a decision to act now, without waiting for safety in numbers.

"Alright," Shane said, nodding sharply. "Be careful, man."

Without another word, Shane ducked low and scuffled around the cruiser, keeping his profile minimized as he moved swiftly along the side of the store. His figure disappeared out of sight as he rounded the corner, his weapon held close to his chest.

The soft jingle of the bell above the jewellery store door echoed through the dim interior as Rick stepped inside, his sidearm raised and steady. The faint hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering weakly, casting sharp shadows across the shattered calm of the store.

In the centre of the chaos stood a man—Caucasian, bald, with speckled grey stubble crawling across his jawline. His skin was weathered and sun-beaten, and his eyes, sharp and calculating, darted between the trembling store owner and Rick. A worn duffel bag sagged open on the glass counter, overflowing with rings and glittering necklaces. The man gripped a handgun tight in his right hand, its barrel hovering dangerously close to the store owner’s temple.

"Goddamn it, little brother," the thief muttered under his breath, his Georgian drawl heavy and sharp. "You were supposed to keep watch."

Rick didn’t flinch. His feet rooted firmly to the cracked tile floor, his sidearm aimed squarely at the man’s chest. His voice was steady, calm, but carried the weight of authority.

"Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to lower your weapon… slowly."

For a moment, the thief just stared at Rick, his expression unreadable. Then, almost casually, he raised both arms into the air, the handgun’s barrel now pointing harmlessly at the ceiling. A crooked smile stretched across his face.

"Sure thing, Officer Friendly. But only because you asked so nicely."

The mockery in his tone was unmistakable, but Rick didn’t let it rattle him. His grip on his pistol remained firm, his eyes locked on the thief’s movements. Slowly, cautiously, Rick began to advance, his boots whispering against the glass-littered floor.

Then, from the back of the store, a second voice cut through the tension—a younger voice, sharper, filled with urgency.

"Merle! Move yo' ass! Now! There's more of 'em coming!"

The thief—Merle—grinned, a light-hearted, almost playful expression that felt horribly out of place in the standoff. In that moment, his smile faded, and without a flicker of hesitation, his arm snapped back down, his pistol aiming dead centre at Rick.

BANG!

The first shot shattered the glass door behind Rick, shards exploding outward like jagged confetti.

BANG!

The second shot struck the doorframe, splintering wood and ricocheting into the street.

BANG!

The third shot hit its target.

The bullet punched through Rick’s chest, just below his collarbone. Blood spattered against the fragments of what remained of the glass door behind him. His body jerked backward from the impact, his sidearm slipping from his grasp as his knees buckled.

Rick collapsed onto the cold tile floor, his back hitting hard as the wind rushed from his lungs. His chest heaved, blood soaking into his beige uniform, spreading in a crimson puddle. His wide eyes stared at the ceiling above, shock and adrenaline freezing him in place as his mouth gasped for air, but none came.

Meanwhile, Shane crept around the corner of the jewellery store, his firearm raised and steady in his grip. His eyes narrowed as he spotted the younger crook—a wiry, dirty-blonde kid with short, shaggy hair—straddling a custom-built motorcycle. The man’s face was partially obscured by a black handkerchief pulled up over his mouth, fashioned into a makeshift mask. His boots tapped impatiently against the pavement, his head on a swivel as he scanned the alley for any sign of trouble.

"King County Sheriff’s Department!" Shane barked, his voice sharp and commanding. "Step away from the vehicle. Now!"

The lookout froze for a split second, his hand hovering over the motorcycle's throttle. But before Shane could take another step forward, the man announced to his accomplice, "Merle! Move yo' ass! Now! There's more of 'em coming!"

Then-

Pop! Pop! Pop!

The sharp cracks of gunfire erupted from inside the store, loud and violent.

"Shit!" Shane hissed, his focus snapping toward the sound. His stomach dropped as dread settled into his gut.

Without another thought, he abandoned his post, sprinting back toward the front of the store. His boots hammered against the pavement as he rounded the corner and burst through the shattered glass doors of Dalton's Jewellery Store.

The scene hit him like a punch to the chest.

Rick lay sprawled on the cold, blood-slicked floor, his beige uniform stained crimson. His chest heaved in shallow, uneven gasps, and his wide eyes darted aimlessly, unfocused. Shattered glass crunched under Shane’s boots as he rushed to Rick’s side, his firearm holstered in a frantic motion as he dropped to his knees.

"Stay with me, man. I got you, brother. I got you," Shane said, his voice cracking under the strain of panic as he pressed his hands over the gaping wound in Rick’s chest. His palms were immediately soaked in warm, sticky blood, but he held firm, desperately trying to stem the flow.

Rick’s lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came. His breaths were shallow, his body trembling as his eyelids fluttered with exhaustion.

"Hey, hey, no, no, no. Don’t do that, Rick. Don’t you dare do that. You stay with me, alright? You stay awake. Lori… Carl… They need you, man. You hear me? They need you!" Shane’s voice wavered, but his hands remained steady, pressing down on the wound with all the force he could muster.

The wail of sirens grew louder now, filling the air and bouncing off the brick walls of nearby buildings. The distorted voices of responding officers crackled over radios, and the sound of footsteps pounded closer.

faint rattle of his But Shane couldn’t hear them. His entire world had narrowed to Rick’s pale, bloodied face and the faint, fragile rise and fall of his chest.

Rick’s eyes met Shane’s for a moment, glassy and distant, before they fluttered shut. His body went still, and the breath ceased.

"No, no, no, no!" Shane’s voice broke as he shook Rick gently by the shoulder. "Rick! Wake up, man! Wake up!"

Outside, the sirens continued to wail, and the flashing lights painted the broken glass and blood-streaked floor in harsh shades of red and blue.

Chapter Text

Rick Grimes lay motionless in a hospital bed, his chest rising and falling beneath a thin, faded gown. Tubes snaked from his nose, feeding him oxygen, and an IV drip hung beside him, its bag empty. His face, once clean-shaven and sharp, was now adorned with a shaggy but short beard. His sunken eyes stared up at the discoloured ceiling tiles, locked in a distant, unfocused gaze.

The room was suffocatingly silent. No faint beeps from a heart monitor, no chatter from nurses in the hallway—just an eerie, sterile stillness. The light filtering in through the half-closed blinds was pale and cold.

Rick coughed, a sharp, wheezing sound that echoed in the stillness. His lips trembled as he called out, his voice hoarse and cracked from disuse.

"Shane… You there?"

No reply.

Rick slowly turned his head, the motion straining his weakened neck muscles. His bloodshot eyes fell on a vase of wilted flowers perched on the small table beside his bed. Their petals, once vibrant and fresh, now crumbled at the faintest touch. Rick's trembling hand reached out, the medical tag dangling loosely from his frail wrist. His fingertips brushed against the crispy, brittle petals, and several broke free, fluttering onto a pile of dead flower heads below.

"Shane?" Rick rasped again, a little louder this time, his voice thick with confusion and fear.

The silence pressed in around him, heavy and unrelenting.

With a deep, wheezing inhale, Rick pushed himself upright. Pain flared through his chest, and his vision swam with spots. His muscles—weak, atrophied from prolonged immobility—protested with sharp, pulling aches. He reached up with shaking hands and pulled the oxygen mask from his face, letting it drop limply onto the bed beside him.

Planting his bare feet on the cold tile floor, Rick tried to stand. His knees buckled immediately, and his body crumpled forward. He hit the floor with a loud thud, his IV stand clattering down beside him. The sharp sting of the needle ripping free from his arm shot through him, leaving a thin trail of blood running down his wrist.

"Nurse! Help!" Rick sputtered, his voice cracking as he tried to push himself up with trembling arms. His breathing came in ragged gasps as he scanned the room.

The wall clock caught his attention. Its hands were frozen—stuck at quarter past two.

Rick’s breath hitched in his throat. Something was wrong.

Gritting his teeth, he yanked the remaining IV tubing free from his arm, wincing as more blood dribbled onto the sterile white floor. His fingers scrabbled against the tiles as he dragged himself toward the door, each movement slow, laboured, and desperate.

The world beyond the hospital room was silent, like a painting frozen in time. The faint scent of antiseptic hung heavy in the air, mixed with something else—something faintly metallic, something wrong.

With every inch he gained, Rick’s mind raced with questions: Where is everyone? Why is it so quiet?

Rick’s trembling hand gripped the cold metal handle and pushed the hospital room door open, only to be met with resistance. A heavy medical bed had been shoved haphazardly against the doorway, blocking his exit. The mattress was stained and rumpled, the sheets dangling like lifeless limbs. With a grunt of effort, Rick wheeled the bed aside, the metal frame screeching as it scraped against the floor.

He stumbled into the corridor, his bare feet slapping against the icy tiles. The dim fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting uneven, sickly shadows across the hallway. Admission forms, patient records, and clipboards were scattered across the floor, some stained with dark, dried smears.

Rick’s wheezing breaths echoed faintly in the vast emptiness of the hallway. No voices. No footsteps. No distant hum of conversation or rolling carts—just the buzzing of flickering lights and the ragged sound of his own breathing.

He shuffled forward, one hand gripping his aching chest as he scanned the abandoned corridor. Wheelchairs sat abandoned, pushed against the walls. A gurney was overturned, its wheels still faintly squeaking as it teetered against a corner.

His eyes locked onto the faint glow of the reception desk ahead. Rick stumbled over scattered papers, each step heavy and laboured, his hospital gown flapping slightly as he moved.

He leaned heavily on the desk, his knuckles white against the edge of the counter as he steadied himself. A phone sat nearby; its receiver slightly askew. With a shaking hand, Rick picked it up and pressed it to his ear.
Dead silence. Not even static.

He pressed a few buttons, his brow furrowing in confusion and growing dread. After a moment, he slowly placed the receiver back down on the cradle, his hand lingering on it for a moment as if hoping it might suddenly crackle to life.

Nothing.

His eyes scanned the surface of the desk, desperate for anything useful. Loose forms and crumpled post-it notes littered the counter, along with an open drawer full of paperclips and pens.

Then he spotted it—a small, slightly battered box of matches tucked beside an empty coffee cup.

Rick grabbed the matchbox, turning it over in his palm. It felt small and insignificant, but something about having it in his hand grounded him, gave him a thin thread of control in the chaos around him.

Dressed in nothing but a flimsy hospital gown, Rick had no pockets. So, he clutched the box tightly in his hand as he turned his attention to a set of double doors at the far end of the corridor.

The glass panes on the doors were smeared with something dark and opaque. Faint light trickled through, casting murky shadows on the tiles below. A crooked "RESTRICTED ACCESS" sign hung from one of the handles, barely clinging by a piece of yellowing tape.

Rick’s pale, sweat-slicked face contorted into sheer horror as he froze, staring through the small, grimy window of the double doors.

On the other side lay a woman sprawled across the cold hospital floor. Her stomach was a gaping cavity, hollowed out as if something had feasted on her insides. Her legs—stripped of muscle, flesh, and humanity—were reduced to raw, exposed bone. The pale blue of her hospital gown was stained deep crimson, dried blood pooling around her lifeless form.

His breath hitched, a strangled sound escaping his throat as he staggered backward, trembling. His wide, panicked eyes stayed locked on the grotesque sight for a heartbeat longer before he stumbled away from the doors, his feet scuffling against the debris-strewn floor.

Rick turned, his bare feet scraping against the cold, glass-littered tiles as he shuffled down a long, dark corridor. His breathing was sharp and uneven, echoing off the blood-splattered walls that surrounded him.

Bullet holes riddled the plaster, stark evidence of a chaotic, desperate firefight. Rick’s gaze flitted to the collapsed ceiling overhead, where thick cables hung like vines, swaying gently in an invisible draft.

Each step was careful and deliberate as he advanced toward a set of looming double doors at the end of the corridor. Shards of glass crunched beneath his feet, and chunks of drywall lay scattered around him.

The doors were barricaded with its handles bound tightly with a rusted chain and a thick wooden plank shoved through them for reinforcement. Rick’s eyes locked onto the ominous message scrawled in bold, black spray paint across the surface:

“DON’T OPEN, DEAD INSIDE.”

His lips parted as he read the words aloud in a whisper, his voice trembling.

Then the doors twitched.

The chains rattled faintly as two pallid, dishevelled hands pushed through the narrow opening between the doors. Fingers, bony and bruised, clawed blindly at the chain, fumbling and scraping in an unnatural, jerky rhythm.

Rick stumbled backward, his chest heaving as panic surged through his veins. His eyes widened as realization began to dawn on him—the horror, the incomprehensible truth of what he was seeing.

The hands kept reaching, kept clawing. The sound of rattling chains and faint guttural groans filled the air, crawling under Rick’s skin and settling in his bones.

His instincts screamed at him to move—to run.

Rick turned and stumbled away from the barricaded cafeteria doors, his shoulder colliding with a nearby fire exit door. It creaked open under his weight, revealing a narrow stairwell that descended into inky darkness.

He hesitated at the threshold, staring down into the pitch black below. The faint sound of groaning carried up from somewhere behind him, a chilling, gurgling noise that felt far too close.

With no other choice, Rick stepped into the stairwell, gripping the cold metal railing tightly as he began his descent. Each step creaked under his weight, and his bare feet trembled against the cold steel steps.

Darkness enveloped him. His eyes struggled to adjust, every shadow twisting into something sinister.

Rick’s trembling fingers fumbled with the small matchbox as he descended the narrow, cold stairwell. His breath came in short, sharp gasps, his chest tight with fear and exhaustion. The dim light from the cracked exit sign above the door faded behind him, swallowed by the creeping blackness below.

A sudden, sharp groan echoed from somewhere above—a guttural, inhuman sound that froze Rick in place. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the metal railing, his bare feet trembling against the icy steel steps.

In his panicked haste to keep moving, the matchbox slipped from his trembling hand. It tumbled down the stairwell, bouncing off the steps and disappearing into the shadows below with a faint clatter.

"Shit," Rick muttered under his breath, his voice barely above a whisper.

The sound above him grew louder—closer. The shuffle of dragging feet, the faint rattle of something metallic, and the unmistakable wet gurgle of a throat that shouldn’t be making noise anymore.

Rick’s instincts screamed at him to move.

He gripped the railing tighter and forced himself downward, step by agonizing step, his breath ragged and sharp in the suffocating silence. His feet slipped slightly on a damp patch of something he didn’t dare look at. Every creak of the metal stairs beneath his weight felt impossibly loud, as if announcing his presence to whatever lurked above.

The groans and dragging footsteps followed him, growing louder, more insistent. They were close now—too close.

When he finally reached the bottom of the stairwell, Rick practically stumbled against the fire exit door. His palms slapped against the cold metal surface as he shoved against it with all his strength.

The door groaned in protest, its hinges stiff and reluctant. Rick’s pulse hammered in his ears as he pressed his shoulder into the door and shoved again.

With a final screech of metal and a rush of stale air, the door gave way, swinging open into blinding daylight.

Rick stumbled forward, falling onto cracked asphalt as sunlight flooded his vision. He shielded his eyes with one trembling arm, his lungs gulping in the fresh air as if he’d been drowning.

The hospital parking lot stretched out before him, littered with abandoned cars, scattered debris, and ominous stains smeared across the pavement. Some vehicles had their doors hanging open, others were left with shattered windshields and blood-smeared interiors.

Rick forced himself to his feet, his bare toes scraping against the rough pavement as he turned back to look at the door he had just escaped through.

The faint sound of groans still echoed from within, but the door slowly creaked shut behind him, sealing the darkness—and whatever hunted him—inside.

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the eerily silent parking lot. A light breeze carried the faint smell of decay, and in the distance, a lone crow cawed against the silence.

Scattered among the vehicles… were bodies.

Some lay motionless, bloated, and rotting under the sun. Others… twitched.

Rick’s breath caught in his throat as he stepped out fully, his eyes darting between the ruins of the world he had once known.

The silence was shattered by the distant, bone-chilling sound of a groan—a low, guttural noise carried on the wind. This marked Rick’s cue to depart the fallen hospital and make his way home, to his family.

Rick trudged along the cracked and sunbaked asphalt of the rural Georgia road, his bare feet raw and aching with every step. The thin hospital gown clung to his damp skin, fluttering slightly in the warm breeze. The midday sun blazed overhead, casting long shadows across the empty stretch of road. Dust clung to his calves and sweat dripped from his shaggy beard, but he pushed forward, driven by instinct, by the faint glimmer of hope that home might still mean normality.

He knew this road well. It was a route he’d driven many times before—sometimes with Shane in the patrol car, sometimes alone on quiet evening drives home from work. He remembered rushing down this very road when Lori went into labour with Carl, the adrenaline mixing with elation as they raced towards the hospital. Or the time when he and Shane had climbed onto the roof of the Grimes family home, tangled in Christmas lights and laughter, trying to create something magical for Carl to remember… before he fell off the roof and broke his arm.

But now, the road felt alien. Desolate.

There were no passing cars, no distant sounds of lawnmowers or children playing in nearby yards. Only the faint hum of cicadas, the rustle of wind through the trees, and the rhythmic slap of Rick’s bare feet against the pavement.

He was about three miles from home when something caught his eye—a glint of sun reflecting off metal in the overgrown grass by the side of the road. Rick slowed his pace, his breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps.

As he drew closer, he noticed two pink handlebars sticking awkwardly out from the tangled green blades. It was a bicycle, toppled over, half-hidden by nature's slow reclaiming grip. The bike's frame was smeared with mud and dark stains—stains Rick didn’t want to think too hard about.

His tired eyes lingered on the handlebars, his mind flashing briefly to Carl, to the afternoons he spent teaching his son to ride his own bike in their driveway.

But then—he heard it.

That sound.

A low, guttural groan floated on the breeze. It wasn’t far—somewhere just ahead, beyond the next bend in the road.

Rick froze, his breath catching in his throat. The sound was unmistakable, a rasping, wet noise that stirred something primal in his gut. It was the same sound he’d heard in the hospital stairwell, the same grotesque noise that came from those clawing hands behind the cafeteria doors.

Rick’s trembling footsteps slowed as he followed the faint groans, his wide eyes scanning the overgrown grass beside the road. His breath hitched as he spotted her—what was left of her.

A young woman lay collapsed next to the pink bicycle, her lifeless torso twisted awkwardly on the uneven ground. Her stomach was a gaping wound, shredded open with raw intestines sprawled like tangled ropes across the grass. Her lower body was gone entirely, torn away in some horrific, violent fashion. Dried blood stained the dirt around her, painting a grotesque outline of her final moments.

Rick froze, his stomach lurching, his hand instinctively covering his mouth. Yet, despite her condition—despite what should have been death—she moved.

The woman’s decaying head twitched slightly, then slowly lifted. Her hollow, clouded eyes locked onto Rick, unblinking and distant. Her jaw hung slack, her broken teeth clicking together in uneven chomps. Darkened lips peeled back in what could’ve been mistaken for a grin if not for the grotesque hunger behind it.

Rick’s chest tightened as his mind raced to make sense of what he was seeing. How? How can she still be moving? Still trying to…

But she was. Her withered arms clawed weakly at the earth, her bony fingers digging into the dirt as she began to pull herself forward, inch by painstaking inch. Each drag left a faint trail of congealed blood and torn grass in her wake.

She let out another wet, guttural groan, her broken teeth snapping uselessly at the air between them.

Rick flinched but held his ground. His gaze flickered to the pink bicycle lying beside her, its frame still glinting faintly in the sun. He gritted his teeth, stepping closer with purpose now, his muscles screaming in protest with every movement.

Grabbing the pink handlebars, Rick lifted the bike upright. His arms trembled under the weight, his frail muscles burning from fatigue. He let out a sharp, pained hiss as his shoulders protested the strain.

The woman’s clawing hand reached out, her crooked fingers stretching towards Rick’s ankle. But he stepped back, just out of her reach. Her bony hand scraped the asphalt, leaving faint streaks of blood as her broken nails cracked against the rough surface.

For a long, drawn-out moment, Rick stood over her, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. His eyes, glassy and haunted, studied her—this tragic, horrifying thing that was once a person, a young woman who might’ve been riding her bike home, enjoying the sun, laughing with friends.

But now… now she was this.

Rick swallowed hard and shook his head, his throat tight with emotion. There was no saving her, no fixing whatever had happened here.

With trembling hands, he pushed the bike back onto the road, the tires crunching over loose gravel. His arms ached with every motion, but he didn’t stop. He positioned the bike in the middle of the cracked pavement and straddled the seat, his bare feet dangling slightly as he adjusted himself.

The woman let out one final, weak groan from the grass, her head slowly lowering again as her strength gave out.

Rick glanced back at her one last time. Her hollow eyes stared blankly at the sky, her body still trembling faintly as her broken fingers twitched in the dirt.

"I’m sorry," Rick muttered under his breath, his voice cracking slightly.

Then he gripped the pink rubber handlebars tightly and pushed off.

The bike wobbled unsteadily at first, his bare feet pressing gingerly against the pedals, the rough texture digging into his raw skin. But soon, he found a rhythm, and the bike carried him forward, away from the woman, away from the hospital, and towards whatever awaited him at home.

The warm wind hit his face as he cycled down the long stretch of empty road, the sun dipping lower in the sky, casting elongated shadows across the cracked asphalt.

But despite the breeze, despite the forward motion, Rick couldn’t shake the image of those hollow, lifeless eyes staring back at him from the grass.

The world he had woken up to was no longer the one he remembered, and deep in his chest, Rick Grimes knew—whatever had happened, whatever this was—it was only just beginning.

Rick’s bare feet crunched over gravel and broken glass as he dismounted the pink bicycle in front of his family home. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long, golden rays across the once-familiar house. The front door hung ajar, its frame splintered and broken as if someone had forced their way inside. The wind whispered through the cracks in the shattered windows, carrying with it an eerie stillness.

"Lori… Carl…" Rick whispered to himself, his voice trembling as he took a step forward.

He hobbled up the driveway, gripping the bike for support until he could no longer bear its weight. The bicycle clattered onto the overgrown grass beside the path, and Rick staggered toward the front door, one hand clutching his aching chest.

The door creaked loudly as he pushed it open further, the sound cutting through the oppressive silence. His bare feet stepped onto the hardwood floor, glass shards piercing his soles with every cautious step. Rick winced, but he pressed forward, leaving small smears of blood in his wake.

The hallway stretched out before him, lined with framed photos of his life—his wedding with Lori, a picture of Carl holding his first fish, a rare candid photo of Shane laughing at a barbecue. Most of the frames were still upright, frozen moments in time untouched by whatever chaos had unfolded here.

"LORI!?" Rick’s voice thundered through the house, breaking the silence. His voice cracked slightly as he called again, "CARL!?"

The only reply was the faint creak of the walls settling and the distant sound of wind whistling through the broken glass panes.

"LORI! CARL!" Rick called again, his voice rising with desperation, tinged with the fear he had been trying to suppress since he woke up in the hospital.
Silence.

His throat tightened, his stomach sinking deeper into a pit of cold dread as he turned slowly into the living room.

The room felt… lived-in but abandoned mid-motion. Carl’s toys were scattered across the carpet—action figures frozen in a silent battle; a toy truck flipped on its side. Lori’s sewing kit sat neatly arranged on a small table by the window, a needle still threaded and halfway through a patch of fabric. It was as though time had simply stopped.

Rick stepped further into the room, his breathing shallow as his eyes scanned for any sign of life.

Then—

WHACK!

A blinding, white-hot pain erupted in the back of Rick’s skull as something heavy collided with his head. His body crumpled forward onto the living room carpet with a dull thud. His vision swam with sparks and darkness, his ears ringing from the force of the blow.

He groaned weakly, his fingers twitching against the soft fibres of the carpet as he tried—and failed—to push himself up. His head felt like it was splitting open, the sharp sting of the blow pulsing through his skull with every faint heartbeat.

Through the haze of his fading vision, Rick saw a blurry silhouette loom over him—a small figure, partially obscured by shadow and light filtering through the cracked blinds.

Then, a voice—a young, trembling voice.

"Daddy, I got one. I got one real good."

Rick’s fading consciousness tried to process the words, but it was like trying to hold onto smoke.

"Carl…?" he rasped weakly, but the name barely left his lips before the blackness swallowed him whole.

The last thing Rick heard was the faint shuffle of feet and a distant, muffled voice calling out from somewhere deeper in the house.

Then, silence. Cold, unyielding silence.

Chapter Text

Only a few hours had passed once Rick had regained consciousness, though the sun had now set, and Rick was handcuffed to a bed in a dark room illuminated by a candle on the bedside table.

"Good, you're awake. I was worried I was gonna have to put a bullet in you," said a deep voice from the doorway as an African American man wearing a blue button up shirt, shifted around the doorframe. Although his head was entirely shaven of hair, grey stubble sprouted from his top lip and chin.

Rick estimated him to be around his mid-forties and although he was just attacked, Rick did not feel threatened by the man as he approached the bed. The man pulled a key from his cargo trouser pocket.

"Now before I take these off, I need to know what that wound is mister."

"I was shot," Rick answered bluntly, still hazy from the head injury.

"You sure? You sure it isn't a bite, because I need you to be one hundred percent sure it isn't?" the man asked in a stern voice, pointing the key at Ricks face.

"I'm positive. I was shot," Rick said with an assured stare into the man's hazelnut eyes.

"Alright then," the man said unlocking the handcuffs.

"There's a change of clothes on the dresser, join us downstairs for dinner when you're decent," the man said while disappearing around the doorframe.

Rick stepped down the staircase in a white t-shirt and black sweatpants and entered the dining room to a house with a very similar layout to his own. The dining room was an open plan connecting to both the kitchen and living area. Photos littered the countertops, some removed from their frames which had been used to fuel a small fire in the fireplace. Rick recognised the elderly couple in the photos and stated, "This is the Jeffersons house, they live across the road from us."

Rick took a seat opposite the man.

"Lived. I'm sorry mister, but they were dead when me and my boy first raided this place."

"Me and pa buried them in the garden," a young boy, the same age as Ricks son, entered the room and pulled out one of the wooden chairs out to sit at the table next to the other man.

The boy had a short black afro and was wearing a bright red jumper with a large image of Snoopy the dog on the front.

"I think it's time we introduced ourselves, my names Morgan Jones and this is my son Duane."

"Rick Grimes... I was looking for my family when something hit me from behind."

Duane looked at his father with a sorry look, and Morgan responded by saying,

"we apologise for that Rick, Duane here mistook you for one of the dead, so he hit you with a shovel. We dragged you back here once we realised that you were still breathing."

Rick looked confused by Morgan's explanation and asked, "how did you mistake me for a dead person when I was standing up Morgan?"

Morgan looked even more puzzled by Ricks question and answered after a brief silence.

"...Rick, the dead have been doing a lot more than standing up these past two months."

Ricks eyes bulged open, and he shot up from his seated position while exclaiming,

"I'm sorry, did you say two months?"

Morgan also stood up, gesturing his arms to calm him down while saying in a hushed tone, "Keep your voice down, you'll let the dead know we're in here."

"Shit Morgan what the hell's going on? if I've been in a coma for the past two months, I need to know what's happened to my family."

Morgan looked at Rick with a worried look which grew sympathetic as he started to recount the tragic events of the last two months.

"We got warnings on all the news channels, that's how it all started. The dead don't stay dead no more Rick. Sometimes you come back after, but not as you, as one of 'them."

"We've seen it happen." Duane chipped in, before getting teary eyed at the memory.

Morgan hugged his son and continued by saying, "that's right. My wife Jenny, she got bit early on by one of them monsters out there, we call them Walkers, or simply just the dead. Their only goal is to eat you, but a bite is enough to kill you, that's why we were worried about your wound. Once the bite kills you, it brings you back, but as one of 'them,' and the cycle continues."

Rick appeared overwhelmed by all this, but pushed on asking more questions like: "I think I saw one. A 'Walker' you called them? on my way from the hospital. She was torn in half, but she still tried to get to me. How do you stop these things. If splitting them in half doesn't do it, then what does?"

"A blow to the head seems to be the only thing that stops 'em. We've been using the shovel mostly. A gun does the trick too but that makes a lot of noise, and in this world, noise is a big risk you don't wanna be taking if you can help it."

A silence fell in the room, which was disturbed by a grumble in Duane's stomach, followed by him asking "Can we please eat now?"

Morgan gestured for Rick to sit back at the table and served three small portions of tomato soup freshly warmed by the fireplace into a collection of floral-patterned china bowls.

The boys ate in silence while Rick processed everything Morgan had told him, fearing for his family's safety.

Once morning came, the boys were stood outside discussing an idea Rick produced during the night.

"My family would've gone to the city for shelter. I know my wife; I don't doubt that's where they are, so I need to find a way there Morgan" Rick explained.

"How the hell are you gonna get all the way to Atlanta on foot Rick?" Morgan responded disapproving of his suggestion.

"I won't be, that's the thing. I have the keys to my precinct in my house. With them we can grab some guns, some supplies and more importantly a car."

Morgan lifted his head, intrigued by the possibility of the stashed away supplies.

"We'd better get going then."

With that approval, all three of the boys made their way to Rick's house where Rick changed into his beige sheriff's uniform, accompanied with a brown Stetson skyline hat with a yellow tassel strung around the brim. Morgan and Duane gathered tinned goods into a rucksack each and before leaving the house. Rick grabbed the precinct keys from an empty fruit bowl, and the small group soon made way for the police station.

It didn't take long for them to arrive at their destination, and both Rick and Morgan were surprised that the precinct appeared to be mostly untouched from the outside.

"Suppose people were too scared to loot a police station, worried about getting locked up or something. Hell, what laws even apply anymore," Morgan said peering through a large window.

"I guess that's something we'll have to figure out for ourselves," Rick Sighed as he unlocked the front door, followed inside by Duane and Morgan.

"We'll load up on guns and ammo first, the armoury is just this way."

Rick unlocked the door and the metal gate securing the guns in place. Both sides of the room were stocked with twelve-gauge shotguns secured upright, and Glock seventeens and nineteens secured on a wall mount. Rick however had his mind set on his trusty sidearm, unlocking his personal locker and retrieving a six-barrel Colt Python revolver.

"Daddy, can I have this one?" Duane said as he picked up a revolver.

Morgan took the gun out of his son's hand gently and replied, "you are old enough to have one under the circumstances, but until I teach you how to shoot, you do not touch anything in here, understand?"

Duane nodded his head and held open a duffle bag for his dad, as he loaded it up with ammunition.

It took less than an hour to gather up two duffle bags each, of supplies, ammunition, and a variety of guns, which were loaded into two identical Ford Crown Victoria police cruisers.

"I'm sorry we're not coming with you Rick; I just feel it's safer for me and Duane here," Morgan apologized as he patted Rick on the shoulder.

"I understand, we don't even know if the Atlanta safe zone is still operational. It's a big risk, but I have to find my family Morgan."

The pair of them shook hands with a firm grip and nodded in mutual understanding.

"I won't forget what you've done for me and my boy," Morgan stated, ruffling his hand into his son's puffy hair.

"I'll try to not whack you so hard with that shovel next time I see you mister Grimes." Duane said looking up to Rick with a smirk.

"That's alright Duane, just make sure I'm actually a Walker next time," generating a collection of short laughs amongst the group.

After saying their final goodbyes, they each got into a cruiser and drove off in the same direction towards Rick's neighbourhood.

Morgan parked outside the Jeffersons and waved off Rick who continued his journey in the same direction as the Harrison Memorial Hospital.

Rick slowed his driving when reaching a familiar location. Once the car came to a complete stop, he pulled up the handbrake and exited the car while leaving the engine running. He lifted his feet to trudge over the overgrown grass towards a trail of blood amongst a long parting in the grass where he previously found the bike.

After passing the remains of the woman's legs, he noticed she had clawed a fair distance away from where he left her. It didn't take long for Rick to catch up to her withered torso where she began to get riled up at his arrival, lifting her scrawny arm towards him, once again chomping her rotting teeth.

"I'm sorry this happened to you," Rick said raising his python to her grotesque head.

A single shot was fired through the woman's eye, out of mercy. Rick got back in his car and continued his journey to the city.

"Shit," Rick muttered to himself as the police cruiser began to rattle and slow down due to the lack of fuel.

It was early in the morning, Rick had spent the night in the car, mostly undisturbed by Walkers.

It was less than twenty miles to Atlanta city, the nearest shelter appearing to be a farmhouse tucked away down a dirt path.

Rick tapped on a few of the windows, announcing his presence and the need for fuel, but was met with silence.

As he approached the fourth window which was cracked open, Rick was blindsided by a foul smell and loud buzz of hundreds of fly's flying in and out of the living room.

Rick peered through the window, looking between a spatter mark on the window.

"Oh god," was all Rick could say when seeing the half blown out skull of a man, slumped over in an orange armchair, shotgun flopped over his lap, with his finger still on the trigger.

Disgusted by the sight, Rick retched and walked over to a large fenced off area to escape the foul smell.

As he was about to return to his car, Rick heard a horse neighing from the fenced area, giving him some hope that this wasn't a wasted trip.

He approached the small stable where a large brown horse was feeding on scraps of hay and grass, completely unbothered by Rick's approach.

"Hey buddy, I got a proposition for ya. I need some help getting to Atlanta," Rick muttered as he stroked along the horse's face which had a single white stripe of hair running down the middle.

The horse lifted his head and exhaled hard enough to knock Ricks hat off his head.

"I'll take that as a yes." Rick retrieved both duffle bags of guns and ammo and then climbed up onto the calm horse after saddling him up and with a tug of the reign the horse darted off into a full-blown sprint.

"Easy boy, we still got a long way to go, don't wear yourself out just yet," Rick laughed as he set a slower pace for the eager horse.

The clopping of the horses' hoofs echoed loudly on the concrete of the deserted interstate eighty-five. Rick had a bad feeling when he noticed the pile up of cars trying to leave the city, contrasting the totally abandoned entrance that he was pacing down. The city streets were eerily silent, military checkpoints were left unattended and multiple beige Ford GPW's were wrapped around traffic lights or flipped upside down.

Rick continued looking for any form of life, but the horse was becoming increasingly agitated by a nearby presence.

Suddenly, as Rick turned into a junction, he was met with over a hundred undead eyes all turning around to notice him, some were dressed in military gear while the majority were in a variety of casual clothing.

The groans roared through the streets when the sight of fresh meat riled up every single undead soul which began to stagger towards Rick.

Rick had been fortunate to only encounter a few stragglers until now, though his luck seemed to be up, with more appearing around every city corner.

He was trapped, the dead approaching him from every angle clawing at his legs and the horse.

The horse became more panicked, lifting its front legs and getting a few kicks off, on a few of the Walkers crushing their skulls. However, it sadly wasn't enough, the horse was dragged down, knocking Rick and both duffle bags onto the ground.

Rick was able to slip away as the swarm of undead civilians tore apart the horse, devouring its organs and flesh, its distressed cries only attracted more to join the feast.

Rick, now only equipped with a hatchet he found at Morgan's house and his Python containing five rounds, sprinted away from the bloodbath firing two rounds into two nearby Walkers' skulls.

This alerted more that missed out on the horse frenzy to Ricks location and began staggering towards him as he sprinted towards a tank.

A woman wearing a floral-patterned dress reached out to grab his arm was met with a hatchet splitting a hole into her face, he did this to two more with increased aggression with each strike as he got closer to the tank.

He fired off another round into another skull before diving under the tank clawing his way forward.

Surrounding Walkers were aware of his location and began crawling under the tank towards him, grabbing at his boots and arms.

He fired another shot at a young army recruit trying to take a bite out of his ankle.

Understanding he has one round left; Rick held the gun up to his temple, thinking of his wife and son most likely being amongst those trying to eat him right now.

As he looked up, finger on the trigger, he noticed the hatch underneath the tank was open.

Without hesitation he shook off the weak grip some of the Walkers had on his legs and climbed inside the tank sealing the hatch shut.

Rick collapsed back against the wall next to the former tank operator who had skin as grey as the monsters outside.

Rick grabbed the military issued pistol from the holster which alerted the corpse, waking it up.

Rick was on high alert by now so with one quick swing of his hatchet the Walker was put down, allowing Rick to collapse and take a few controlled breaths.

"Hey... hey you!" Rick looked up at the sound of a radio transmission.

"Dumbass... yeah, you in the tank. Cosy in there?"

Chapter Text

Rick tilted his head, bewildered by the voice on the radio.

“You still alive in there dumbass?”

After hearing the young male’s voice a second time, Rick realised this wasn’t his mind playing tricks on him and immediately jolted upright, banging his head on the low metal roof, grunting in pain and lowering his stance before lunging over to grab the microphone.

It was a push-to-talk type radio, so Rick held down the button on the side of the microphone and responded to the voice by saying, “hello? Hello!” then waited for a reply.

“Good, you are alive. That makes rescuing your ass a little easier.”

Rick was eager to leave the claustrophobic hull, so he pressed on by asking, “You’re gonna try to rescue me? What’s happening out there?”

There was a brief pause until the voice came through again, sounding concerned. “I’m not going to lie to you… it’s not good. You have one freak on top of the tank, that’s your best exit point. The horse is keeping most of the others busy for now, but that won’t be the case for much longer.”

Rick was dripping with sweat, and he knew that even if this was a trap, this guy was his only way out of his situation.

“Right, so what do we do?” Rick said, gaining confidence in the idea of going back outside.

“Run… you open the hatch above you and run. You just have to make it about a hundred yards south, away from the direction you came in. Then, I’ll signal you when you get close… assuming you make it that far.”

Rick exhaled and asked, “what about the bags of guns, can I get to those?”

“Dude, forget the bags! You have anything on you that you can use?”

Rick inspected the clip out of the military issued pistol and replied, “I have a pistol with a full clip, one shot left in my revolver and a hatchet.”

“Good, but don’t fire any more shots if you can help it, keep it quiet and maybe we don’t end up like your horse.”

“Hey, what’s your name?” Rick asked, realising he had no idea who this voice was.

“Have you been listening to any of this, you’re running out of time!”

With that warning, Rick let go of the microphone, letting it swing by its chord, psyching himself up to open the hatch.

Then, out of the corner of his eye Rick spotted a grenade resting by the corpse’s hand. He steadily picked it up along with a satchel wrapped over the dead Walker’s shoulder and placed the grenade inside. With one hand clutching his hatchet, the other on the handle with a clammy grip, Rick began to psych himself up to make a break for it.

The hatch flung open with a loud bang, alerting the Walker sprawled on top of the tank, but before it had any time to attack, Rick swung the hatchet into his skull with an overhead swing. He slid down the back end of the tank, stumbling when he landed on the ground.

The voice was right, most of the dead were still swarmed around the horse carcass, which was now mostly just a mess of bones and torn skin.

Rick sprinted away from the tank, pushing two female Walkers to the ground with a shoulder barge.

He soon realised that several more were approaching him from all angles, so he pulled out the pistol from his newfound satchel and carried on running. Ricks aim was hindered by his sprint, firing off three rounds into a Walker blocking his path, two of the rounds pierced its chest and one through the cheek, killing it instantly.

The noise only attracted more attention, so Rick continued shooting, putting down five more walking corpses while on the move.

He made a harsh turn down a side alley roughly a hundred yards from the tank. Rick was still on high alert, so when he turned the corner and saw a figure less than three feet away, he pointed his gun at the figures face ready to shoot.

“Whoa, NOT DEAD! Come on!” yelled the baby-faced Asian male, he must’ve been approximately twenty years old and was wearing a white button up shirt with a black undershirt underneath.

“This way,” instructed the young man as they both quickly scaled a tall fire escape ladder. The following swarm of walking corpses were baffled by their ability to climb, and remained at the ladders base, reaching up towards Rick, groaning as they stumbled over each other.

Both men stood on the high platform, trying to catch their breath.

The young man adjusted the red baseball cap on his head and said, "nice moves cowboy. Was you thinking you could just ride in here all by yourself and clean up the town?”

Rick was looking over the railing while panting and replied, “cowboy?”

The young man looked Rick dead in the eye and said, “The hat, the horse, the revolver. You’re telling me you’re not Clint Eastwood’s stunt double with the shit you just pulled out there?”

Rick was a little bit thrown off by the similarities and responded by saying, “I came here to find my family. I thought the city would be a safe zone for them.”

The man gave a light smile and said, “Jesus, so you are just a dumbass then. The name's Glenn by the way.” Rick then introduced himself and they began climbing up a second, much taller ladder towards the roof of a jewellery store.

“Brightside, it’ll be the fall that kills us” Glenn said as they looked over the edge and then added, “I’m a glass half full kind of guy.”

The pair made their way down and around the side of the tall building, and while Glenn was opening a closed-door Rick asked, “Why’d you stick your neck out for me, why not just leave me in the tank?”

Glenn replied while opening a second, much heavier door to a carpark by saying, “call me foolish for having hope, but maybe someday if I wind up down shit creek, somebody else might just do the same for me… Or maybe that just makes me an even bigger dumbass than you.”

Glenn pulled out a walkie-talkie from his rucksack and delivered information on their location, as well as the sudden approach of two beefy looking Walkers as they waited on the car parks lowest level.

A door suddenly swung open from a connecting clothing store and two tough-looking men charged out towards the walkers dressed in safety vests and jeans.

The Caucasian man led the assault equipped with a large crowbar, which he held effortlessly in his left hand. He was a bearded man wearing denim jeans and a grey unbuttoned flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing a forest of thick black hair. He appeared to be a few years ahead of Rick, which was indicated by the sparse collection of greyish hairs that littered the man’s deep brown beard and receding hairline.

The other man had much darker skin and was dressed in a white shirt with an unknown band logo on the front. Unlike his partner, this man’s arms and head were totally void of any hair and he looked to be a similar age to Rick, possibly being in his mid-thirties. He was also armed, but with a metal baseball bat.

They both charged into the slow-paced Walkers, tackling them to the concrete floor. In unison they both swung their weapons repeatedly down onto the monsters, cracking open their skulls and ribs.

This distraction allowed Glenn and Rick to bolt it past them and into the clothing store unscathed.

“Allen lets go,” ordered the man with the bat before running inside behind the others.

“Thanks Jacqui,” Glenn quickly said as they hurried past a woman with dark skin as she held the backdoor open for the four men, closing it behind them once they were all inside.

The lady was wearing a short-sleeved black denim jacket and hugged the man with the bat before they all walked down the narrow corridor towards the shopfloor.

Suddenly, a firm grip snagged Ricks collar as he entered the open space, and he was pushed into the checkout counter with a pistol pointed at his face.

“You son of a bitch, we oughta kill you,” said the terrified blonde woman holding the gun. She was dressed in a blue sweater with a collared shirt underneath with her hair tied into a loose ponytail.

“Andrea, chill the fuck out,” Allen said calmly.

“We’re all dead because of this asshole,” she said lowering the gun and backing off towards the others.

“I don’t understand,” Rick said looking at them in confusion.

Allen grabbed Rick by the arm and escorted him towards the entrance to the store and angrily lectured, “the key to scavenging is surviving, the key to surviving is sneaking in and out undetected, not blasting a gun in the middle of the street.”

The man with the bat jumped in by saying, “every deadhead in the city heard you firing that gun.”

They stopped dragging Rick, showing him the glass doors surrounded by Walkers trying to claw their way inside.

“You just rang the dinner bell,” Andrea stated with sheer dread as they watched the swarm slowly start to crack the glass.

“T-Dog, help me move this display case. If we block the door it might slow them down when they get through the glass,” Allen said to the man with the bat as they began pushing a heavy jewellery case with their combined strength.

[Blam] a loud bang echoed from above the store which caused a few members of this new group to sigh in disappointment.

“God dammit, why is nobody watching Dixon,” Andrea said as she and the others hurried up towards the roof.

Rick Followed the group onto the roof, but remained at a distance as they confronted a man wearing a leather vest as he continued to fire a hunting rifle down into the streets filled with Walkers.

“Merle, are you crazy!” T-Dog yelled.

The man responded with, “You oughta be more polite to a man holding a gun, it’s only common sense.”

Rick’s hairs stood on end, as the sound of the redneck’s voice took him back to the moment he was shot during the robbery that put him in the hospital.

The argument continued between T-Dog and Merle as T-Dog demanded that he stop wasting bullets and making more noise.

Merle scoffed and responded by saying, “If you think I’m gonna stand here and take orders from a n****r like you.”

T-Dog scrunched his face in anger at the racial slur, which was only made worse by Merle spitting into his face. T-Dog didn't hesitate to take a swing at the Rednecks stubbled face by striking his jaw.

Merle instantly retaliated by thumping the butt of his rifle into T-Dog’s nose, knocking him to the ground. He stood over him and pointed his rifle towards T-dog’s bloodied face announcing, “Since we’re oh so comfortable with giving out orders, why don’t we have ourselves a little vote to see who’s in charge,” Merle stated with a grin on his face as he pointed the gun towards the others as they crouched down to comfort T-Dog.

“Come on, let me see those hands,” he said raising his own hand, followed by Andrea and Allen begrudgingly raising their own hands and Jacqui flipping him off as she raised hers.

“That’s quite enough,” Rick said after feeling fed up with Merle’s demonstration.

He grabbed his Python by the barrel and used it to pistol-whip Merle in the forehead as he turned around reacting to Rick speaking up.

Merle fell onto his back and Rick put his knee across the racist man's chest as he handcuffed Merle to a ventilation pipe.

“Who the hell is this prick,” Merle questioned angrily, still dazed from the blow as he started pulling on the restraints.

“Officer Friendly. Remember me asshole?” Rick said through gritted teeth as he grabbed Merle’s face to force eye contact.

It took a while for Merle to piece together the seemingly irrelevant memory and then chuckled. “Well shit, looks like I’m off the hook for murder,” Merle said before letting out a mischievous laugh.

You two know each other?” Glenn asked, slightly concerned by Rick holding a gun to Merle’s head.

“This asshole shot me just before the world went to shit. Put me in a coma and now I have no idea where my family is,” Rick said as he pushed the gun harder against Merle’s skull.

“You won’t do it, you’re too much of a pussy. You didn’t shoot me then and you won’t shoot me now.”

Rick cocked the revolver quoting Merle saying, “you oughta be more polite to a man holding a gun, it’s only common sense.”

Andrea and Jacqui smirked at Rick tormenting Merle, clearly fed up with his bullshit.

Rick discharged his weapon, searched Merle’s vest pockets, and pulled out a small bag of cocaine and checked his nostrils.

“Still got some on your nose jackass,” then proceeded to flick his nose.

Merle flinched and replied with, “What-cha gonna do, arrest me?” Merle chuckled as he rattled his cuffed hand.

Rick threw the small bag off the roof which sent Merle into a frenzy of curse words and heated opinions which Rick ignored as he walked over to Allen.

He was stood looking down onto the crowded streets before turning to face Rick and said, “Well Officer Friendly, you got us into this mess, I sure hope you can get us out of it.”

Chapter Text

Several hours had passed when Allen asked, “T-Dog, you checked the radio signal from up here?”

T-Dog was sat in the shade while clicking the walkie-talkie on and off.

“Yeah, it’s like Dixon’s brain… weak,” he replied glaring at Merle who was still cuffed to the pipe and raised his middle finger to T-Dog.

“Who are you trying to contact anyway?” Rick asked.

“We’ve got a camp, there’s some folks there that might be able to help,” replied Glenn.

“It’s no use, they’re not coming,” Andrea said pessimistically after hearing the static from the walkie talkie.

“Looks like we’ll have to find our own way out then, maybe through the sewers or something,” Rick suggested.

“Good luck with that, I hear its dangerous around these parts of town, aint that right sugar tits,” Merle joked while looking over at Andrea who was retrieving a water bottle from Glenn’s rucksack.

He carried on by saying, “Hey, why don’t you help me out of these cuffs, then we can go off and bump some uglies, we’re all gonna die here anyway.”

Andrea looked disgusted at his advances and said, “Yeah and I’d rather,” As she packed up the bag and walked away from Merle.

“You mentioned the sewers Rick, do you really think that could work?” Allen asked desperately.

Jacqui was stood leaning over the building and chimed in by saying, “No, it won’t. The sewer systems in this city are fitted with iron gates to keep out any unwanted guests.

You’re not getting through those without a blow torch or some kind of power saw.”

The group looked surprised by the random, but useful knowledge.

She carried on by explaining, “I worked in the city’s zoning office, I must’ve seen those blueprints over a hundred times. My office is just across the street, if a few of us can make it over there, we might be able to use one of the company cars to drive back here into the loading bay and pick up the others.”

Rick looked at Glenn to see if he considered this a viable escape plan.

Glenn hesitated for a moment before stating, “ok fine, but we do this my way. No offence, but this was a lot easier when it was just me. The first time I bring a group, and everything goes to hell. I’ll take Jacqui and Rick, that’s it, she knows the way, and Rick I’ve seen how well you can shoot, it would make me feel a lot safer if you were out there covering my ass. Everybody else stays here and waits for the signal.”

Merle chuckled to himself and said, “it’s sorta funny how you didn’t wanna take orders from me, yet here you all are taking them from a kid. I Hope the Biters are hungry, sounds like ya’ll are bringing them Chinese takeout, with pork chops for dessert,” glancing over towards Glenn and Rick who remained unamused by the Rednecks crude joke.

Glenn quickly responded with, “I’m Korean, you asshole,” then leading the group to the stairwell, abandoning Merle up on the roof by himself.

“Hey, sorry I pointed my gun in your face earlier, I’m not sure you totally deserved that,” Andrea calmly apologised to Rick while the others were packing up some bags.

“Totally?” Rick laughed. She responded by saying, “We’ll see if you guys get us out of here in one piece, then you might get the full apology.”

Rick nodded in understanding and followed up by saying, “you might want to take the safety off next time though if you’re serious about pulling the trigger.”

Andrea inspected her silver gun and Rick showed her how to disarm the safety and said, “we’ll need you keeping these folks safe if them Walkers get through, and maybe once we get back, I’ll show you how to actually shoot that thing.”

Andrea gave a puzzled look and said, “Did you just call them ‘Walkers?’ I kind of like that name for them.”

Rick replied by telling her about Morgan and how he was the one to explain this apocalypse to Rick and that’s where he got the name from.

“Allen, I'm giving this to you,” Rick said as he handed over the key to Merle’s handcuffs.

“I know he’s an asshole, but we can’t leave somebody up there like that, so just be careful he doesn’t do anything else stupid.”

Allen pocketed the key and said, “That’ll be a first.”

Rick smiled and patted him on the shoulder. Before letting Rick walk away Allen asked, “how are you guys going to get past all those deadheads anyway, you barely made it back here in one piece?”

Rick gave the others a concerned look and said, “I have an idea but you’re really not gonna like it.”

“Nah uh, no way! are you outta your godamn mind?” Jacqui protested, as they all stood looking down at the dead Walker they had just dragged inside.

“They have to be able to tell us apart somehow, they never turn on each other and it had me thinking… what if it was how we smell,” Rick explained.

“It would make sense, they smell dead, we don’t,” Andrea said with some confidence in the idea.

“Try telling that to Dixon and his B.O,” T-Dog chuckled to himself as he looked over at an unimpressed Jacqui.

“This was your plan Jacqui, we can’t do this without you,” Glenn said in a reassuring tone.

She huffed in acceptance, “Oh, just give me the axe so we can get this over with,” Jacqui demanded as she began to chop up and slice open the corpse using Rick’s hatchet.

The squelching and oozing of black fluids that started to pool around the group’s feet was enough to make Glenn violently throw up. Andrea rubbed his back and said, “if that smell doesn’t do it, I don’t think anything will.”

The three volunteers lined up, holding their breath while the others put on some rubber gloves and got to work.

“Ready?” Rick asked quietly as Allen pulled down the chain to open the loading bay door.

Neither Glenn or Jacqui answered him as they both held back the urge to vomit.

All three of them were wearing navy boiler suits that were covered in the innards of the deceased Walker.

Glenn had a foot strung over each shoulder and was armed with Allen’s crowbar, while Jacqui had a hand and part of an intestine over hers and clutching a steak knife in one hand.

Rick had the remaining hand strung over his shoulder and was leading the others slowly out into the open street.

Jacqui lifted her arm up and pointed at a tall office building about ten minutes away from their current location.

Without saying a word, Rick nodded, and they all staggered towards the building, mimicking how the Walkers roam the streets.

Meanwhile, back at the clothing store, T-Dog was on the roof and had a pair of binoculars fixed on the trio slowly making progress towards the first wave of Walkers.

Andrea was moving all the supplies and bags to the loading bay door in anticipation of their quick exit. Allen joined T-Dog on the roof and Merle was still chained to the pipe kicking up a fuss.

“Has that asshole gone out there with the handcuff keys?” Merle said as he pulled on his restraints.

Allen silenced Merle by showing the key in the palm of his hand.

A loud crash of thunder was heard above as large dark clouds filled the sky. “Well, that can’t be good,” Allen said looking down at the street.

Rick led the others towards the first cluster of Walkers on the street, Rick held his breath and stumbled past a small group of them dressed in military uniforms.

The monsters turned to look at him with a distant stare, but showed no signs of wanting to attack.

Glenn also passed through without phasing them, however Jacqui was letting her nerves get the better of her and holding back her tears as best she could.

The nearby Walkers were becoming more aware of her disguise, but she held it together long enough to slip past them like the others did.

That’s when Glenn felt a large drop of water land on his nose and watched in horror as hundreds more started to bombard the pavement.

The group looked up at the falling rain, understanding they are now on an even shorter time limit than before.

The surrounding Walkers became increasingly aware that there was fresh meat nearby for them and so they became agitated by the group passing by.

“This isn’t going to work,” Jacqui whispered, noticing some of the monsters as they turned their heads to trace the group as they moved through the crowd.

“Rick, what do we do?” Glenn asked in a panicked whisper.

The group was now soaked head to toe, the blood and guts were now almost entirely washed off and that’s when Jacqui had an old looking Walker turn to finally see her and grab onto her arm.

Glenn and Rick spun around to see their cover was now totally blown, and gave each other an understanding look of panic. Rick huffed and grunted as he began swinging his hatchet into any of the deadheads that got close.

Glenn yelled out as he smashed his crowbar into the skull of two nearby Walkers that stood between him and Jacqui who was having a struggle with the monster trying to bite her. She had one arm holding its neck to keep his teeth at a distance while her other arm that was holding her knife was pinned to her side by the Walkers death grip.

More of the surrounding cluster noticed her struggle and staggered towards her.

Rick and Glenn charged back to her position, striking down as many as they could in a desperate attempt to save her.

Then suddenly, a shot fired through the Walker’s skull, splattering blood onto Jacqui’s face.

She looked up in relief towards the direction of the gunshot. She could make out a figure on the clothing store roof holding a rifle, it was Andrea.

Two more shots were fired, but did not hit as kill shots. The group used this opportunity to make a run for the office, while smashing, slicing and stabbing along the way.

]The gunfire eventually stopped, indicating they were no longer in Andrea’s sight.

“There’s a key in the plant pot!” Jacqui yelled to Rick since he was the first to arrive at the door.

He rummaged through a Monstera that seemed to be thriving in the current downpour and found the key.

Rick flung the door open to the lobby, followed in by Glenn. Jacqui also sprinted inside, just after stabbing a Walker up through the chin as it attempted to block her path.

Rick then slammed the metal door shut and the three of them collapsed onto the floor stunned by what they just survived.

“Did they make it?” Allen desperately asked Andrea, who still had her eye focused through the scope of the hunting rifle.

“I don’t know Allen, but if they didn’t… we’re all as good as dead.”

Still dripping puddles of water on the floor, Rick slicked back his hair and looked around the modernised office lobby.

An empty reception desk with paperwork scattered all over the counter and waiting room chairs, implied somebody leaving in a hurry.

“First time I’ve seen those chairs so empty, there’s always someone filing a complaint over property violations,” Jacqui said, standing by Ricks side as she placed her knife in her back pocket.

“Makes you think how irrelevant that all is now,” she added after Glenn walked over from inspecting the elevator labelled as ‘out of order.

“How do we get to the garage from here Jacqui?” Glenn questioned while looking around at the signs giving directions to the office.

“We’ll need to get the car keys first, they’re kept in the Managers office, it’s across the hall from mine on the fifth floor,” she said confidently before carrying on saying, “The door to the garage is just there by the lifts, it should be unlocked if people left in a hurry.”

Rick then divided the group by saying, “I’ll stay here and scope out the garage, while you both go and get the keys. If you run into any sort of trouble, you run and you call for help.”

Rick felt strange giving out orders to these people he’d only just met, but none of them had questioned his authority this far and trusted the plans he’d come up with.

With the group split up, Glenn and Jacqui trudged up the many flights of stairs.

“You’d think I’d be used to these stairs, them elevators never did work,” Jacqui joked before pulling a more concerned face when they reached her managers door.

The door was labelled ‘Malcolm Stone’ next to a row of large windows with the blinds disturbed and droplets of blood spattered on the glass.

“You sure you wanna go in there?” Glenn asked in a comforting tone as he gently touched Jacqui’s arm.

“We don’t have a choice,” she said as she grasped the cold handle.

Rick approached the garage door, labelled as ‘staff only, keep out’ and pushed his body weight into the door without it budging.

He huffed and took a step back to examine an alternative route, noticing a side door leading outside. He peered through the glass, looking into a clear strip of road that was fenced off from the main street.

He carefully opened the door and closed it behind him quietly. He scouted the area leading up to the garage which was hidden behind three pull down shutters.

The gate leading to the road was chained closed and was holding back half a dozen Walkers that had noticed Rick.

He chose to ignore them and approach one of the shutters, noticing bloody handprints at the base. Rick put both his hands on the shutter door and lifted it all the way up, creating a loud clanging noise as it latched into place.

Five fresh Walkers turned to look at Rick’s sudden entrance causing Rick to stumble backwards onto the floor.

There was three female and two male Walkers, all dressed in formal work attire with their throats slit. Their skin was a slight grey colour and Rick noticed the name badges of the deceased employees reading: Susan, Hector, Travis, Cheryl, and Catherine.

Jacqui slowly opened the door with her knife ready in her other hand.

As the door creaked open, she could hear a muffled cry coming from the corner of the room.

“Malcolm is that you?” she asked fearfully as she saw the man slumped on the floor, his blue suit and tie stained in a horrendous amount of blood.

“I had to do it,” the man muttered multiple times to himself, clearly in a state of shock.

“Malcolm sweetie, it’s… it’s me, Jacqui. What happened to you?”

Glenn held Jacqui’s arm as she edged closer to the man in the small office.

“Glenn, the keys are just over there,” she said pointing to a wall mounted case while she advanced further towards the crying man.

Glenn opened the box and grabbed two sets of car keys, while keeping an eye on Malcolm as Jacqui crouched down in front of him.

Malcolm spoke in a blunt tone, still not making eye contact with Jacqui.

“They tried to take it all Jacqui, I had to do it, and I can’t let you take those keys either.”

Malcolm's eyes darted up, staring straight into Jacqui’s soul. She flinched by the sudden eye contact from her former boss, and he pulled out a blood-stained kitchen knife and took a swing at her throat.

“Oh fuck,” Glenn exclaimed as he rushed over to the desk, then throwing a photo frame at Malcolm's head. He crouched down to help Jacqui stand up who was in shock by her narrow escape.

Malcolm stood up, sweeping all obstacles out of his way, and marched towards them swinging the knife violently.

“Jacqui, move!” Glenn yelled, snapping her back into the current situation.

They both sprinted out the office door, slamming it on Malcolm's face before rushing down the stairwell.

Meanwhile, Rick was now firmly on his feet and taking chunks out of the deceased employee’s craniums.

Their skulls were slightly tougher than the deadheads in the street resulting in the axe becoming lodged. This required Rick to kick the bodies away to release his weapon and once they were all put down, he rushed over to the door he tried to get through earlier.

He noticed a doorstop was firmly wedged underneath the metal door, indicating Malcolm did not want anybody finding their bodies. He removed the wedge and as he did, he heard frantic footsteps rushing down the stairwell.

“Rick, open the door!” Glenn yelled as they sprinted over to the closed door.

Rick pulled the door open and let the terrified duo inside the garage with Jacqui demanding he lock it behind them.

Rick didn’t question the urgency and complied by placing the doorstop back where he found it.

Before he even let go of the doorstop, a loud thud crashed on the metal door making Rick back off towards the others who were now frantically inserting the keys into a white minivan.

The sound of the engine starting was Rick’s cue to stop staring at the heavy pounding on the garage door and jump in the side door, sliding It shut.

Jacqui was behind the wheel with Glenn shaking in the passenger seat. Jacqui floored the accelerator sending Rick tumbling back into his seat as he reached up to the grab-handle above him, holding it for dear life as she took an aggressive right turn.

Rick cried out, “Jesus Jacqui, don’t wreck our only chance out of here, and what the hell was that back there”?

Suddenly, before Glenn could answer, Malcolm charged out from the same door Rick went through earlier, now standing between the gate and the minivan, clutching the bloodied knife. Jacqui looked in the rear-view mirror, seeing her fallen co-workers sprawled on the concrete and then fixed her eyes back onto Malcolm.

She put her foot firmly back on the accelerator leaving skid marks on the concrete as she hurled the van towards Malcolm.

His eyes widened and dove out of the way as the minivan sped past before smashing through the chained-up gate and crushing two of the Walkers trying to get in.

Rick turned to look out the back window as he watched the remaining swarm trudge toward Malcolm, unsure of his survival.

“There they are!” T-Dog yelled while looking through the binoculars.

“That’s our cue, we gotta move now,” Allen ordered Andrea as she rushed down the stairwell to the loading bay, handing the rifle to Allen before leaving.

The sounds of the cracking glass went unnoticed as she rushed through the shopfloor.

T-Dog grabbed a backpack and pushed the binoculars inside before following Andrea down soon after, while also failing to notice the glass bending under pressure from the Walkers outside.

“Hey, you’d better not leave me up here. This ain’t right,” Merle shouted.

Allen huffed before pulling the key to Merle’s handcuffs out of his pocket and freed the redneck before they both rushed down the stairwell soon after.

“Fuck. Look out,” T-Dog yelled to Allen and Merle, as the door finally shattered letting a wave of Walkers stumble over the makeshift barricade.

“ARgghh!” Allen screamed as Merle shoved him into an incoming Walker so he could run to the loading bay unharmed.

Andrea rushed out to see Allen fighting for his life, with both hands holding back the monster chomping its yellow teeth, inches away from his throat.

She pulled out her pistol that she earlier used to threaten Rick, switching the safety off as he had instructed.

More Walkers were stumbling towards Allen, so she took the risky shot.

The bullet put the monster down immediately, setting Allen free where he joined her in raising his rifle towards the incoming swarm. “This is gonna be a close one,” Allen said in a concerned tone.

They both began firing rounds into the skulls of the undead, thinning the swarm while the others waited for Rick’s team to arrive.

Suddenly, there was a loud knock on the loading bay shutter.

T-Dog pulled down hard on the chain, raising the shutter to see the minivan parked outside with Rick hanging out the wide-open side door.

“Come on,” T-Dog yelled to the others as him and Merle grabbed some of the bags stored by the door and jumped into the minivan.

Andrea and Allen ceased fire and hauled ass towards the others, grabbing the remaining bags and diving into the car.

Jacqui once again floored the accelerator to evade the incoming cluster, driving toward the city entrance.

“What the fuck took you so long,” Andrea said trying to calm her nerves.

Glenn turned around with a massive grin. He was wearing Rick’s Stetson and holding one of the duffle bags filled with guns Rick had dropped earlier.

“Well, that could’ve been worse,” Merle said with a cocky smile, which was quickly knocked sideways by Allen’s fist.

Merle was knocked out cold from the blow, with his head resting on the window.

The group looked at Allen with concern before Andrea asked, “that make you feel better?”

Allen glanced at her and replied by saying, “Asshole deserved it.”

None of the group protested his comment, and the minivan sped down interstate eight-five with Jacqui still behind the wheel.”

Chapter Text

“Somebody wake up Dixon, I’m sick of hearing him snoring,” Jacqui complained after hearing the redneck grumble for the entire ride back to camp.

Without hesitation, Andrea flicked Merle’s forehead causing him to jolt awake completely unamused by the hostility.

“We there yet?” Merle questioned sarcastically as the others refused to even glance in his direction.

Jacqui then turned the minivan down a woodland trail off the main road following a sign displaying a warning of an upcoming quarry.

“Hope you’re ready to meet a lot of new people Rick, we even have another cop staying with us,” Allen said excitedly.

Merle rolled his eyes and muttered, “Great, now I’ve got two of you breathing down my neck all day long.”

“They’re back!” yelled an energetic woman as her voice carried around the makeshift camp, gathering many individuals to crowd around her in excitement and wait for the approaching minivan.

The survival camp overlooked a sprawling quarry, its steep, rocky walls plunging into still moving waters that shimmered under the relentless sun. Tents of varying sizes and colours dotted the uneven ground, their makeshift nature reflecting its inhabitants’ improvisational skills. A campfire sat at the heart of the camp, encircled by the surrounding tents and vehicles as its smoke curled up into the wind.

Rick watched as Andrea and Allen were the first ones to vacate the car and dive into the arms of their presumed families.

Andrea was lovingly embraced by the young woman who announced their arrival to camp, as they both burst out into tears of relief.

Allen however, rushed over to bear-hug a sniffling middle-aged woman and two little girls, kissing each of them on the forehead, breaking his tough exterior as he let out some tears.

Rick then felt a soft hand on his shoulder, followed by Jacqui politely asking, “You ready to meet everyone sweetie?”

Rick nodded in approval, and so she began highlighting individuals around the camp.

“That’s Andrea’s younger sister Amy,” Jacqui mentioned, as she gestured towards the young blonde woman wearing a university-branded tank-top, in the iconic deep red and black colours of the Georgia Bulldogs.

The outfit appeared to be perfectly balanced between functionality and style, reflecting both her active lifestyle and school spirit. Over her top, she had a lightweight, zip-up hoodie in a complementary shade of grey.

Her hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, unlike her sister’s ponytail, which was now sprouting loose wispy hairs, some of which were covered in specs of Walker blood.

“The pair of them are staying with Dale in his RV, he’s the old fart stationed on lookout duty. Nobody knows if he even knows how to fire that rifle,” she whispered as she pointed at the man perched atop the mentioned RV, his face weathered, marked by deep lines and a lifetime of stories.

“Dale rescued them both while on his way into the city, it’s a pretty sweet story that I’m sure you’ll get to hear from him soon enough,” Jacqui said while smiling.

Dale noticed Rick’s arrival and tilted his well-worn bucket hat as an unspoken greeting.

The hat, a faded olive green, had clearly seen better days, its brim frayed, and the fabric patched in places, but it served its purpose, shielding his eyes from the harsh sun as he watched over the camp.

“That’s Allen’s wife Donna and his two daughters, Lizzie and Mika. You didn’t hear it from me, but donna can be kind of a bitch,” Jacqui whispered, as she covered the spoken words with her hand discreetly.

The middle-aged woman was wearing practical, modest clothing: a long-sleeved blouse and sturdy jeans, with a simple silver cross hanging from a chain around her neck.

The lighter tones of her hair, once a vibrant golden hue had begun to grey, creating a striking contrast that highlighted her stern features.

After the joy and relief in her eyes diminished, she appeared agitated by her husband causing them all a great deal of concern for his safety.

Their daughters, one with bright pigtails and the other with a tight sandy-blonde braid radiated contrasting personalities, with the eldest daughter, Lizzie presenting a surprisingly tough composure for an eleven-year-old, by remaining devoid of any tears, possibly taking after her father.

However, Mika was a few years younger and far less composed than her sister. Her father softly guided his hand over her pigtails, in attempt to calm her wailing as she clutched onto Allen’s leg, emphasising a timid personality.

“That man sat by the campfire over there, that’s Jim,” Jacqui said with a glum expression.

The shaggy-looking mechanic sat by the campfire, his rugged appearance highlighted by the flickering flames.

His hair was a wild tangle of dark, greasy locks that fell haphazardly over his forehead, partially hidden beneath a well-worn cap.

“Why does he look so sad?” Rick question after seeing how distant the man’s gaze was towards the flames.

“Jim’s story is a tragic one I’m afraid. He was inside the city when it became established as a safe zone, but sadly we know what happened there. He was there with his wife and three children… but Jim was the only one to make it out alive. He tends to keep to himself, not much of a talker after something like that,” Jacqui said as she watched Glenn and T-Dog stroll over to silently sit beside him.

His hands, calloused and stained with oil, held a metal can filled with coffee as he raised it to his lips taking a large sip. His faded, grease-streaked work overalls had his name sewn onto the pocket, serving as a constant reminder of his job prior to this fucked up world.

The metallic noise of a tent unzipping drew Ricks attention, as a woman with a buzzed haircut emerged from the patchwork tent cautiously, taking one measured step at a time while she scouted the commotion occurring throughout the camp.

She wore a simple, dark t-shirt and durable jeans, a choice made prioritizing comfort which heavily contrasted the subtle tension in her posture.

“That’s Carol, she usually keeps to herself unless she’s around her husband Ed or their daughter Sophia,” Jacqui stated as they watched a second figure emerge her with a heavier step, his presence looming just behind her.

His hair was trimmed with streaks of grey and his face clean-shaven, exuding a well-respected energy.

He carried himself with an easy authority, his posture straight and his movements deliberate as he unfolded a chair for his wife to sit on at a distance away from the group.

“Doesn’t look like Sophia’s with them, she must be down in the quarry with the others,” Jacqui said, taking a breath, worn out from all the introductions.

“Oh, never mind, here they come now. Rick you’re gonna love this guy, Shane was a cop just like yourself.”

Rick stood frozen, his eyes wide with shock and disbelief, his breath caught in his throat, and just for a moment, the world seemed to stop as the word, "Dad!?" echoed throughout the camp, drawing all eyes towards the ten-year-old boy sprinting across the dusty camp, his small frame moving with a burst of frantic energy and overwhelming joy.

His eyes, wide and sparkling with tears, were locked onto the familiar figure of his father.

"Dad!" he shouted again, his voice breaking with a mix of disbelief and elation.

His worn sneakers kicked up little clouds of dirt as he ran.

"Carl?" He muttered as he dropped to one knee, arms open wide, as his son came crashing into him.

The boy's small frame trembled with sobs as he clung tightly, his face buried in his father's chest.

Rick wrapped his arms around his son, pulling him close, feeling the familiar warmth and weight of the boy he had thought lost forever.

"Carl, slow down... where are you go...ing... Rick? Rick!" He suddenly heard a familiar, breathless gasp as he looked up to see his wife appearing from the path leading down to the quarry.

Her hands were covering her mouth in utter disbelief and her eyes were wide with shock, flooding with tears as they locked onto his.

Then, with a cry of pure joy, she broke into a run, closing the distance between them.

Her steps were unsteady, driven by a surge of adrenaline and overwhelming relief.

Still on one knee with their son clinging to him, Rick opened his other arm just in time to catch her as she practically collapsed into him.

She wrapped her arms around both of them, her body shaking as he muttered the words, "I found you."

Chapter Text

The collective hearts amongst Rick’s fellow campmates melted as they spectated the emotional family reunion.

“We… we thought that you were dead,” Lori shakily said, while fixing her eyes onto her husband.

Meanwhile, Shane was watching from a distance, internally stunned by the arrival of his best friend and former partner. His usually confident demeanour was now ruined by the tight clench of his jaw and the furrowed brow.

Lori turned to subtly look at him with a heated glare, explaining to Rick that Shane was the one who brought them to this makeshift camp and thoroughly protected them in his absence.

Rick marched over to Shane, pulling his best friend into a rough hug, scrunching his fists into the back of his grey t-shirt, unbothered by the damp texture.

His handsome face bore the marks of survival—scratches, dirt, and a perpetual five o'clock shadow, Shane appeared suited to this new world, he’d found a purpose: keep Lori and Carl safe, at any cost.

Shane forced a smile, as the other camp members passed by, congratulating the reunited family.

“Lori, where’s Sophia?” Carol meekly asked, frantically darting her eyes around the camp in search of her daughter she presumed to be under Lori’s watch.

Lori looked puzzled and replied saying, “she said she didn’t want to come with us… we thought she went back to you and Ed.”

Carol’s cries for Sophia grew frantic and pierced the air, a heart-wrenching sound that sent shivers down the spines of everyone present.

Camp members dropped what they were doing, their faces etched with worry and fear, as they scrambled to organize a search.

"We saw her. We asked her if she wanted to come and play with us, but she said she wanted to play by the trees,” Mika reluctantly said whilst holding her mother’s hand.

Shane Instantly felt concerned by the possibility of Sophia wandering off into the unsupervised forest alone and bellowed, “Dale, did you see where she went?”

He adjusted his bucket hat, looking down at the distressed group, recalling what he’d witnessed from above, “No, but I did see Daryl go off into the woods by himself not too long ago, maybe he knows something.”

Merle was surprisingly quiet, until Ed marched over towards him, angrily grabbing the redneck by the scruff of his vest, shouting in his face, “If your dipshit little brother has so much as laid a finger on my little girl…”

He was promptly cut off by Shane tapping his shoulder, advising him to ease up as Carol was now sobbing into Lori’s arms over her husband’s sudden outburst.

Then suddenly, an ear-piercing scream echoed from within the dense forest, creating further panic amongst the group as their worst fears regarding the little girl just became a very real possibility.

A small group consisting of Shane, Rick, Amy, Andrea, and Ed, rushed into the forest towards the terrified screams.

Shane was leading the rescue team, Rick not far behind him as they charged through the low hanging branches.

Eventually, the group pushed through the wild bushes into a clearing, the muddy ground was layered with an array of dried-up leaves which crunched under their feet as they spread out into the opening.

They all had their eyes fixed on the grotesque figure stood directly beneath a tree sprouting out of the centre of the clearing, its rotting hands clawing upward with unsettling determination.

Perched above the monster was a little girl, clinging to a thin branch, her bare feet gripping the rough bark as she called for help.

“Sophia!” Ed bellowed after seeing his daughter in extreme peril. He grabbed a nearby log, wielding it like a weapon as he approached the undead threat with his eyes locked onto his daughter's terrified face.

The others watched from a distance, unable to devise a safer plan as Ed marched himself towards the danger, determined to protect his kin.

The Walker, distracted by his abrupt approach, turned its decaying head towards him, its moans growing louder.

He swung the branch with all his might, striking the creature's head with the log.

The monster staggered backwards, but did not topple over, forcing Ed to strike it again on its chest, this time knocking it to the ground amongst the autumn leaves.

During the commotion, Andrea and Amy rushed over to the tree, in attempt to rescue Sophia while the Walker is occupied.

Amy outstretched her arms, ready to catch the little girl if she fell, while Andrea calmingly said, “We’ve got you honey,” looking up at her with a reassuring smile.

Sophia eased her grip on the branch, shimming towards the sisters, her denim dungarees snagging on the bark as she shuffled backwards. She placed her bare feet into the foot-holes of the tree, effortlessly climbing down towards her rescuers.

The sisters collectively reached out in preparation for her dismount, but Amy was the one to grasp her small torso when she was within their reaching distance.

Sophia instantly wrapped her legs around the younger sister’s waist, securing her arms around her neck, sobbing into her shoulder.

"You're safe now," Amy whispered, rubbing the girl's back in a comforting rhythm.

“Ed. That’s enough!” Shane exclaimed, pulling on Ed’s shoulder as the distressed father carried on hammering down onto the Walker’s shattered ribs.

Ed ceased his rage, brushing off Shane’s arm and pushing past him towards his petrified daughter. Sophia placed her feet firmly on the ground, dismounting Amy’s torso, wiping away any trace of her tears.

Ed grabbed her arm, pushing his thumb into her forearm as he pulled her away from the girls.

Andrea furrowed her brow with concern and calmly said, “Ease up Ed, she’s okay.”

Ed completely ignored her and just scoffed, dragging his daughter back through the clearing as she complained of his harsh grip.

“Is he gonna be okay?” Rick asked Shane, after watching the situation get so out of hand.

Shane wiped his mouth, frustrated about Ed’s attitude and temper and replied, “Yeah, he’ll be fine. He just doesn’t like me being in charge… or anybody for that matter.”

Rick watched as Andrea and Amy disappeared through the clearing, leaving just the two of them by the tree.

“These people are lucky to have you Shane… I’m lucky to have you. You took care of my family when I couldn’t, and that’s something I don’t think I’ll ever be able to repay you for.” Rick placed his hand on Shane’s shoulder as a sign of respect and appreciation, failing to notice Shane’s agitated expression.

Just as they were about to follow the others back towards the camp, a low grumble came from the smashed-up Walker, its beaten fingers still twitching towards the men.

“Jesus. After all that, he still didn’t kill it,” Rick said, removing the hatchet from his belt.

However, before he was able to approach the Walker shakily raising its head, an arrow bolted through the bushes, penetrating the corpse’s skull, killing it for good.

“What the…” Rick muttered, startled by the clean assassination, followed by a dirty figure emerging from the dense foliage.

“Ain’t you people learned nothing, you gotta get the brain,” said a much younger looking redneck with a hint of judgment behind his tone.

He was wearing a faded flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing sunburned, muscular forearms, and a pair of battered jeans that had seen better days. A sash of squirrels and rabbits were tightly strung over his slim frame.

He lowered his recently fired crossbow towards the ground as he sidestepped over the shrubs, using his spare hand to pry the arrow from the Walker’s forehead.

He removed his strung-up prey from his shoulder. “I brought dinner,” he said smugly, obviously inheriting that trait from his older brother, before disappearing towards the camp.

“That would be Daryl, and it looks like you’ve met everyone now brother,” Shane said, huffing over the amount of people he’s had to keep in check the past several weeks.

“Well… turns out we’ve met those guys before.”

Shane pulled a puzzled expression to Rick’s remark but let him carry on saying, “Merle was the guy that shot me back at the jewellery store, I’m guessing Daryl was his ride outta there.”

Shane’s eyes grew wide by this revelation, realising he never saw either thief’s face during the commotion.

“Son of a bitch,” Shane exclaimed to himself, charging off towards the camp, furious by his own naivety in letting these criminals stay with them for so long.

“Shane, wait,” Rick called, watching his friend march over towards Merle as he was mid conversation with his younger brother.

“Dixon!” Shane announced, fists clenched by his side as he fixed his gaze onto his target.

“Whoa, who’s put a stick up your dick,” Merle innocently questioned.

Shane threw the first punch without an explanation, striking Merle in the jaw, sending a loud thud throughout the camp.

Merle staggered backwards, trying to shield himself from a second blow, but the larger man did not hold back. A swift uppercut sent the smaller man sprawling to the ground, dust rising around him as he hit the dirt.

The crowd that had gathered watched in stunned silence.

Lori covered Carl’s eyes as she walked him towards their tent, shocked by Shane’s aggressive outburst.

Lizzie watched the fight, completely unphased, but her sister Mika begun hyperventilating over the violence.

Donna instructed them to, “look at the flowers girls,” as she walked them over to a rose bush near their tent, attempting to calm Mika down.

“Get the hell off him,” Daryl yelled, jumping onto Shane’s back, locking his arms around his brother’s attacker’s thick chest in a desperate attempt to subdue him.

The struggle was fierce and chaotic, neither man having control of the fight. Instead, determination seemed to fuel both sides, even as the larger man thrashed violently in attempt to shake Daryl off his back.

They stumbled together, crashing into a makeshift table and sending supplies scattering, causing Dale to shout at them in disappointment.

They both exchanged equal amounts of punches to one another, leaving their faces bloodied and their fists red raw.

The fight was abruptly ended by Rick pulling Daryl off Shane’s back, locking his arm around his throat as he dragged him through the dirt.

“Hey! Choke-holding’s illegal,” Daryl called out, annoyed by Rick’s dirty tactic. He released him and Daryl stormed off, spitting a wad of blood onto the floor as he removed himself from the situation.

Meanwhile Shane was towering over Merle, his chest heaving with exertion. His eyes blazed with an intense fury, daring anyone else to intervene.

The older brother still laid defeated on the dirt, groaning while attempting to rise, but a swift kick to the ribs from Shane kept him down.

“Shane, That’s enough. What the hell was that about man? You can’t just attack somebody like that,” Rick questioned, horrified by his best friend’s actions.

Shane glared at Rick with bloodshot eyes and said, “You really want this piece of shit sleeping under the same roof as your wife and son?” Shane protested, droplets of blood dripping from his shattered knuckles.

“I might not like it, the guy’s an asshole, but there are still rules about this sort of thing Shane. You can’t just attack somebody unprovoked, criminal or not.”

Shane shook his head at his former partners purity, yelling, “Wake up and smell the fucking roses Rick! There are no rules anymore, there’s just us and the dead so, I’m not gonna stand here and listen to you defend this asshole, when he’s the goddam reason you almost died.”

“Shane that’s enough!” Lori bellowed, in a stern, pissed-off tone. “You’re scaring the children, and frankly some of the adults too. Pull yourself together and drop it.”

Rick was impressed by his wife’s authority, but sensed there was an underlying cause for Shane’s rogue behaviour.

The crowd dispersed, as most people retreated to their tents with the sunset on the horizon.

Dale and Andrea positioned Merle’s arms over their shoulders as they dragged his limp body into the RV, Amy followed them inside with a first-aid kit in her hand, closing the door behind her.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over the survival camp, Glenn, Jim, Jacqui, and T-Dog sat around a crackling campfire, the flames dancing in their eyes.

Glenn, with his boyish charm, leaned forward, poking at the fire with a stick, his face illuminated by the soft light.

Beside him, Jim sat quietly, his rugged features etched with fatigue and a distant look in his eyes, the weight of their reality heavy on his shoulders.

Jacqui, ever the voice of reason and calm, offered a reassuring smile, her presence a comforting anchor for the group.

T-Dog, with his muscular build, sat back, his usually stoic demeanour softened in the intimate circle of the people he considered friends.

Carol softly hummed a lullaby as she tucked her little girl into a sleeping bag, Sophia’s eyes drooping with exhaustion from her traumatic day.

Ed was already blacked out, aggressively snoring as he rolled over onto his side, turning away from his wife and child.

In the neighbouring tent, Allen’s family of four readied themselves for bed in a similarly intimate scene.

Donna, meticulously arranging the tattered pillows for her daughters, who giggled softly as they settled down.

Allen, carefully zipped up the tent flap, securing them against the cool night air. He then joined his wife and daughters, the family huddling together under a large quilt.

The girls whispered excitedly about the day’s events until their mother’s forceful shushing encouraged them to rest their eyes.

Daryl stood under the night sky, admiring the display of shining lights that twinkled high above the Quarry’s walls. Holding a smooth, flat stone in his hand, he sent a stone skimming across the surface, each skip rippling through the stillness of the lake.

He winced, shaking his bruised hand, filled with regret for sticking-up for his jackass older brother.

“Mind if I join you?” a polite voice asked from behind him. Daryl didn’t mind the sudden disturbance, he actually felt rather calmed by Carol’s gentle arrival.

Neither of them spoke any more words, she just lowered herself onto the pebbled beach, resting calmy at a distance from the troubled redneck.

“I’ve never seen Shane act like that before,” Rick worryingly said to his wife as she clung to his bare chest from behind, ruffling her fingers through his chest hair.

“Let’s just not think about him right now love. I just can’t believe you’re here… we thought you was dead Rick… we never would’ve left you there if we’d known…” Lori was unable to finish that sentence as her voice became tight in her throat, consumed with the guilt of abandoning her husband.

Rick rolled over to face her, placing one hand delicately around her waist, while the other caressed her cheek, shifting some loose brunette hair behind her ear.

“You did what you had to do to keep Carl safe, I love you Lori.”

This instigated a passionate kiss between them, their hands slowly undressing one another.

Rick glanced over to their son on the other side of their large tent, Ricks sheriff’s hat laid over his eyes as he slept.

“He won’t wake up,” Lori assured, her eyes filled with a desire for her husband remove her bra.

Shane didn’t get much sleep that night, his eyes burned with jealousy as he listened to the muffled moans and giggles from the nearby tent containing his best friend.

He began picking at a recently formed scab on his battered knuckles, the pain offering a small distraction from the passion occurring close-by.

His heart ached as he listened, imagining Lori’s face, her touch, the warmth of her smile—all things he longed for but unable to have, now that Rick was back in the picture.

Chapter Text

Rick stirred inside the tent, roused by the gentle hum of the survival camp coming to life with the new dawn. The fabric walls glowed softly with the morning light, casting a warm, golden hue over the makeshift bedding. Laughter and the chatter of children filled the air, mingling with the aroma of a squirrel cooking over the open fire. The comforting clatter of pots and pans, the sizzling of food, and the murmur of friendly conversation brought a soft smile to Rick’s face.

“Morning camper,” Dale greeted enthusiastically from atop the RV, waving to the latest member of their close-knit camp.

Rick gestured a friendly wave back at the cheerful old man, as he continued to observe the thriving camp from the lookout, with his eyes peeled for anymore sign of the dead. He slumped back into his worn deck chair, one he had used for many fishing trips over the years with his late wife, serving as a peaceful memento of his life before the outbreak.

In the heart of the survival camp, Carl was engrossed in playing with Sophia and Mika, their laughter representing a beacon of hope, that joy can still be had, even in the nightmare they are all confined to.

His brunette, wavy curls were covered by his father’s sheriff's hat that was slightly too big for his head, the brim shading his lively eyes. He guided his toy trucks over the uneven ground, navigating imaginary landscapes filled with obstacles and adventures.

The other children, equally absorbed in their play, followed his lead, their own toy vehicles bumping along the dirt paths they created.

Andrea and Amy sat side by side on a weathered log, their eyes softened with affection, welcoming the task of supervising the children for a few hours, while their parents carry out some chores around camp.

Lizzie, the eldest child of the camp, sat cross-legged in front of them, her back straight against the log as Amy skilfully plaited her long, blonde hair. Andrea handed Amy a small, purple ribbon to finish the braid, which nicely matched the purple t-shirt she was wearing.

Rick, confident that his child was in safe company, joined Lori, T-Dog, Ed, and Glenn as they sat around the campfire, warming them from the chilled autumn breeze.

T-Dog handed Rick a skewer with a piece of cooked squirrel, nodding in silent acknowledgment.

Glenn was already halfway through his portion, savouring the meal with a contented smile.

“Morning love,” Rick said, as he delicately kissed his wife, placing his arm around her side, encouraging her to rest her head on his shoulder.

The light meat was surprisingly sweet in taste, so it didn’t take long before the small rodent was picked clean and tossed onto the pile with the others.

Isolated from the warm atmosphere around the camp, Shane silently marched past the others with a purposeful stride towards the quarry. The weight of yesterday’s events evidently rested heavily on his tense shoulders, still believing his actions were justified.

He was wearing a Cook County sheriff’s department issued t-shirt and sports cap, his sturdy boots leaving deep footprints in the mud as he grew closer towards the steep path down to the quarry.

In one hand, he clutched a small net with a long handle, and in the other he held a rusty bucket.

The others looked at one another with concern for their leader, wondering if one of them should check on him. “

I’ll go talk to him,” Lori quietly huffed, as she stood up, letting her clasped hand slip away from her husbands, before following Shane down the rocky path.

Beside the quarry, Jacqui, Jim, Donna, and Allen were busy washing clothes, their hands submerged in the cool, clear water.

Jacqui, her sleeves rolled up, worked methodically, her movements efficient and practiced.

Jim, his rugged face concentrated on scrubbing a particularly stubborn stain, exchanged occasional glances with Jacqui, both finding a rhythm in their task.

Donna, however, was less content. Her frustration was evident in the sharp movements of her hands as she wrung out a shirt, her voice rising in agitation. "I just don’t understand why some people never offer to help with this," she complained, her eyes darting to the path leading back to camp.

"Never seen Merle or Glenn jump at the chance to wash Allen’s dirty underwear,” she said glaring at her husband, as he stood lazily watching them all do all the work.

“Hey! you’re my wife… you’re supposed to like my underwear,” Allen exclaimed defensively, his cheeks turning a vibrant red, when Donna raised a pair of coconut patterned boxer-shorts for the group to see.

Jim and Jacqui both chuckled at the funky underwear as Allen snatched them off his wife, deeply embarrassed by the reveal.

Jacqui glanced at Jim, seeing a smile on his face for the first time in a long time, understanding that behind his cold exterior, lies a man dealing with an enormous amount of grief that she wished she was able to provide comfort for.

“Anyway, I think it’s unfair to single out Glenn as somebody who doesn’t contribute,” Jacqui contested, receiving a raised eyebrow from Donna.

“We all pull our weight in one way or another. Glenn has risked his life for this group many times over already by bringing us supplies. I’ll happily NEVER go back into the city, and if that means I have to wash Allen’s boxers then so be it.”

Allen, now embarrassed for a second time rolled his eyes and sighed at the torment.

“Dixon may be a lazy asshole, but remember he did also put himself in danger for the sake of his brother, that’s got to count for something at least.”

Jim silently listened to Jacqui, comforted by her ability to defend the most hated member of the camp, as he carried on scrubbing his fellow campmates clothes.

“Merle is more than just a ‘lazy asshole’ Jacqui, the man is a criminal! Many of us have kids here, we already have to keep one eye on the dead, we don’t need to have the other on Merle, and making sure he isn’t putting us in danger,” Donna argued. “Shane was right to do what he did, we don’t need somebody like Merle around,”

Disgusted by Donna’s comments, Jacqui raised her voice and responded by saying, "Shane's aggression, the way he attacked Merle, it was unprovoked and wrong. We’re all under a lot of stress, but that doesn’t justify violence, especially not against someone who wasn’t threatening us in that moment.”

Jacqui’s heart skipped a beat, noticing Shane had overheard that last part of their conversation. "Shane," she began, her voice soft but earnest, "I didn’t mean for you to hear it like that. We were just discussing—"

Jacqui’s attempt at an apology hung in the air, unfinished and ineffective. She watched helplessly as Shane's figure receded towards the lake further away from them.

“See what happens when you open that big mouth of yours,” Donna spitefully remarked as she glared at a flustered Jacqui.

Jim’s smile faded as the tension grew between the women, the previous laughter between them was lost in the autumn wind as they all carried on with the washing in silence.

Shane knelt down on the pebbled beach beside the quarry, still irritated by Jacqui disrespecting his decisions.

He gripped his net firmly, patiently waiting by the clear, cool water, surrounded by the croaking coming from his chosen prey. Each time he spotted a frog, Shane's hand darted out with the net, snatching the slippery creature and placing it into the bucket beside him.

Shane’s concentration was shattered by Lori’s abrupt voice demanding, “Shane, we need to talk,” making him miss his target and retract an empty net from the water.

“What is it Lori… are you here to give me shit about Dixon, because if you are, I really don’t want to hear it.”

Lori glared a fiery look into his eyes, sternly saying, “Shane, you punched a man till he was blue in the face! Andrea said that he’s up and walking, but Shane… I can’t have you setting that kind of example for Carl.” Her words were clear and unwavering as she carried on by saying, "you've changed Shane. Your aggression, your decisions... they’re not what Carl needs right now."

Shane's face hardened, a mix of hurt and anger flashing in his eyes. "Lori, I'm just trying to protect you and Carl. Everything I do is for you two," he said while reaching for her.

“You told me my husband was dead Shane! You told me you saw him die… we were never yours to protect,” Lori accused, her eyes tearing up at his deceit.

“Lori don’t say that. I love yo—”

Lori quickly interrupted him before he could finish grovelling by saying, “Shane! That’s enough. Whatever you’re about to say… you can just tell It to the frogs. Rick is back, my husband… is back. Whatever you think we had, it meant nothing and it’s over. Just leave my family out of it.”

Lori didn’t give him an opportunity to respond, she turned away and left him alone beside the quarry, his hands trembling slightly as he processed her words.

"What do you think that was about?” Allen rhetorically asked the others as they spectated from afar, just out of earshot from their conversation.

“Probably best if we head back too. The temperature’s dropping, and I’d rather be by the fire than sat in this lake any longer,” Jacqui stated, avoiding speculation over their former leader’s issues.

Inside the spacious RV, Carol tended to Merle’s facial injuries with a practiced touch.

The interior, though modestly furnished, provided a rare sense of refuge amidst the harsh realities of their world.

Merle flinched at her touch, not accustomed to being cared for in such a tender manner.

Daryl was stood, shyly watching from a distance as she redressed his older brother’s bandages. “Thank you,” his gravly voice muttered to Carol, understanding that Merle was not a popular man amongst these people.

She turned to flash him a soft smile as she applied the last dressing. Merle was seated in a bitter silence, picking at his fingernails as a distraction from the pain.

As night settled over the camp, the fire cast a warm, flickering glow that danced across the faces of those gathered around it.

Rick, Lori, and Carl sat close together, their presence a small island of warmth and togetherness amidst the encroaching darkness. Lori’s arm was draped around Carl, who leaned against her, his eyes wide and reflecting the firelight. Rick smiled as he observed the collection of people his family have formed a small community with.

Jacqui, sitting beside Glenn and T-Dog, engaged in a relaxed conversation with Glenn, who was gesturing animatedly, his enthusiasm evident. Ed listened with a mixture of detached interest and guarded expression; his body language more reserved compared to the rest. He occasionally interjected with a comment or a nod, but his contribution to the conversation was minimal, leaving him more as an observer within the group’s dynamic.

Dale, ever the observer, sat with a calm demeanour, his gaze occasionally drifting towards the stars above, while Shane, though part of the circle, was noticeably subdued, his earlier tensions seemingly muted by the night’s calming effect. His focus was distant, and he sat slightly apart from the others, the firelight casting long shadows across his face.

Jim was on watch atop the RV, his silhouette visible against the backdrop of the darkened forest, vigilant and alert.

The occasional crackle of the fire and the soft rustle of the leaves were the only sounds breaking the stillness of the night.

Inside the RV, Carol had created a cozy haven. Sophia, curled up with her mother. Carol sat nearby, her eyes reflecting the soft glow of a lantern as she read a book, her attention periodically shifting to Daryl and Merle.

Allen and Donna sat nearby, their conversation a quiet hum as they shared a moment of relative peace. Lizzie and Mika huddled close to the fire, their faces illuminated by the flickering light as they chatted softly and played rock, paper, scissors.

“You know, maybe this life isn’t so bad… I mean look around us hun. These are good people, and they look out for us. What Jacqui said earlier, she was right: keeping us all safe, it is a shared responsibility.”

Allen’s eyes widened in surprise at Donna’s unexpected comment, so accustomed to his wife’s usual cut-throat personality. He chuckled and responded by saying, “Is this you admitting you was… wrong? fifteen years of marriage and I don’t think you’ve ever admitted to that.”

She punched him in the arm, only making him laugh harder and wind her up further by saying, “You probably shouldn’t sit so close to the fire hun, the ice queen is starting the melt.”

Donna smirked for a brief moment before declaring, “all I’m saying is… things could be worse.”

Meanwhile, Andrea and Amy, laden with firewood, made their way back to camp through the forest, their path illuminated by the faint glow of the moon.

The sisters moved with a blend of caution and familiarity, their footsteps soft on the forest floor.

A sudden rustling in the tangled vines made them pause, and they scanned their surroundings as they tightened their hold on the lumber.

“Do you think that was a deer or something?” Amy asked her equally frightened sister.

“Let’s just get the hell out of here…” Andrea quickly remarked as they continued on, the forest around them seemed to grow quieter, the usual sounds of nocturnal life oddly absent.

The eerie silence was shattered by a louder rustle, closer this time.

Andrea and Amy froze, their eyes darting around in the dim light.

"That’s not a deer… is it?" Amy whispered, her voice barely audible, tinged with fear.

Andrea shook her head, her grip tightening on the bundle of firewood, every instinct telling her something was wrong.

Just as they started to move again, a cold, decaying hand shot out from the shadows and grabbed Amy, yanking her backward with terrifying force. Her scream pierced the night, a sound of pure terror as the Walker lunged, its gnarled teeth snapping inches from her skin. The firewood scattered across the ground as Amy struggled against the undead grip, her eyes wide with panic.

“Amy!” Andrea bellowed, dropping her firewood and rushing to her sister's aid, her heart pounding in her chest. The reality of the danger crashed over her like a wave as she fought to free Amy, the forest around them alive with the chilling presence of an invading horde.

Andrea's scream sliced through the night, echoing ominously through the forest and reaching the camp.

Faces turned toward the sound, eyes widening with alarm. In an instant, the camp was thrown into chaos as the eerie groans and shuffling of the approaching horde became unmistakable.

People scrambled, shouting warnings and grabbing whatever weapons they could find.

Rick and Shane were the first to spring into action, sprinting toward the source of the screams.

Lori pulled Carl close as Rick ordered her to get into one of the cars as he removed his hatchet from his belt.

Meanwhile Shane led their charge into the immediate danger with his Glock drawn by his side.

During the confusion, the first wave of Walkers broke through the tree line, their grotesque forms illuminated by the campfire’s flickering light.

Panic surged as the undead swarmed into the camp, their numbers overwhelming.

Glenn and T-Dog fought valiantly, using knives and makeshift weapons to fend off the relentless attackers, but it quickly became apparent that they were outnumbered.

Jacqui and Dale tried to rally the group, shouting instructions over the growing intensity of groans and screams.

"Get to higher ground! Head to the RV!" Dale yelled; his voice strained with urgency. But the horde was relentless, pressing in from all sides.

“Now’s our chance little brother,” Merle smirked with a characteristic smile, his eyes swollen, but glinting with the thrill of the moment. They had spent weeks biding their time, feigning loyalty while mapping out the camp's stash of supplies.

Daryl, his crossbow slung over his shoulder, questioning their integrity as he glanced over at Carol clutching Sophia tightly inside the RV, her eyes darting around in terror as she tried to comfort her daughter.

She watched helplessly as Merle raided the RV of all its supplies and bag of weapons, pleading that they reconsider betraying the group.

They flung open the door to the Rv, sprinting past Ed, driven by desperation as he swung a crowbar with savage force, each blow crushing the skulls of the advancing Horde. His eyes burned with a fierce intensity as he fought, the chaos around him blurring into a singular focus on survival.

The brothers moved quickly; their footsteps muffled by the forest floor.

As they reached a safe distance, the reality of their actions settled over Daryl. He glanced back, a flicker of doubt crossing his face.

Merle, noticing the hesitation, slapped him on the back. “Don’t go soft on me now, Daryl. We did what we had to do," Merle said, his tone dismissive as they disappeared amongst the chaos.

Donna's heart pounded as she frantically ushered her children toward the RV, the sounds of the attacking horde growing louder with each passing second.

She clutched Lizzie's hand tightly, her eyes darting around in search of Allen, who was fighting off the Walkers in a desperate battle for his life.

"Keep moving, just look at the flowers girls. Everything is going to be alright!" she shouted, trying to keep her voice steady for the sake of her children.

As they neared the RV, her relief was short-lived. A sudden, bone-chilling groan erupted from behind her. Before she could react, a Walker lunged, its decaying hand grabbing her shoulder and yanking her back.

“Mommy!" Lizzie screamed, her grip slipping from Donna's as the force of the attack pulled her mother away.

"Run! Get inside!" Donna cried out, her voice a mix of terror and determination.

She struggled against the Walker, swinging her free arm to push Lizzie inside the RV behind her younger sister. More of the undead surrounded her, hands clawing and teeth gnashing.

Lizzie, tears streaming down her face, was pulled into the RV by Carol, who quickly shut the door behind her.

Donna's screams pierced the night as she was dragged to the ground. The Walkers overwhelmed her, their teeth sinking into her flesh. She fought valiantly, her last thoughts a desperate hope that her children would survive this nightmare.

As the horde devoured her, the camp was filled with the haunting echo of her final, anguished cries.

Allen's heart shattered as he saw Donna consumed by the horde, her screams echoing in his ears. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to turn away and focus on Lori and Carl, ushering them urgently towards the blue SUV.

He helped them inside, his eyes darting back to the chaos as he slammed the door shut, desperation and grief etched on his bearded face as he let out a raw bellow of heartbreak. Lori rested a hand on his shoulder, speechless and unsure how to comfort such a gruesome loss.

Jacqui and Dale stood back-to-back, their knives flashing in the firelight as they fought off the overwhelming horde. Each slash and stab were desperate attempts at survival, their movements synchronized in a dance of sheer determination.

Suddenly, Jacqui felt a cold, clammy hand clamp down on her arm, yanking her forward and breaking their formation. She gasped, knowing this was her end, her knife slipping from her grasp and falling beside the fire.

Suddenly, a deafening shot rang throughout the camp, exploding the Walker’s skull in a spray of blood and brain matter.

Jacqui looked up, shaking uncontrollably, noticing Jim atop the RV, hunting rifle in hand, his face set in grim determination. "Get inside, now!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos.

Each shot he fired was not just an act of survival, but a desperate redemption for the family he had been unable to protect. His hands remained steady despite the chaos, conveying a silent vow—to save Jacqui and Dale, even if it meant risking everything. The echo of the rifle’s shots was a reminder of the survivor's guilt he carried.

As he watched Jacqui and Dale rush towards the RV, his heart pounded with a fierce hope that this time, he would succeed where he had once failed.

Carol flung the door open in anticipation of their arrival; her frail arms unable to close it behind them once they were inside. As she fought to hold back the several undead creatures pushing their way inside, she gasped as she noticed Donna’s hollowed carcase sprawled into pieces on the blood-soaked grass, her silver necklace glinting in the firelight.

Dale, with a fierce kick, sent the pair of Walkers tumbling away from the RV door, allowing Carol to firmly slam it behind them as they both collapsed from exhaustion.

Glenn, T-Dog, and Ed fought their way through the relentless horde, their breaths ragged, and faces smeared with blood. Desperation spurred them on as they pushed and swung their weapons, carving a path toward the quarry’s edge.

The sight of the cliff’s jagged drop and the dark, churning water below was their last glimmer of hope.

With Walkers closing in from all sides, Glenn looked at T-Dog with a sympathetic glance.

“Oh hell no!” T-Dog exclaimed, understanding Glenn’s suicidal plan and refusing to comply.

“This Is how we make it man, just jump!” Glenn shrieked as he launched himself off the cliff edge, his baseball cap flying off his head as he plunged into the icy water below.

“Either you jump, or I push you. Now move!” Ed bellowed, extremely aware of the horde closing in on their location.

“Fuck this,” T-Dog remarked as he flung himself off the cliff, his arms flailing as he free-fell into the unknown, shortly followed by Ed.

As Glenn, T-Dog, and Ed plunged into the quarry’s dark waters, a few of the Walkers, driven by the relentless momentum of the horde, stumbled blindly after them. Their grotesque forms lurching and flailing their dismembered bodies as they followed the survivors off the edge of the cliff.

Meanwhile, Rick and Shane navigated the chaotic forest, their breaths coming in sharp, determined bursts as they followed the echoes of Andrea's and Amy's desperate cries.

Bursting through the dense foliage, Rick and Shane spotted the sisters, struggling against a cluster of the Walkers.

Andrea was fighting fiercely, her face etched with terror and determination, as she used a sharp hunting knife to piece and slash the deadhead’s skulls.

Amy however was trapped, pinned on the ground, desperately trying to free herself from the clutches of the undead.

Without hesitation, Shane aimed his gun with a steely focus, squeezing the trigger to release a precise shot that splattered the Walker's head, onto her university hoodie, sending it crashing away from her.

Amy gasped in relief, her terror-stricken eyes meeting Shane’s as he moved to her side, shielding her from the pursing horde.

Rick rushed to Andrea’s aid, as he swung his hatchet with full force into the attacking Walkers. Her blonde hair and denim coat was coated in a thick layer of blood. Each swing of the hatchet was deliberate and powerful, severing limbs and clearing a path through the rotting flesh.

Andrea’s face, marked by both fear and aggression towards the horde, she drew her pistol and began covering Shane as they retreated through the clearing towards the camp.

A firm grip latched onto Rick’s collar, widening Rick’s eyes in shock as he struggled to free himself from the creature’s grip.

Shane, standing nearby, witnessed the desperate struggle, but made no move to help. His gaze remained cold and detached, watching the husband of his unrequited love fight for his life without any remorse.

Just as the Walker’s teeth neared Rick’s throat, a crossbow bolt streaked through the air, striking the undead creature with deadly accuracy. The bolt pierced the monster’s head, and the creature fell lifelessly to the ground, releasing Rick from its grasp.

Rick staggered back, his chest heaving as he looked up to see Daryl standing in the shadows lowering the crossbow with a sorrowful look on his face as he disappeared into the treeline.

The narrow escape left Rick shaken, his eyes flicking between Shane’s blank stare and the lingering threat now neutralized.

Rick, Andrea, Amy, and Shane burst through the treeline, their breaths coming in ragged gasps as they emerged onto a nearby road.

The tension of the forest still gripped them, the sounds of the undead fading, but the adrenaline high in their veins.

Rick glanced back, his face smeared with sweat and grime, as he led the group toward the safety of the open road.

Just as the fear of being pursued by the relentless horde seemed approach once more, the screeching of tires cut through the night. Lori’s blue SUV roared into view, its headlights cutting through the darkness followed by her stern voice screaming, “Get in!”

Rick and Shane quickly ushered the girls toward the SUV, their eyes darting anxiously for any sign of the horde reappearing.

They all scrambled into the backseat next to Carl, their movements frantic but driven by the overwhelming need for safety.

Allen remained silent in the passenger while the others directed Lori to floor the accelerator.

The vehicle’s tires kicked up dust, the sound of the engine a comforting roar against the backdrop of their harrowing escape.

The group, shaken but alive, clung to the hope that they had narrowly escaped the clutches of death and found a temporary refuge inside the blue SUV.

The RV trailed behind the fleeing SUV, Jim still clinging to the roof, his silhouette barely visible against the night sky.

Lori glanced into her husbands’ eyes through the rear-view mirror, coldly asking, “where do we go now?”

Chapter Text

As the first light of dawn stretched across the horizon, it cast a soft, golden glow over the weary group, illuminating the smoke cascading over the treeline from their overrun camp. The sky transformed from a deep, somber blue to a vibrant tapestry of oranges and pinks.

As Rick stood on the outskirts of the group, his eyes drifted toward Lori and Carl. Lori held their son close, gently stroking his hair as he rested his head against her. The sight of them together, safe and unharmed, should have brought Rick a sense of relief, but instead, a deep sense of guilt gnawed at him.

His mind replayed the night’s chaos—how, in the heat of the moment, he had rushed to save Andrea and Amy, leaving his own family vulnerable. He had acted on instinct, but now, watching Lori and Carl, the weight of that decision felt unbearable. What kind of husband and father prioritizes others before his own? He clenched his fists at the thought, the guilt pressing heavily on his chest.

Amy and Andrea sat close together, their bodies leaning into one another for comfort, both shaken from the traumatic night. Amy carefully wiped the dirt from Andrea’s face with a damp cloth, her touch gentle and full of sisterly affection. Andrea, her eyes weary but softened by the presence of her younger sister, returned the gesture, brushing the grime and tears from Amy’s cheeks with tender strokes.

Jim, who had just come down from his vigilant watch on the RV roof, leaned against the vehicle, his eyes bloodshot and restless from fighting the need to sleep. Jacqui gently approached with a blanket around her shoulders. She stepped closer and placed a hand on his arm, drawing his attention. Jim turned his head, surprised to see her standing so close. Before he could say anything, Jacqui leaned in and kissed him softly on the cheek. The gesture was brief but full of gratitude and warmth, a silent thank you for saving her life during the chaos.

Carol and Allen quietly stepped out of the RV, carefully closing the door behind them to avoid waking the three sleeping children inside. Carol glanced back at the door, her expression turning sorrowful as she spotted the bloody handprints left by Donna’s final moments. She placed a comforting hand on Allen’s large shoulder, distracting him from reliving that gruesome moment. A combined tone of loss hung in the air between the two of them, as Carol’s husband Ed, remained unaccounted for.

Dale stood near the dwindling campfire, his weathered face etched with concern as he scanned the horizon, the light of dawn slowly creeping in. His mind was on the three members of their group who were still missing—Glenn, T-Dog, and Ed. Worry gnawed at him, the unknown fate of his friends weighing heavily on his heart. He turned to Shane, who was pacing nearby, his expression hardened by the events of the night.

"Shane, we can’t just leave them out there," Dale said, his voice laced with urgency. "We have to do something, find them before it’s too late."

Shane stopped pacing and met Dale’s gaze, his eyes cold and resolute. "We’ve done all we can, Dale. Right now, we need to focus on getting the people we still have to safety," he replied, his tone firm and unyielding. "We can’t risk the entire group for a search that might not lead to anything."

Dale frowned, his concern deepening. "But they’re part of our group. We can’t just abandon them."

Shane aggressively ran his hand through his greasy hair, his jaw set in determination. "It’s not about abandoning anyone. It’s about survival. If we stay here any longer, we’re putting everyone at risk. We have to move now, while we still can. That horde is probably on its way here right now... are you prepared to lose somebody else, what if this time it was Andrea or Amy, could you live with that old man?"

The words hit Dale like a punch to the gut, and he visibly flinched. Shane had zeroed in on Dale’s soft spot for the sisters, exploiting the deep care and affection he held for them. Dale’s breath caught in his throat, his mind unwillingly conjuring the scenario Shane had painted. The thought of losing either Andrea or Amy was unbearable, twisting his concern into a knot of fear and doubt. He knew Shane was manipulating him, but the possibility of losing one of the sisters gnawed at him, eroding his objections. His shoulders slumped as he realized he couldn’t risk their lives, not after everything they had already endured.

Seeing the conflict in Dale’s eyes, Shane pressed on, his tone firm but with an undercurrent of urgency. "We have to keep moving. If we weren’t prepared for an attack before, we definitely aren’t now that those fuckers took all our guns.”

Dale finally nodded, the fight draining out of him. Shane had struck where it hurt most, and now all Dale could do was hope that leaving was the right choice, even as his heart ached for the missing members of their group. Shane turned away, satisfied that he had made his point, and began preparing the group to leave, while Dale lingered, grappling with the heavy burden of the decision.

As the others busied themselves with packing up their few belongings, Lori quietly pulled Rick aside, her face tense with concern. The early morning light cast long shadows through the trees, and the camp buzzed with the hurried movements of the group preparing to leave.

"Rick, we need to talk," Lori said, her voice low but urgent. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure they weren’t overheard, her eyes narrowing slightly as she spotted Shane directing the others. "I’m worried about Shane. He’s taking charge, making decisions for everyone. It’s like he’s not even listening to anyone else."

Rick frowned; the memories of the night’s events still fresh in his mind. He recalled the moment when the zombie had grabbed him, and how Shane had stood by, doing nothing to help. It was Daryl’s crossbow bolt that had saved him, not Shane’s intervention. The thought gnawed at him, a seed of doubt taking root.

"Lori, I get it," Rick replied, his voice steady but laced with unease. "I don’t like the way Shane’s been handling things either. But we have to face reality. He’s right about one thing—we can’t stay here. It’s too dangerous."

Lori’s expression softened, but her worry didn’t fade. "I just don’t want him calling all the shots, Rick. He’s… different now. And you—" She hesitated, her eyes searching his. "You have a way of leading people, of making them feel safe. They’ll follow you."

Rick sighed, running a hand through his hair as he looked around at the camp, the remnants of their struggle scattered in the dirt. He felt the weight of responsibility pressing down on him, mixed with a gnawing guilt. Glenn had saved his life back in Atlanta, and the thought of leaving him behind tore at Rick’s sense of loyalty.

"I know," Rick said, his voice heavy with conflict. "I owe Glenn my life. But staying here, trying to search for him, it could put everyone else at risk. We’ve got Carl to think about, too."

Lori nodded, understanding the impossible choice Rick was grappling with. "I just want us to be safe, Rick. All of us."

Rick reached out, taking her hand and squeezing it gently. "We’ll leave the woods, but I’m not letting Shane dictate everything. I’ll keep an eye on him, and if it comes down to it, I’ll step in."

Lori looked into his eyes, her own filled with both worry and trust. "Okay," she whispered. "Just… be careful."

Rick nodded, releasing her hand as they turned back toward the camp, the heavy burden of leadership now fully settled on his shoulders. He knew the road ahead would be difficult, and the tension between him and Shane was far from resolved. But for now, their priority was to get the group to safety, even if it meant leaving behind the people he felt he owed his life to.

With the SUV and RV fully packed, the group gathered around the vehicles, their faces drawn with exhaustion and concern for where they’ll end up. Shane, standing in front of the SUV, raised his voice to get everyone’s attention. "Alright, listen up! We’re ready to roll out, but before we go, we need to decide where we’re heading. We don’t have enough fuel to change course once we get moving, so if anyone’s got a suggestion, now’s the time to speak up."

The group exchanged uneasy glances, the gravity of the situation settling in. Silence hung in the air, thick with uncertainty, until Rick stepped forward, his expression serious.

Rick stepped forward, releasing Lori’s hand and stated, "back when we were in Atlanta on that rooftop, I saw something from up there, I could see the CDC—the Centers for Disease Control. I encountered a man after I left the hospital, his name was Morgan Jones. He told me about the outbreak, and he mentioned that the CDC was working on a cure."

He paused, looking around at the group, their eyes fixed on him with a mix of hope and scepticism. "If they were working on a cure, that might be our best shot. It’s as good a place as any to try, and if there’s still anyone there, maybe they can help us."

Shane listened; his face unreadable as he weighed Rick’s suggestion. The group murmured among themselves, the mention of a cure sparking a glimmer of hope in the bleakness of their situation. Lori’s eyes met Rick’s, silently supporting his decision, while others like Dale and Jacqui nodded in cautious agreement.

"Alright," Shane finally said, his tone measured. "The CDC it is. But let’s be clear—once we’re on the road, there’s no turning back. We’re running on fumes as it is, so this has to be our best shot."

Rick nodded, knowing the risks but feeling a surge of determination. "It’s a long shot, but it’s better than sitting here waiting for the next attack."

As the group settled into their vehicles, Rick and Lori exchanged a brief but meaningful glance, a silent acknowledgment of the shifting dynamics between them. Before the outbreak, their marriage had been strained, marked by unspoken frustrations and a growing distance that neither had fully addressed. The weight of those unresolved issues had hung over them like a dark cloud, pushing them further apart even as they struggled to keep their family together.

But now, amidst the chaos and the desperate fight for survival, something had begun to change. The crisis had forced them to confront what truly mattered, peeling away the trivial concerns that had once driven a wedge between them. As Rick stepped into his role as a leader, making decisions that could mean life or death for the group, Lori found herself seeing him in a new light. The man who had once seemed distant and unsure was now decisive, strong, and protective qualities that had always drawn her to him.

Lori reached out, squeezing Rick's hand as they sat together in the SUV, a gesture of solidarity and unspoken forgiveness. Rick glanced at her, the faintest of smiles tugging at the corners of his mouth, and in that moment, they both understood that, despite everything, they were stronger together. The apocalypse had stripped their lives down to the essentials, and in doing so, it was helping to restore the connection that had once seemed lost.

Carl sat in the back of the SUV, squeezed between Andrea and Amy, his small frame nestled securely between the two women. Despite the chaos of the night, Carl found a strange sense of comfort in their presence. Andrea, her face still bearing the marks of the harrowing encounter in the woods, offered him a reassuring smile, while Amy gently nudged his shoulder, trying to lift his spirits with a light-hearted comment.

Behind them, Carol and Sophia were seated together, their faces reflecting the exhaustion and relief of finally being on the move. Carol kept a protective arm around Sophia, who leaned against her mother, her eyes heavy with the weight of all they had endured and filled with concern for her missing father.

Dale gripped the steering wheel of the RV, his eyes focused on the road ahead as the vehicle rumbled along the worn highway. Beside him in the passenger seat, Shane hunched over a map spread across his lap, his brow furrowed in concentration as he traced their route with a finger. The morning light filtered through the windshield, casting a soft glow over the cabin, but the tension between the two men was palpable.

In the rear of the RV, the communal area buzzed with quiet activity as Jim, Jacqui, Allen, and his two children, Lizzie and Mika, tried to settle into the cramped space. Jim sat near the back, his hands idly toying with a piece of equipment, his thoughts clearly elsewhere as he stared out the window. Jacqui, ever the calming presence, sat close by, offering a few reassuring words to Allen, who looked worn and weary.

Lizzie and Mika, despite everything, clung to each other, their small voices a faint whisper of conversation as they tried to distract themselves from the memories of the night before. Allen, though still grieving the loss of his wife, managed a strained smile at his daughters, trying to provide some semblance of normalcy for them.

The RV creaked and groaned as it made its way down the road, the atmosphere inside a mix of exhaustion, quiet determination, and the lingering shadows of their recent losses. With Shane guiding the way and Dale ensuring they kept moving forward, the group clung to the fragile hope that their chosen path would lead them to safety.

Chapter Text

As the SUV and RV rolled to a stop outside the CDC, the group stepped out cautiously, the cold biting at their skin as the first flakes of snow began to fall. The scene before them was a chilling visual of chaos and death. The street was littered with gore-streaked pavement, broken military vehicles, and the mangled remains of soldiers who had clearly been overwhelmed in a desperate last stand. Snow began to blanket the carnage, as the flakes slowly erased those final moments.

Rick was the first to step out, his sheriff’s hat pulled low against the cold. His eyes swept across the devastation, his hand instinctively resting on the grip of his revolver. The sight of the fallen military struck him with a mix of dread and resolve—if even they hadn’t been able to hold the line, what chance did their small group stand? Lori followed close behind, one hand protectively on Carl’s shoulder as she guided him out of the SUV. Her face was pale, her eyes darting nervously between the CDC building and the slow-moving undead soldiers that had begun to notice them. Carl, wedged between his parents, stared wide-eyed at the scene, the harsh reality of their world reflected in his young, frightened eyes.

Andrea and Amy emerged cautiously from the SUV. Andrea gripped her weapon tightly, her eyebrows twitched at the presence of the slow-moving walkers, her finger readily on the silver pistol’s trigger. Amy followed close behind, her steps hesitant as she avoided looking at the mangled bodies. She clutched her hoodie tightly for warmth, the sight of the carnage leaving her usual playfulness totally replaced by the chills down her spine.

Shane was the first to step out of the RV, his shotgun gripped tightly in his hands. His eyes swept over the carnage, calculating and focused, his need for control pressing him to the front of the group. “Stay close, follow my lead,” he barked, his voice cutting through the eerie silence. He didn’t wait for agreement, taking a decisive step toward the CDC building, his posture commanding as if daring anyone to challenge his authority. His jaw was set, his movements sharp, as he forged ahead, driven by an urgency that masked his inner turmoil.

Dale lingered by the RV, his steps hesitant as he moved to join Andrea and Amy. The guilt of how quickly he had agreed to leave Glenn, T-Dog, and Ed behind weighed heavily on him, his usual moral compass clouded by the fear and practicality Shane had pressed upon him. He glanced at Andrea, her determined expression unyielding as she guided Amy forward, and felt a pang of shame, wondering if he could ever justify his decision to the group—or himself.

Carol stepped out with Sophia clinging to her side, her protective arm wrapped around her daughter. Carol’s eyes darted between the scene and Sophia, whispering quiet reassurances to keep the girl calm, though her own face projected dread and anxiety behind the false comfort of her words. Sophia pulled her patchwork teddy bear into her chest, the red ribbon around its scruffy neck whipped in rhythm to the winter breeze. Carol adjusted the military satchel Rick had collected from his previous trip over her shoulder so she could shield her daughter with her own body.

Allen exited with Lizzie and Mika close to his sides, his arms resting protectively on their shoulders. His expression was hollow, his gaze lingering on the remains of the fallen soldiers. The loss of his wife weighed heavily on him, but he held himself together for his daughters. Lizzie and Mika clung to him, as Mika’s small voice asked, “what’s going on daddy? I can’t see,” as her eyes were shielded from the gruesome surroundings by her father’s tight grip. Lizzie’s intrigued gaze landed on the mangled walkers approaching them, admiring their name tags and reciting them in her head until she remembered them all. The name ‘Walker’ stood out amongst the others from the obvious irony. Unlike her younger sister, Lizzie was composed and didn’t shed any tears over the current situation.

Jim emerged from the RV last, his hands trembling slightly as he gripped his crowbar. The sight of the crumbling city brought back memories he had tried to bury—the streets where his family had been lost, the horror that had driven him to the edge. He looked visibly shaken, his eyes darting nervously between the bodies and the shadows, his breaths shallow and rapid. As Jacqui stepped down beside him, she quietly reached for his hand, her touch grounding him. Jim’s knuckles were white around the handle of his weapon, but he nodded wordlessly at her, drawing strength from the small gesture as they moved to join the others.

The group huddled together in the cold; their breath visible in the icy air as the snow began to fall more heavily. The moans of the undead soldiers grew louder, pulling them out of their momentary daze. Weapons were drawn, their movements synchronized by necessity as they prepared to fight their way to the CDC. The building loomed ahead, a beacon of both hope and uncertainty amidst the devastation. Together, they moved forward, the weight of their losses and the glimmer of survival driving them into the unknown.

The approach to the CDC's front entrance was cautious at first, the group moving in tense silence to avoid attracting more walkers. Their melee weapons gleamed faintly in the dim light as each swing and stab dispatched the nearest threats with unprecise strikes. Shane led the way, his expression hardened as he motioned for the others to stay close. The snow fell heavier now, muffling the groans of walkers in the distance, but their numbers steadily grew, drawn by the faint movements of the group.

As the group neared the shutter, the tension erupted. More walkers stumbled out from hidden corners and alleyways, their relentless moans growing louder. Jim swung his crowbar shakily, Jacqui covering him with frantic, unpractised knife strikes. Dale, gripping a tire iron, stayed close to Andrea and Amy, his strikes growing weaker as exhaustion set in. A stumble put him in immediate danger—a walker grabbed his coat, pulling him off balance. Dale cried out in panic as the creature lunged closer to his throat.

“Dale!” exclaimed Amy, as she reached for her knife in a frantic state.

Andrea reacted instantly. The sharp crack of her pistol cut through the air, the bullet dropping the walker inches from Dale. The group froze for a heartbeat, their worst fear realized. The gunshot echoed through the street, attracting more walkers from all directions.

“For Christ sakes people…. Move!” Shane barked, spinning around and firing his shotgun at the blurry figures hiding amongst the blizzard as the rest of the group broke into a sprint toward the shutter. Walkers surged behind them, the sound of their relentless shuffling and moans drawing nearer to their pinned location against the fortified entrance.

Rick reached the shutter first, slamming his fists against the cold, unyielding metal. "Open up! We need help!" he shouted, his voice desperate. His fists pounded harder as the others formed a protective circle, holding the walkers at bay with increasingly frantic swings of their weapons.

Rick's voice cracked as he shifted from shouting to pleading, his palms flat against the metal. "Please! There are children with us! Let us in!" His cries were nearly drowned out by the moans of the encroaching horde. Lori pulled Carl closer, her eyes darting between Rick and the walkers as her grip on her son tightened. “Rick we gotta go,” she spoke, placing a hand on his rigid shoulder.

The group’s defensive line faltered as the walkers pressed closer, their numbers swelling by the second. Blood and snow mingled on the ground as the frantic fight for survival continued. Rick’s pounding turned frantic, his voice hoarse with desperation as he begged the unseen occupants of the CDC to show mercy and open the door before it was too late.

Shane grabbed Rick by his other shoulder, yanking him away from the shutter and Lori with a forceful grip. "Enough, Rick!" he barked, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Rick, we have to get back to the RV. Look around man, people are scared, and this was a bad call.”

Rick unyielded to his demands, twisting his shoulder free of Shane’s solid grip.

“This place was a goddamn pipe dream, let it go!” Shane ordered, losing patience for Ricks stubbornness as he retreated.

Rick turned to snap back at Shane when something caught his eye—a flash of movement above the shutter. His gaze shot upward, locking onto a small security camera. The lens shifted, tracking the group, and a red light blinked steadily beside it. For a heartbeat, Rick froze, disbelief washing over him. "They’re watching us," he muttered.

"What?" Shane spat, following Rick’s gaze.

Rick pointed up at the camera. "They’re inside! Look, the camera’s moving—they can see us!"

The group paused, even amid the chaos, as Rick slammed his fists against the shutter with renewed urgency. "We know you’re in there!" he shouted, his voice echoing across the bloodied snow. "There are kids out here! Please, we need help!"

The walkers grew closer, their groans louder, as Andrea and Shane turned to fire into the horde, trying to buy time. "Rick, they’re not opening it!" Shane shouted, even as he shot down another approaching walker.

But Rick didn’t stop. He stared directly into the camera, his voice breaking as he continued to plead. "You can’t just leave us out here! We’re not infected, just open the god damn door!”

The red light on the camera blinked steadily, and the group’s fate hung in the balance. For a moment, the only sounds were the relentless moans of the walkers and the frantic breaths of the survivors. Then, with a loud mechanical whir, the shutter began to rise.

Chapter Text

Rick stepped back from the shutter, his breath catching in his throat as it began to move. His fists dropped to his sides, and for a moment, disbelief washed over him. Then, his resolve snapped back into place, and he turned to the group, shouting, "Get inside! Now!"

The group surged toward the opening shutter; their movements frantic as walkers closed in from all sides. Dale grabbed Amy’s hand, pulling her forward. "Come on, Amy! Don’t stop!" he urged, his voice firm but trembling with urgency. Amy stumbled, her breaths ragged, but Dale steadied her, guiding her through the rising door and inside the blinding interior of the CDC.

"Andrea, come on!" Amy urged; her voice tinged with panic as she looked outside to the walkers closing in around the others.

Andrea glanced at the horde, then back at her sister. Her jaw tightened. "I’ll be right behind you," she said firmly, her hand squeezing Amy’s for reassurance. She then crouched slightly beside the opened shutter, steadying her pistol. "I’ll be fine Amy, just go with Dale”.

Amy opened her mouth to protest further but was quickly reassured by Andrea giving her one last look, her lips curling into a small, confident smile. "I’ll see you in there, okay? Go!"

Amy hesitated, her eyes welling with tears, before finally letting Dale lead her further into the CDC.

Jim gripped Jacqui’s hand tightly, his knuckles white as he swung his crowbar with fierce determination. "Stay close!” he shouted, his voice raw with urgency. Each swing sent walkers sprawling, their decayed forms collapsing into the snow as he carved a path toward the entrance. Apon reaching the shutter, the pair of them bolted inside, stumbling underneath the half-opened shutter.

Behind them, Allen let out a primal roar as he slammed a walker against the wall, its decayed skull cracking with a sickening thud. "Get inside, now!" he barked, shoving Lizzie and Mika toward the entrance. The girls, wide-eyed with fear, ran inside as Allen followed close behind, his fists still clenched.

Carol gritted her teeth, her hands trembling as she struggled to drive her knife deeper into a walker's neck. The blade was lodged at an awkward angle, stuck in sinew and bone, as the creature snarled inches from her face. She let out a desperate grunt, using all her strength to push the knife further, her heart pounding as she fought to hold back the snapping jaws. The walker’s cold, dead hands clawed at her, and panic surged through her as she realized she was losing ground. "Somebody help me!" she cried, her voice cracking as the relentless weight of the walker pressed closer.

Shane was the first to reach her, slamming the butt of his empty shotgun into the walker’s skull with a sickening crunch. "Get up, Carol! Let’s go!" he shouted, pulling her to her feet.

"Where’s Sophia?!" Carol cried out, her voice trembling with panic as her eyes darted wildly around, searching for her daughter amidst the chaos.

Lori clutched Carl to her chest, her voice urgent and soothing. "It’s okay, baby, I’ve got you. We’re almost there!" Rick grabbed Sophia’s hand, lifting her up as she stumbled, her small legs unable to keep pace. "I’ve got her!" Rick called to Carol, his voice steady but strained, as he carried Sophia through the entrance and into safety.

Near the entrance, Andrea braced herself against the icy wind, her pistol raised as the walkers pressed closer through the swirling snow. She fired rapidly, the sharp cracks of gunfire echoing into the blizzard. The biting cold stung her hands, making her aim falter, and a few bullets went wide, striking the ground instead of their targets. "Come on, damn it!" she muttered through gritted teeth, steadying her grip to fire again.

Shane dragged Carol toward the shutter, his shotgun slung over his shoulder, now useless without ammunition. "Keep moving!" he barked, gripping Carol firmly as she stumbled, her eyes wide with panic. "Sophia’s inside! She’s safe!" he assured her, though his voice was strained as he fought to stay ahead of the walkers.

Andrea covered them until her pistol clicked empty. "I’m out!" she yelled, holstering the useless weapon. Shane shoved Carol through the entrance, turning briefly to pull Andrea inside as the shutter began to grind down.
The metal door slammed shut just as walkers slammed into it, their grotesque faces visible through the narrowing gap until it sealed completely. The sound of their groans and clawing fists echoed faintly from the other side, but the group inside was safe—for now.

Inside the CDC’s reception floor, the group scattered across the cold, sterile space. Some collapsed onto the floor, their chests heaving as they tried to catch their breath. Jacqui leaned against the wall, clutching her knees, while Jim sat nearby, his hands trembling as he gripped his crowbar.

Rick and Lori gathered Carl and Sophia into their arms, their relieved whispers offering a moment of solace. Dale sat heavily on a nearby bench, wiping the sweat and snow from his face, his eyes scanning the group to account for everyone.

Shane stood near the door, his shotgun resting at his side, his breath coming in sharp bursts as he stared at the sealed shutter, listening to the faint groans outside. Andrea leaned against the wall, her shoulders slumping as she wiped her face with trembling hands. Amy hurried over to her sister, placing a comforting hand around her shivering arm, before gently pulling her into a relieved hug.

The silence around the room was immediately disturbed by a mechanical voice. "Doors sealed," it announced in a calm, automated tone. The group froze, their exhausted expressions shifting to alertness as their eyes turned toward the source of the sound.

Standing near a wall panel, a man with short, clean blonde hair and a white lab coat loomed, his face stern and unreadable. In one hand, he held an automatic rifle, its barrel trained steadily on the group. His other hand rested on the panel, the green glow of the display reflecting off his coat.

His piercing blue eyes scanned them methodically, taking in every detail—their blood-streaked clothes, their heaving chests, and the weapons clutched in their hands. The tension in the room was palpable as his voice cut through the stillness, cold and precise. “Any of you get bit out there?”

The rifle didn’t waver as he waited for an answer, his presence an imposing blend of authority and unease. The group exchanged uneasy glances, the relief of safety now replaced with a fresh layer of tension as they faced this unexpected and armed stranger.

The moment of rest was short-lived as all the seated group members jumped to their feet; their exhaustion replaced by tense alertness. Lori and Carol moved instinctively, pulling Carl and Sophia behind them. "Stay behind me," Lori whispered urgently, her hands gripping Carl’s shoulders tightly. Carol did the same, her trembling hand resting protectively on Sophia’s arm.

Shane stepped forward, his empty shotgun raised as a precaution, his eyes narrowing at the man in the lab coat. "Lower the gun". Shane growled, his voice low and sharp, his body coiled with tension.

Rick, though visibly tense, held up a hand to calm the situation. His eyes locked on the man with the automatic rifle, his voice steady despite the unease thick in the air. "Nobody here is infected," Rick said firmly, his tone carrying both assurance and a plea for reason. "We’re survivors, just looking for some shelter. That’s it… We have nowhere else to go."

The man’s rifle didn’t lower, but his piercing gaze flicked between them, assessing the truth in Rick’s words. The automated voice from the wall panel chimed again, repeating, "Doors sealed," as if punctuating the gravity of the situation. The group stood frozen, waiting for the armed man’s next move, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

“You all submit to a blood test, that’s the price of admission."

The automated voice chimed again, its calm monotone filling the tense silence. "Doors sealed."

The man in the white lab coat tilted his head slightly toward the wall panel, his grip on the automatic rifle unwavering. "You hear that?" he said, his voice sharp and commanding. "Doors are sealed. And if you’re staying, those doors stay sealed. No going back out, no second chances. You make up your minds right now."

The clanging of walkers on the shutter outside punctuated his words, the relentless pounding echoing faintly through the sterile reception area. The sound sent a shiver through the group, the grim reminder of what awaited them beyond those walls settling heavily in the room.

Rick looked back at his group—Lori clutching Carl, Carol holding Sophia close, Jacqui steadying a visibly shaken Jim, and Shane keeping his shotgun raised just in case. His gaze swept over each of them before turning back to the armed man.

"We’re staying," Rick said firmly, his voice steady and resolute. "There’s nothing left for us out there.”

The man’s eyes narrowed slightly and after a moment’s pause, he nodded curtly, his expression unreadable. He lowered the rifle, letting it hang from a strap across his chest. His shoulders relaxed slightly, but his stern demeanour remained.

"Fine," he said, his voice clipped and devoid of warmth. He gestured toward a hallway leading deeper into the CDC. "Follow me."

The man turned on his heel without another word, striding toward the corridor with the same sense of authority that had gripped the room moments earlier. The group fell into step behind him, their movements wary and deliberate. The sterile walls of the CDC felt cold and unwelcoming, the distant sound of clanging walkers on the sealed doors still faintly audible, a haunting reminder of what they had escaped.

The group stepped into a large elevator; its sterile interior illuminated by cold, fluorescent light. They huddled together tightly as the closing the doors slid shut with a faint hiss.

Shane, standing near the front with his shotgun resting on his shoulder, broke the silence. "So, doc," he drawled, his tone tinged with scepticism, "is it standard practice for doctors to go around packing heat like that?"

The man glanced at Shane, one brow raising slightly as he adjusted the strap of the rifle hanging across his chest. "Not usually," he replied, his voice dry. "But the military left plenty lying around. Figured I might as well get familiar with one." He gave a slight shrug, his nonchalance contrasting sharply with the tension in the cramped space.

As the elevator began to descend, he turned his attention back to the group, his piercing gaze scanning their weary faces. "You all seem harmless enough, though," he added, a faint smirk playing on his lips. Then, his eyes landed on Carl, who was tucked protectively between Lori and Rick. "Except maybe that one." He pointed subtly toward the boy. "Looks like trouble to me."

Carl’s eyes widened, and a faint blush crept across his cheeks. Lori pulled him closer, her protective instincts flaring, but Rick let out a small, weary chuckle. It was the first sign of levity they’d had since entering the CDC, a moment that, while brief, eased the suffocating tension just slightly.

“You got a name Doc?” Allen inquired bluntly.

The man paused for a moment before answering his intrigued guests before replying, “Dr Edwin Jenner. I’ll get to know the rest of you during the examinations.”

The doctor straightened as the elevator chimed, signalling their arrival. "Here we are," he said, his tone neutral, as the doors slid open to the depths of the CDC. "Welcome to your new home.”

Chapter Text

The group sat scattered around a large clinical room, its sterile white walls reflecting the cold, fluorescent light overhead. Jacqui sat stiffly in the chair, her arm outstretched as Dr. Jenner tied a tourniquet above her elbow, his movements efficient and detached. She turned her head to avoid the sight and let out a nervous chuckle. "Funny, after all the shit we’ve seen out there, I’m still afraid of a fucking needle," she admitted, her tone light but her unease clear, drawing a few faint smiles from the group. Her eyes landed on Andrea who was sat nearby, looking pale and unsteady.

Andrea pressed a hand to her forehead, her eyes fluttering shut briefly. "I’m fine," she muttered when Dale placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. "Just a little lightheaded, I’ve hardly eaten a thing all week.”

"Sit back down and rest," Dale said softly, his voice laced with concern, placing his weathered palm over her jittering knuckles as she slumped back into the fold-up chair.

Jacqui turned her attention to Jenner, her curiosity finally breaking the silence. "So… where is everybody?" she asked, her voice steady but laced with curiosity. "I mean, you’re not the only scientist here, right? There’s got to be others."

The question caused a ripple of attention through the room. The others, who had been quietly recovering, looked up, their expressions a mix of curiosity and unease. Lori and Rick exchanged glances, Shane leaned forward slightly, and Allen hugged his daughters closer, all of them waiting for an answer.

Jenner didn’t look up, his focus on locating a vein as he prepared the needle. "Not anymore," he said in a flat, deadpan tone. The faint click of the needle cap being removed punctuated his words.

Jacqui frowned, her unease growing. "What do you mean, ‘not anymore’? We heard this place was supposed to be humanity’s last hope. Where did everyone go?"

Jenner inserted the needle into her vein with practiced precision, drawing the dark red blood into a sterile vial. "In the beginning," he said, his voice devoid of emotion, "there were the walk-outs. People wanted to be with their families when things got bad."

He placed the filled vial on a tray and reached for another, his movements mechanical, almost robotic. "Then came the suicides," he continued, his expression blank, as if recounting an old, unremarkable story. "Not everyone could handle being the last line of defence for the human race’s survival."

The room fell into a heavy silence as his words hung in the air. Lori’s face tightened, her hand instinctively resting on Carl’s shoulder. Andrea didn’t react outwardly, but her pale face seemed to grow even paler.

Jacqui stared at him, her lips parting slightly in disbelief. The weight of his words hung in the air, their starkness cutting through the cold clinical environment. "And you?" she asked quietly, her voice trembling slightly. "Why did you stay?"
Jenner paused for a fraction of a second before meeting her gaze, his eyes hollow. "Because I made a promise to someone." His words were simple, but the resignation in his tone spoke volumes.

Carol, sitting nearby with Sophia at her side, tilted her head slightly, her voice gentle but inquisitive. "Who?"

Jenner stiffened slightly, his gaze hardening as he looked past her, his attention fixed on the collection of blood samples. "It doesn’t matter now," he said, his voice clipped and cold. "They’re gone now. That’s all there is to it."

Carol frowned but didn’t press further, sensing the rawness behind his words. The rest of the group exchanged uneasy glances, the weight of his response only adding to the oppressive atmosphere in the room.

Jenner turned abruptly, his lab coat swishing behind him as he gestured toward another corridor. "Come on," he said briskly. "I’ll show you to your rooms. You can rest and clean up. You look like you need it… just go easy on the hot water." His tone was flat, almost dismissive, but the reaction from the group was immediate.

The weary faces around the room lit up, eyes widening in disbelief and relief. A hot shower. After months of dirt, sweat, and blood clinging to them, the idea was almost too good to be true.

As the group followed Jenner down the corridor, Jim straightened up slowly, his tired face brightening slightly. "Did he just say hot water?" he asked, his voice carrying a spark of disbelief. He reached out to help Jacqui as she stood, steadying her with a careful hand.

Jacqui gave him a faint smile, brushing herself off. "I think he did," she replied, her tone soft but tinged with a slight chuckle.

The group embraced the rare luxury of hot showers in their private rooms, each person experiencing the moment in their own way.

Jacqui leaned her head back under the steaming water, letting it cascade over her face as she closed her eyes, as a large smile sparked across her face. The warmth eased her aching muscles, washing away weeks of grime and tension. In the next room, Andrea stood with her palms pressed against the wall, her face tilted into the spray. She scrubbed her arms and sighed deeply. Across the hall, Amy hummed softly to herself, her fingers working through her tangled hair as the soap bubbled away the remnants of their struggles.

Carol knelt beside Sophia, gently massaging shampoo through her daughter’s hair. Sophia laughed, a sweet, innocent sound that tugged at Carol’s heart. For once, she and her daughter could share a moment without fear, which brought a bittersweet smile to her lips as she looked at her daughter’s carefree face.

"You’re smiling, Mom," Sophia said, her voice curious but happy.

Carol blinked, startled out of her thoughts. She cupped Sophia’s face gently, her fingers brushing away a strand of wet hair. "Just happy to see you laughing, sweetie," she said softly, her voice thick with emotion.

But not everyone shared in the moment’s levity. Shane stood under the running water, his hands braced against the tiled wall, his head hanging low. From the bedside table, he had grabbed a bottle of wine left as part of Jenner’s courtesy and brought it into the bathroom. He drank directly from the bottle, the sharp taste of alcohol mixing with the heat, but it did little to drown out his spiralling thoughts about Lori.

In another room, Allen stood motionless under the spray, his eyes staring blankly at the tiled wall. The warmth of the water seemed lost on him; his mind still consumed with the memory of Donna. He had barely allowed himself to process it—there had been no time, no space in the chaos to grieve. But now, in the stillness of the shower, the reality of her absence hit him with full force.

Their roles had always been clear, a comforting balance in their old life. He worked long hours, providing for the family, while Donna stayed home, her days devoted to raising Lizzie and Mika. She had been the glue, the nurturer, the one who kept their family grounded. Donna had been the one to soothe the girls when they cried, to bandage their scraped knees, and to distract them a simple gesture.

He remembered how she’d pluck wildflowers during panic attacks or tears, holding them gently before the girls. "Look at the flowers," she’d say, her voice calm and steady. "Count the petals with me. Aren’t they beautiful?"
She could be cold towards most people, her tone often blunt and no-nonsense, but never with her girls. For them, she was all softness and warmth.

Now, standing under the spray, Allen’s hands gripped the tiles as his legs trembled beneath the weight of those memories. Without Donna, he felt lost. How could he ever fill her role for Lizzie and Mika? He wasn’t gentle like her, wasn’t intuitive the way she had been. The thought of his daughters looking to him for the warmth and comfort she had provided left him feeling inadequate and terrified.

Rick and Lori, sharing a single small shower, found a rare moment of peace. Rick’s hands rested lightly on Lori’s waist, their foreheads touching as the water poured over them. They didn’t speak, but the silence was filled with a quiet intimacy, a rediscovery of the connection that had frayed in their old lives but seemed to strengthen now, in the CDC of all places.

For the first time in months, the group had a chance to feel human again, even if only for a little while.

Soon after, a few members of the group found themselves having some downtime in the common room. Jim leaned over the pool table, lining up his shot while Amy watched from the side, waiting for her turn. The clink of the cue ball echoed softly in the otherwise quiet space. Dale stood nearby, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, observing the casual game.

"Looks like you’re off the hook for fixing-up the RV from now on Jim," Dale said, his tone light. "Doesn’t seem like we’ll need it with this place keeping us covered."

Jim straightened up, rubbing the chalk on the tip of his cue. "Would be nice to have the option, though," he replied, glancing at Dale. "This place feels solid, but resources don’t last forever. Sooner or later, we might need to hit the road again."

Amy, holding her cue loosely, jumped in. "Didn’t Jenner say the doors stay sealed? If that’s true, we’re not going anywhere even if we wanted to. Right?"

Dale raised an eyebrow, shaking his head slightly. "I’m pretty sure that’s just a figure of speech, Amy. We’re not prisoners here. The doors will open as easily as they closed. It’s just about keeping us safe in the meantime."

Jacqui, sitting on a nearby couch with a half-empty glass of wine in her hand, and chimed in. "I’m not so sure it was just a figure of speech. I mean, places like this—they’re designed to keep the worst kind of things inside, right? What if its not just a figure of speech. What if we can’t leave?”

Dale scoffed, dismissing the conspiracy by saying, "Come on, you girls have had too much wine.”

Jacqui frowned, leaning forward slightly. "I’m just saying, Dale. What if—"

Before she could finish, the loudspeaker crackled to life, Jenner’s monotoned voice filling the room. "Attention, everyone. Dinner is served in the cafeteria. Join me there whenever you’re ready."

Jacqui sighed, setting her wineglass down as she stood. "Well, looks like I’ll save my theories for after dessert," she said, throwing Dale a teasing smile. The group chuckled softly as they made their way out of the room toward the cafeteria.

Chapter Text

The cafeteria was alive with warmth and laughter, the long table filled with steaming dishes and bottles of wine. The group sat together, their spirits higher than they had been in months, enjoying the rare comfort of a proper meal. The sound of clinking glasses, soft chatter, and bursts of laughter echoed off the sterile walls.

Shane was the last to take his seat, his movements slow and deliberate. He slid into the chair next to Lori, his gaze fixed on the table, the lively atmosphere around him seeming distant. Lori glanced at him briefly, her face unreadable, but she quickly looked away, focusing on the others and not acknowledging his presence. Shane remained silent, the faint hum of tension following him as the table buzzed with joy.

Rick stood up, holding his glass of wine and tapping it lightly with a fork. The gentle ringing sound brought the group’s attention to him, their chatter fading as they turned to listen.

"I just want to say a few words," Rick began, his voice steady and warm. He raised his glass slightly toward Jenner. "First, to you Doc—for your hospitality, for opening your doors to us when we had nowhere else to go. You saved our lives."

The group nodded and murmured their agreement, glasses lifting in acknowledgment. Rick turned his attention to the others, his smile widening. "And to Lori, Carol, and Andrea, for preparing this feast!”

Before Rick could continue, Carl piped up from his seat, grinning eagerly. "Hey! What about me?"

The table erupted into laughter as Rick looked down at his son, his expression softening. "Right," he said with a chuckle. "And to Carl—for peeling the potatoes like a champ."

Carl beamed at the acknowledgment, and the group laughed again, the moment breaking whatever lingering tension remained. Glasses clinked as everyone joined in the toast, the warmth of the moment spreading across the table. Even Shane glanced up briefly, though his expression remained distant, a stark contrast to the shared joy around him.

The laughter began to settle as Rick, still standing with his glass raised, shifted his tone. His expression grew serious, the weight of recent losses pressing heavily into the room. "I also want to say something about Glenn, T-Dog, and Ed," he said, his voice quieter but firm. The table fell silent, the joy from moments before evaporating as everyone turned their attention back to him.

"We left them behind," Rick continued, his eyes scanning the group. "Not because we wanted to, but because we had no choice. But I promise you, when the horde outside clears and we have a chance, we will go out there, and we will look for them. We won’t give up on them." His voice wavered slightly, but his resolve shone through, the unspoken guilt etched on his face.

The room was still, the only sound was the faint clink of a fork against a plate.

At the edge of the room, Jenner stood near the doorway, his body stiff and his face unreadable. As Rick spoke about going back out, Jenner’s hand moved toward his mouth, a nervous gesture he quickly suppressed. His gaze darted toward the table, then away, as though the words were dredging up something he didn’t want to confront. Without a word, he turned and left the room, his footsteps echoing faintly in the corridor.

Rick noticed Jenner’s departure but didn’t comment, his focus remaining on the group. "We owe it to them," he finished, his voice filled with drunken determination. The silence that followed was heavy, each person lost in their own thoughts, the earlier laughter and warmth now just a fleeting memory.

Jacqui’s eyes lingered on Jenner as he slipped out of the room, his tense demeanour and quick departure not escaping her notice. She turned slightly in her chair, looking back at Jim, who sat quietly behind her, his face shadowed by the dim light.

"Sweetie," she said softly, leaning closer to him, her voice low to avoid drawing attention. "I’ve got a bad feeling about him. Something’s off. We should follow him, see what he’s up to."

Jim hesitated, his hand moving to his face as he adjusted his moustache. “Maybe he’s just tired, it’s been a long day for all of us and we only just got here Jacqui. I don’t want him thinking we’re snooping."

Her hand found his forearm, her touch firm but reassuring. "I trust my gut on this," she said, her eyes locking with his. "I just need you to trust me."

Jim exhaled, his shoulders sagging slightly before he nodded. "Alright," he said quietly, his voice carrying a reluctant edge. "But we keep it quiet."

Jacqui smiled faintly; her confidence renewed by his agreement. She turned back to the group and raised her voice just enough for the others to hear without suspicion. "We’re going to turn in for the night," she announced casually, standing and brushing her hands on her jeans.

Jim followed her lead, the two slipping out of the room unnoticed by most as the group remained focused on Rick’s heavy speech. They stepped into the corridor, the faint hum of the CDC’s systems echoed as they trailed after Jenner, their unease growing with every step.

The remnants of the meal lingered on the table; the wine bottles nearly empty as the group began to wind down. Rick stood off to the side, deep in conversation with Allen and Andrea, their voices low and thoughtful as they discussed the earlier promise to search for their missing group members. Laughter and murmured conversations filled the room, but not everyone was at ease.

Lori remained seated at the table beside Shane, her arms crossed as she watched Rick with a mixture of pride and worry. Shane, slouched in his chair and visibly drunk, swirled the last of his wine in the glass before setting it down heavily. His eyes lingered on Lori for a moment before, in a haze of alcohol and misplaced confidence, he reached out and placed his hand on her thigh.

Lori froze, her entire body stiffening as her head snapped toward him. Her eyes were sharp with fury, but she kept her voice low, her jaw tight as she hissed through clenched teeth, "What the hell are you doing?"

Shane blinked at her, his drunken smirk fading as he registered her reaction. He began to stammer something, but Lori cut him off, her voice still controlled but brimming with quiet rage. "Common room. Now." She stood abruptly, her movements sharp as she refused to meet anyone else’s gaze, determined to avoid drawing attention to the sudden tension.

Dale, seated a few chairs away, noticed the shift immediately. His sharp eyes flicked between Lori’s rigid posture and Shane’s dazed confusion, his brow furrowing as he watched them leave the room together. Lori marched out first, her shoulders squared, while Shane stumbled after her, his steps uneven but obedient.

The chatter in the room continued, most of the group oblivious to the sudden undercurrent of tension. Dale, however, sat back in his chair, his gaze lingering on the door as unease settled over him like a shadow.

Lori stormed into the common room, her rage erupting the moment she slammed the door shut behind them. The sound echoed sharply through the sterile space as she turned to face Shane, her eyes blazing with fury.

"Maybe I didn’t make myself clear back at the quarry," she snapped, her voice trembling with suppressed anger. "So let me make it perfectly clear for you now. Rick—my husband—is back. I love him. What we did, what we had, was because you told me he was fucking dead! It meant nothing. Nothing. If you ever lay another hand on me, I swear I will tell him everything."

Shane stood in the doorway, swaying slightly, his eyes narrowing as her words cut through the haze of alcohol. For a moment, he looked stunned, but his expression quickly hardened, his jaw tightening. "No, you won’t," he said bluntly, his voice low and cold.

Before Lori could react, Shane closed the distance between them in a few quick strides, his movements erratic but forceful. He grabbed her arms, shoving her backward until she hit the pool table. Panic flashed across her face as he pinned her down, his weight pressing her against the cold surface. Lori struggled, her voice rising in anger and fear as she pushed against him with all her strength.

"Shane, get off me!" she shouted, her voice echoing through the room. But Shane’s grip tightened, his face twisted with a mix of frustration, pain, and something darker, as his hand slid further up her thigh.

The room seemed to close in around them, the tension suffocating, as Lori continued to fight, her fury and terror fuelling her resistance.

Meanwhile, Jacqui and Jim moved silently through the white halls, the whirl of the CDC’s systems masking the sound of their cautious footsteps. Ahead of them, Dr. Jenner exited a lab, his movements precise as he locked the door behind him using the digital panel on the wall. The faint beep of the lock engaging echoed in the corridor as Jenner adjusted the blood vial in his hand, its contents glinting under the fluorescent lights. Without a glance back, he turned down a separate hallway and disappeared.

Jacqui nudged Jim gently, her voice low but firm. "I’ll keep an eye on him. You need to check out the lab."

Jim stopped in his tracks; his hesitation evident as he glanced at the secured door. His shoulders tensed, and he shook his head slightly. "Jacqui, I… I don’t know. If we get caught—if I get caught—he could throw us back out there. I can’t go back out there," he said, his voice trembling slightly, a rare crack in his usually stoic demeanour. He turned to her, his eyes filled with a vulnerability she hadn’t seen before. "And I can’t lose someone else I care about. I can’t lose you."

Jacqui froze, her breath catching as she looked at him. For a moment, she didn’t know what to say. Jim had always been the quiet one, the one who kept his feelings buried under layers of distance and practicality. But now, his words hung in the air, raw and honest, and it struck her harder than she expected.

Her expression softened, and she reached out, placing a hand lightly on his arm. "Sweetie," she said gently, her voice tinged with surprise. "You’re not going to lose me. I promise. But we have to know what’s going on here. If he’s hiding something, we need to find out—for all of us."

Jim’s jaw tightened, his internal conflict evident, but after a moment, he nodded reluctantly. "Alright," he said, his voice steadier now. "But be careful, Jacqui. Please."

Without saying a word, she leaned in and kissed him lightly on the cheek, her lips lingering for just a heartbeat before she pulled back. "Be careful," she said softly, her voice steady but filled with meaning. "We’ve got this."

Jim blinked, momentarily taken aback, his hand instinctively brushing the spot where her lips had touched. He nodded, his resolve hardening despite the swirl of emotions in his chest. "You too," he murmured.

Jacqui gave him one last reassuring smile before turning and heading down the corridor after Jenner, her figure disappearing around the corner. Jim stood frozen for a moment, his heart pounding, before shifting his focus to the locked lab door. With a deep breath, he approached the digital panel, his determination outweighing his fear as he began to inspect it.

Jim stood before the digital panel, his fingers grazing the smooth surface as he examined it closely. The hum of the locked mechanism was steady, and he could see the faint glow of its activated state. He exhaled sharply, his eyes darting around the hallway. There had to be a way to bypass it.

His gaze landed on a nearby maintenance closet, the door slightly ajar. Moving quickly but quietly, he slipped inside. The small, cluttered space smelled faintly of oil and dust, and shelves were lined with various tools and equipment. His eyes scanned the contents until they landed on a screwdriver. Grabbing it, he tucked it into his back pocket and returned to the panel.

Kneeling by the panel, Jim carefully pried off the outer casing, exposing a tangled array of wires and circuits beneath. His hands trembled slightly as he worked, but his focus was sharp. He studied the wiring, his mind racing.
He adjusted the screwdriver in his hand and carefully bridged two exposed wires, watching as a small spark leapt between them. The hum of the lock faltered, and the faint glow of the panel dimmed before going dark. Jim let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding as the door clicked softly, signalling it had unlocked.

Standing, he hesitated for just a moment, his hand hovering over the door handle. Then, steeling himself, he pushed the door open and stepped inside, his heart pounding as he prepared to uncover whatever Jenner had been hiding.

Jim stepped cautiously into the lab. His eyes were immediately drawn to a table neatly stacked with files, each bearing a name from their group. He picked one up—his own name printed clearly across the front. Flipping it open, he saw detailed notes about his health, blood type, and observations from their admission. A cold chill crept over him as he realized there was a file for every one of them, meticulously filled out.

Turning, his gaze landed on the glowing monitors along one wall. The screens displayed graphs and data streams—complex blood analyses labelled with their names. As he approached, Jim’s stomach twisted. Every result indicated "Positive" for a particular marker, though the specifics were cryptic. He leaned closer, squinting at the screen as his pulse quickened. Whatever Jenner had been testing for, they all had it.

His hands shook slightly as he turned his attention to another monitor displaying file folders labelled TS-1 through TS-19. Hesitating for a moment, he clicked on the first file, a video feed beginning to play. A man in a lab coat appeared, speaking into the camera. His tone was calm, but his words were clinical and chilling as he described early tests, the infection's progression, and attempts to understand its effects.

One by one, Jim clicked through the files, each more horrifying than the last. The videos showed experiments—first on dead walkers, then live test subjects who had been bitten or turned—as Jenner and other scientists documented the infection’s impact on the brain. The final files were darker still, showing chaos within the CDC: desperate scientists, arguments, and panicked walkouts.

Jim stumbled back from the screen, his breath coming in short gasps. His hands gripped the edge of the desk as the implications hit him like a freight train. Whatever Jenner had found—whatever he was hiding—it was big. Too big to keep to himself.

Without a second thought, Jim bolted from the lab, his footsteps echoing in the silent hallways as he ran to gather the others. He burst into the cafeteria, his face pale and eyes wide with urgency. "You all need to come with me," he said, his voice trembling but firm. The group, who had been winding down after the meal, looked up in alarm.

Dale was the first to approach him, concern etched into his weathered face. "Son, you don’t look so good," he said gently, placing a hand on Jim’s shoulder. "What’s wrong?"

Jim shook his head, brushing off Dale’s concern. "I don’t have time to explain. You just… you just have to see this,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. He turned and motioned for them to follow.

Uneasy murmurs rippled through the group as they exchanged glances, but one by one, they stood and followed Jim down the sterile halls. The tension grew as they entered the lab. The files on the desk caught their attention immediately. Andrea picked one up, her name bold across the front, and flipped through it, her brows furrowing as she scanned the notes. Others quickly grabbed their files, reading in silence as the unsettling reality sank in.
Amy and Carol, sensing the tension, quietly guided the children to sit on a few chairs in the corner. Jim, pacing near the monitors, looked over at them and said, "The kids… they might not want to see this." His voice cracked, and Carol nodded, understanding.

"Come on, let’s get to your rooms," Carol said softly, herding the children toward the door. Lizzie hesitated; her face determined. "I want to stay," she said firmly.
"No," Allen interjected, his voice stern but kind. "Go with Carol, Lizzie. Please."

Lizzie pouted but obeyed, glancing back one last time before leaving with Carol and the others. Carl, however, stayed rooted to his spot, his eyes wide with curiosity. "I’m not going," he said firmly.

Rick, scanning the room, suddenly realized Lori and Shane weren’t among them. His eyes narrowed slightly, but he turned to his son and crouched down. "It’s okay," he said softly. "You can stay."

Jim, not waiting for more debate, turned to the monitors. "Look at this," he said, his voice urgent as he began pulling up the video files labelled TS-19. The faint glow of the screens filled the room as the group gathered around, bracing themselves.

Dr. Jenner appeared on the screen, standing in a sterile lab with a woman strapped to a chair in front of him. She was wearing a lab coat, her face pale but composed, a visible bite mark on her arm. Jenner looked crushed, his shoulders slumped, and his expression heavy and still.

His voice, trembling but professional, broke the silence. "Test Subject 19," he said, his tone hollow. "Two hours after receiving a bite from Test Subject 18." Jim shifted uncomfortably, recognizing the connection to the earlier footage he had watched alone.

The footage skipped to a moment between the two doctors, the woman spoke, her voice soft but resolute. "Edwin," she said, addressing Jenner directly, her eyes locking onto his. "Promise me. No matter what happens, you stay. You keep working on this. You find a cure."

Jenner’s face twisted in pain, his lips pressing into a thin line as he nodded. "I promise," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. The woman gave him a faint smile, “I love you,” she gasped, her head tilting back against the chair as she exhaled her final breath.

Jenner stepped closer to her, his hands trembling as he checked her pulse. "Time of death: 18:43," he stated mechanically, though his voice cracked. The camera shifted slightly as he turned to face it, his face shadowed in grief.

He took a deep breath before continuing, his voice flat, stripped of emotion. "Final conclusion: the virus is universal. We are all infected." The room around the group seemed to shrink as his words sank in. Jenner went on, his explanation clinical yet chilling. “We are all carrying the virus, which remains dormant in the brain. Once the body dies, the virus activates the brain stem, reanimating only the basic motor functions. The body moves, it feeds, but it’s not alive. The human part—the part that makes you, you—that dies with you."

The weight of his words sank into the room like a stone. The group stood frozen, their faces pale and stunned as the revelation hit them. Amy clutched Andrea’s arm, as the sisters watched the footage in shock. Dale removed his hat, his head bowing slightly as the realization settled over him. Rick’s hand instinctively reached for Carl’s shoulder, pulling him closer to restrict his view of the monitor.

Jim hesitated, his hand hovering over the mouse as the video continued to play. On the screen, Jenner stood motionless for a moment, staring into the camera. His voice returned, calm but lifeless. "I will continue my work on a cure," he said. "But further progress will require additional test subjects. I have reason to believe that Paris have made more breakthroughs than myself, but I will do what I can. For her."

Behind him, the woman strapped to the chair began to stir. Her body twitched, lifeless eyes snapping open as her head jerked to one side. Jenner didn’t flinch, his focus remaining on the camera. "Reanimation time: fifteen minutes and thirty-two seconds, " he said clinically, his voice devoid of the emotion that had filled it earlier. He turned to glance at her briefly before walking to the camera and switching off the recording. The screen went dark.
The room was deathly silent, the group standing frozen as the weight of what they had witnessed sank in. Tears rolled silently down Andrea’s face as she gripped the edge of the desk, her knuckles white. Amy placed a hand on her sister’s arm, her own face pale and horrified.

Allen, standing off to the side, drew in a shaky breath, holding himself together by sheer will. His voice broke the oppressive silence. "Look," he said, motioning to the data on the screens. "Those files… they’ve got test subject labels attached to our names." He pointed to one of the monitors, where his own name appeared beside the label TS-23.

The group’s attention snapped to the screens, their eyes scanning the names and designations. Jim stepped closer, his heart pounding in his chest. His breath caught when he saw it: TS-20 – Jacquiline Martin.

Chapter Text

Jacqui crept silently down the sterile corridors, her heart pounding in her chest as she followed Jenner from a distance. The dim, flickering lights cast long shadows on the walls, and each step she took echoed faintly, the sound amplifying her tension. She stayed close enough to keep him in sight but far enough to avoid being noticed.

Suddenly, Jenner paused, his head tilting slightly as if listening for something. Jacqui’s breath caught, and she quickly ducked into a doorway, pressing herself flat against the wall. Her pulse thundered in her ears as he turned, scanning the empty corridor behind him. After a tense moment, he seemed satisfied and resumed walking, his footsteps growing softer as he moved farther away.

Jacqui let out a quiet breath and slipped back into the hallway, continuing to tail him. They entered a generator room, the air thick with the smell of fuel and oil. Massive barrels lined the walls, each marked with bold red lettering: FLAMMABLE. The hum of machinery filled the space, much louder than before. Jenner approached one of the hulking generators, a massive machine with pipes extending in every direction. He opened a panel and retrieved a nozzle from a nearby barrel, carefully topping off the generator’s fuel.

As the machine roared to life, the flickering lights stabilized, casting the room in a steady, harsh glow. Jacqui crouched behind a barrel, watching intently. Jenner stepped back, inspecting his work, then adjusted a few settings on the generator’s control panel. Satisfied, he picked up a key card from his coat pocket and headed toward a set of automatic glass doors at the far end of the room.

Jacqui’s eyes followed him, her instincts screaming that she couldn’t let him out of her sight. As the door began to slide shut behind him, she bolted from her hiding spot, sprinting across the room. Her feet pounded against the floor, and she slipped inside just before the door sealed shut behind her, the faint hiss of pressurized locks echoing in the enclosed space.

Breathing hard, she pressed herself against the nearest wall, her heart racing as she peeked out to see where Jenner had gone. The dim light of the new lab illuminated his figure as he moved deeper into the space, oblivious to her presence. Jacqui calmed herself, ready to find out more about their gracious host.

Jacqui crouched low, her back pressed against the cold metal wall as she peered into Jenner’s lab. The room was starkly different from the pristine spaces she’d seen in the rest of the CDC. Here, chaos reigned. Papers littered the desk in uneven piles, some spilling onto the floor, covered in scrawled notes and incomprehensible diagrams. Vial racks lined one side of the workspace, filled with both empty and full blood samples, their contents glowing faintly under the harsh fluorescent light.

Jenner moved with quiet purpose, his face set in a steady focus. He swept his arm across the cluttered desk, pushing aside stray papers and test tubes to make space. Jacqui’s eyes narrowed as she watched him pick up a rack and carefully clear it out, placing the empty vials into a nearby bin.

She held her breath as he retrieved the blood sample he had taken from the lab earlier, handling it with a delicate touch. Jenner slotted the vial into the rack with care, muttering something under his breath she couldn’t quite make out. The air in the lab felt thick, heavy with the unspoken secrets it held, and Jacqui’s heart pounded as she stayed hidden, watching him work.

Jacqui’s eyes followed Jenner’s every move as he sifted through the chaos of his desk, his focus narrowing on a stack of neatly arranged papers set apart from the disarray. He opened the folder, his expression tightening with concentration as he scanned the notes. One by one, he began pulling various chemicals from a nearby shelf, lining them up methodically on the now-cleared portion of the desk.

With steady hands, Jenner grabbed a pipette and began working with total precision, adding droplets of each chemical into a separate clean vial. Jacqui leaned forward slightly, her curiosity overpowering her caution as she watched him work. Each drop seemed deliberate; each movement calculated. The liquid in the vial remained clear, undisturbed, until he turned back to the blood sample he’d taken earlier.

Carefully, Jenner removed the vial from its rack, measured out five exact drops of blood, and combined it with the chemical formula. As the last drop fell, the liquid began to shift dramatically, swirling from clear to a deep, ominous red. Jacqui’s breath hitched, her eyes widening as she watched him stir the mixture and hold it up to the light, his face a mixture of tension and anticipation.

Satisfied, Jenner transferred a small amount of the mixture to a slide and slid it under the lens of his microscope. He leaned in, peering intently at the sample. The silence in the lab was deafening as Jacqui held her breath, watching his every move.

Jacqui edged closer to the small window in the lab door, her curiosity overpowering her caution. She watched Jenner stagger back from the microscope, his wide eyes filled with shock and excitement. Her breath hitched as she tried to piece together what she was witnessing.

Then, Jenner’s head snapped toward the window, his gaze locking onto hers. Jacqui froze, her heart skipping a beat. "Oh shit," she whispered under her breath, realizing she’d been caught.

Before she could slip away, the door hissed open, and Jenner stood there, his face pale but animated, his usual monotone expression replaced with something sharper—almost manic.

"What are you doing here?" He asked, his voice trembling, a mix of confusion and suspicion. "How did you get down here?"

Jacqui straightened, forcing herself to stay calm despite the sudden shift in his demeanour. "I was… curious," she said casually, though her pulse pounded in her ears. "I saw you leave dinner and thought I’d see what you were working on."

Jenner squinted at her, his breathing uneven, before he stepped forward and grabbed her arm, his grip firm but not painful as he pulled her into the lab.

"Wait—what’s going on?" Jacqui asked, her voice steady but edged with unease. Jenner’s enthusiasm was unnerving, a sharp departure from his usual cold detachment. His eyes darted around the room as he gestured toward his makeshift workstation.

"You need to see this," he said, his voice trembling with a strange energy. "This is… this is it. I think I’ve finally done it.”

Jacqui glanced down at his hand still gripping her arm, her unease growing. Whatever he had discovered, it clearly consumed him, and she wasn’t sure if that was a good thing—or something far worse.

He suddenly let go of her arm, so she straightened-up, keeping a wary distance as she gestured toward the vial in his hand. "What is that, Edwin? What did you figure out?"

Jenner lifted the second vial of clear liquid, holding it up to the light with almost reverent awe. "It’s a cure," he said, his voice trembling with a mix of triumph and desperation. "Do you understand what this means? Everyone is infected. People think it’s the bite that turns you, but it’s not. The bite is just a means of death like any other. No matter how you die—peaceful or violent, old age or illness—you come back."

Jacqui froze, her mouth opening slightly in shock. "You’re saying…" she trailed off, her voice faltering.

Jenner nodded; his eyes sharp with intensity. "It’s in all of us. Dormant, until death activates it. I’ve known this for a long time," he said, his tone suddenly distant as if he were speaking to himself. He turned back to the table and began filling a syringe with the solution from the vial. "But this," he said, holding up the syringe with unsteady hands, "this is the closest I’ve ever been to stopping it."

Jacqui instinctively stepped back; her hands raised slightly. "Wait," she said, her voice steady but cautious. "How do you know it’ll work?”

Jenner stopped, his hand trembling slightly as he stared at the syringe. "The blood reacted perfectly," he said, almost to himself. "It’s the first time I’ve ever seen anything like it. The markers, the dormant cells—it’s all there. This is it."

Jacqui’s eyes darted toward the desk, drawn to the blood vial still sitting in its rack. Her heart dropped when she saw the label: JM—her initials—along with the date they had arrived at the CDC.

"You used my blood," she said, her voice trembling as she stepped back again. Her chest tightened, fear mingling with anger. "That’s what this is, isn’t it? That’s why you’re so sure."

Jenner’s face faltered for a moment, his frantic energy dimming slightly. "You don’t understand," he said softly. "You’ve all made this possible. It’s your blood that gave me this chance. This is bigger than you, than me—it’s a chance to stop this nightmare for good."

Jacqui’s breath quickened, her eyes flicking between Jenner and the syringe in his hand. She backed up slowly, her movements cautious, her hand brushing against the desk near the doorway. Her fingers curled around a pencil, gripping it tightly behind her back as she forced a strained smile. "That’s… great news, Edwin," she said, her voice steady despite the pounding of her heart. "Why don’t we go and get the others? They’d want to celebrate this.”

For a moment, Jenner hesitated, his face softening as though her words had reached him. But then his expression shifted, worry and determination flickering across his features. "I can’t let you go just yet," he said, his voice trembling. "There’s just one last test I need to carry out. To be sure."

Jacqui froze, understanding the implication in an instant. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at him, her chest tightening. "You’re talking about me," she said quietly, her voice sharpening with anger. "You’re going to use me."

"I’m sorry," Jenner said, his voice hollow but firm. "Research takes sacrifice. Like I said—this is bigger than any one of us. It’s the only way."

Before she could slip outside the room, Jenner grabbed her arm again. Jacqui moved on instinct, her body surging with adrenaline as she brought the pencil up and stabbed him in the gut. He let out a sharp cry, stumbling back but refusing to let go.

"Don’t do this!" he begged, his voice desperate as they struggled. "Just submit! You’ll be fine—I can make sure you’re fine!"

Jacqui fought harder; her breath ragged as she grappled with him. Her hand found a scalpel on the cluttered desk, and she gripped it tightly, her survival instincts begging her to fight her way out of this. As she raised the blade to strike his neck, Jenner lunged, his hand darting forward. He pulled her Into his shoulder and the needle pierced the back of her neck before she could stop him.

The syringe emptied in an instant, and Jacqui gasped, the scalpel slipping from her fingers and clattering to the floor. Her vision blurred as dizziness overtook her, her legs buckling beneath her. She collapsed backward into a table, sliding down the wall until she was slumped on the floor. Her breaths came shallow and uneven as her body refused to obey her.

Jenner crouched beside her, his face pale but determined. "You’ll be alright," he said softly, almost tenderly. "Trust me. You have to trust me. You’ll be fine."

Jacqui’s vision darkened, her consciousness slipping away as his voice became a distant echo. Her eyelids fluttered, and then, finally, her world went black.

Chapter Text

Back in the lab, Jim paced back and forth, his agitation growing with each passing moment. The others stood around the workstation, staring uneasily at the blood data and test subject labels on the screens. The tension in the room was palpable, thick enough to choke on.

"This is bad," Jim muttered, running a hand through his hair. "We’ve been here less than a day, and already there’s something off. You saw the files! We’re just numbers to him—test subjects, not people."

Dale, leaning on the edge of a desk, held up his hands in a calming gesture. "Son, listen to me," he said evenly. "We don’t know what this means yet. Jenner has been nothing but a welcoming host since we got here. He opened the doors for us, gave us food, hot water, and a place to rest. You can’t just jump to conclusions."

Jim stopped mid-pace and turned to Dale, his eyes blazing. "Jump to conclusions? Did you not see what I saw in that video? He’s been experimenting on people, Dale. People like us!"

“For Christ-sake Jim, will you just calm down for a moment. Those people were bitten and infected. Did you see any of them resisting at all? Those test subjects clearly agreed to be studied, quite possibly to provide some ounce of meaning from their death,” Dale replied, his tone steady but firm.

“That man has been alone here for who knows how long, trying to solve a problem none of us could even begin to understand. You need to take a step back and think."

Andrea, standing near the monitors, spoke up, her voice tight. "Dale, I get that you’re trying to stay level-headed, but this isn’t just paranoia. That screen had ALL our names on it. Test subject labels, Dale. Why would that be there if it wasn’t for a reason? We never agreed to be studied."

Dale exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. "I’m not saying we shouldn’t be cautious. I’m saying we shouldn’t turn this into a witch hunt without understanding the full picture first."

Allen, standing with his arms crossed, cut in, his voice strained but calm. "Dale, I think we’ve seen enough of the picture to know this isn’t normal. I’ve got two kids under this roof, both listed as subjects 24 and 25, right after my own name. Testing on adults is one thing Dale, but experimenting on the children... This man is sick.”

The group fell into uneasy silence, the weight of Allen’s words pressing on all of them. Jim clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. "Jacqui is with him right now… Alone, and if she’s listed as his next experiment, I’m not prepared to wait around and find out if he is a nut job or not,” he exclaimed whist storming out of the room, his heavy footsteps echoing down the sterile hallway.

"Jim, wait!" Rick called after him, immediately following. Allen was quick on Rick’s heels, his face set in grim determination.

Rick stopped briefly, turning back to address the others with sharp, decisive orders. "Andrea, Amy—find the rest of the group. Fill them in on what’s happening and gather everyone’s bags. If things go south, we’ll need to be ready to move. Take Carl with you," he added, his tone softening slightly as he glanced at his visibly frightened son.

Andrea hesitated, glancing between Rick and the hallway Jim had disappeared down. She nodded, swallowing hard. "Got it. Come on, Amy. Carl, stick close to us." She placed a reassuring hand on Carl’s shoulder as they turned to leave. Amy glanced up, startled, as the overhead lights stopped flickering and suddenly burned brighter, casting sharp, steady shadows across the sterile hallway, swiftly following her sister as Rick instructed.

"I’m coming too," Dale said, his voice steady. He grabbed his hat and followed Rick and Allen, lagging slightly behind as they sprinted down the corridor.

The group turned a corner and almost collided with Shane, who stepped into the hallway. A faint scratch marred his neck, and Dale immediately noticed it. "What happened to you?" Dale asked, frowning.

Shane touched the mark casually, his expression unreadable. "Caught myself with the electric shaver," he said smoothly, brushing it off as though it were nothing. Dale refrained from prying further but raised a brow in suspicion.

From the room Shane had just left, Lori sat on the edge of the pool table, her hands trembling as she hastily wiped tears from her eyes. The faint sound of Rick’s voice carried through the cracked door, sharp and urgent as he filled Shane in on the situation. She froze, listening intently, her chest tightening at the commanding tone of her husband’s voice. She adjusted her clothing with shaking hands, tugging her sleeves down to cover the bruise-like marks on her arm, trying to pull herself together. But as Rick’s voice faded, his words shifting to a barked order to "get a move on, so they can catch up to Jim," the distance in his voice felt unbearable. Tears welled up again, spilling down her cheeks as she sat back, her head in her hands. Alone in the room, her sobs were muffled by the sound of hurried footsteps outside.

The small group caught up to Jim in the generator room, their footsteps echoing against the metal floor. Jim stood near the massive machinery, his jaw clenched and his fists at his sides, staring at the barrels marked FLAMMABLE and the steadily humming generators.

Shane let out a low whistle, his eyes scanning the rows of fuel barrels. "That’s a hell of a lot of gas," he muttered, his voice laced with suspicion. "Enough to keep this place running for a long time.”

Allen and Dale stumbled in last, both more out of breath than the others. Allen leaned against the wall, wiping sweat from his brow, while Dale clutched his hat in one hand, his other hand braced against his knee as he caught his breath.

Rick’s attention, however, was drawn to a nearby room where bright, steady light poured through a small window in the door. The stark glow was a sharp contrast to the dim corridors they had come through. He exchanged a glance with Jim, who nodded silently, and together with Shane they moved toward the door, the tension in the air thickening with each step.

As Rick, Jim and Shane approached the brightly lit room, the glass automatic doors slid open with a soft hiss, and Dr. Jenner stepped out, his expression shifting instantly from surprise to unease. He froze, his shoulders tensing as the three men stopped a few feet away from him. Jim, his face flushed with barely contained rage, took a step forward.

"Where is she?" Jim demanded, his voice sharp and trembling with anger.

Jenner stumbled over his words, his hands raising slightly in a placating gesture. "I—I don’t—"

Rick placed a calming hand on Jim’s shoulder, his voice steady but firm. "We’ve seen your research… Just tell us where she is," he said, his tone polite but laced with an edge of warning.

Jenner’s gaze darted between them, sweat beading on his forehead. He opened his mouth to speak, but no coherent answer came. Shane and Jim advanced closer, forcing Jenner to step back through the glass doors and into the lab. As they entered, the room fell deathly silent.

Jim froze in place, his breath catching in his throat as his eyes landed on Jacqui. She lay partially strapped to a gurney; her body motionless under the harsh fluorescent lights. Her head was tilted slightly to the side, her face pale and still.

"Jacqui!" Jim’s voice cracked as he rushed past Jenner, shoving him aside to reach her. He fumbled with the straps, his hands shaking as he worked to free her. "What did you do to her?!" he roared, his voice echoing off the sterile walls.

Shane’s eyes narrowed as he turned to Jenner, his voice low and sharp. "You heard him, start talking. Now!"

Jenner raised his hands defensively, backing toward the desk, his voice panicked and erratic. "It’s not what it looks like! She—she volunteered!" he exclaimed, his words tumbling out in disjointed fragments. "She said she wanted to help, to contribute to the research—"

Jenner flinched visibly as Shane pointed a finger at the growing red stain on his white lab coat. "Calling your bluff, Doc," Shane said sharply, his tone dripping with suspicion. "You’re bleeding. That’s no accident, and it sure as hell doesn’t look like she went down without a fight."

Jenner stiffened, his eyes darting between them. "It’s not what you think!" he exclaimed once more, his voice rising to match the aggression in the room. "I’ve done it! I’ve found the cure!"

Rick froze, narrowing his eyes as the tension in the room spiked. "What?" he asked, his voice low and measured.

Jenner’s chest heaved as he tried to steady his breathing. "She volunteered. I administered the cure. She’s been unconscious longer than I anticipated, but she’ll be fine," he insisted, his tone almost pleading.

The three men stared at him in stunned silence, their thoughts racing as the weight of his words hit. Before they could respond, Dale and Allen entered the room, both halting in shock as they caught Jenner’s explanation. "A cure?" Allen muttered, his face pale. "Is that true?"

"She’ll wake up!" Jenner exclaimed, his voice ringing with desperate conviction. "I swear, she’ll wake up."

Before anyone could respond, Jim’s sharp voice cut through the room. "Her arm!" he shouted, his hands trembling as he looked down at Jacqui. "It moved!"

The group turned to Jacqui, her arm twitching slightly against the gurney’s restraints. Jim’s face lit up with a flicker of hope as he leaned over her. "She’s waking up!" he cried, a mix of relief and disbelief in his voice.

Jenner let out a shaky breath, his shoulders sagging with apparent relief

The room shifted, tension easing slightly—except for Shane, whose expression darkened. "Hold up a moment," he tried to warn, stepping closer to the gurney.

Jacqui’s body twitched more violently now, her head lolling to the side before her eyes snapped open. A collective gasp filled the room as they saw her eyes—cloudy and white, devoid of life. A guttural growl escaped her throat as she turned her head, locking eyes with Jim.

"Jacqui," Jim whispered, frozen in place. The word barely left his lips before she lunged, her teeth sinking into his arm.

"Jim!" Rick and Allen reacted instantly, grabbing him and yanking him away from the gurney as blood spilled onto the floor. Jim staggered back, clutching his arm in shock as Jacqui, now fully reanimated, thrashed against the gurney’s restraints.

Shane acted on instinct, pinning her body down as she snarled and snapped at him, her teeth barely missing his face. "Get back!" he shouted to the others, struggling to keep her restrained. Jacqui’s body wriggled beneath him, her jaws gnashing.

Dale stood rooted to the spot, his face pale as he watched Jenner sink to his knees, his face blank with disbelief. "She was supposed to wake up," Jenner muttered, his voice a hollow whisper. "I told her she would be fine."
Jim stood still, his arm dripping blood onto the floor, his eyes fixed on Jacqui’s lifeless, snarling face. Rick and Allen hovered near him; their faces grim at the sight of seeing one of their own turn.

Shane, his grip faltering, grabbed a nearby scalpel from the desk. With a swift, brutal motion, he embedded it into Jacqui’s temple. Her body fell still, the room falling silent except for Shane’s ragged breathing. He stepped back, looking down at her motionless body, his face hardened.

Jenner remained on his knees, his head bowed as he whispered to himself, "I couldn’t do it my love… I tried.”

Rick crouched beside Jim, wrapping gauze tightly around the bloody bite on his arm, using what he could find in a nearby first aid kit. The silence between them was heavy, the air thick with grief and tension. Jim didn’t flinch, his gaze distant and unblinking, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. His loss went deeper than the bite—it was the loss of Jacqui, the one person who had helped him feel whole again after his family had been taken from him.

Behind them, Shane grabbed Jenner by the collar, dragging him up with a furious growl. He slammed him against the wall near Jacqui’s gurney, his eyes blazing. "You can’t even look at her, can you?" Shane spat, his voice shaking with anger. "You knew it wasn’t going to work, and you did it anyway."

Jenner’s eyes darted away from Jacqui’s pale, lifeless form, tears streaming down his face as he began to sob. "I swore I had to try," he said, his voice breaking. "If I didn’t, then what hope do any of us have left in this world?"

Without warning, Jim stood and delivered a sharp punch to Jenner’s jaw, sending him stumbling back against the wall. Shane released his grip, letting him drop to the floor as Rick stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Jim’s shoulder. "That’s enough," Rick said quietly, his voice steady but laced with sorrow. Shane let go of Jenner, turning his back as his shoulders heaved with barely controlled rage.

Allen stepped forward, his face etched with grief, and gently pulled a sheet over Jacqui’s face. He lingered for a moment, his head bowed in respect before stepping back, his hands trembling.

Rick turned his full attention to Jim, placing both hands on his shoulders and looking down at his bandaged arm. "Jim," he said softly, his voice heavy with emotion. "I’m so sorry."

Jim didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on Jenner, who was crumpled on the floor, still sobbing quietly. The bite didn’t seem to faze him; it was the loss of Jacqui that shattered him. His jaw tightened, but his eyes were filled not with anger, but with a hollow, unbearable sadness.

Shane broke the silence, addressing Allen. "Go get the others," he said sharply. "Tell them we’re leaving. Now."

As Allen moved to leave, Jenner pushed himself shakily to his feet, his sobs fading as his expression hardened. Without a word, he walked to the computer, his movements mechanical, almost resigned. His fingers flew across the keyboard, typing in a series of commands, his face illuminated by the glow of the screen.

"There’s nothing left," Jenner said finally, his voice back to its usual monotone. "I was your last chance."

He reached down and inserted two keys into separate slots on the console. With a sharp twist, he turned them both simultaneously. A deep hum resonated through the facility as the overhead lights switched to a pulsing red glow, bathing the room in an eerie, rhythmic light.

The same calm, automated voice from earlier echoed through the room. "Project Wildfire has been activated. Countdown: 30 minutes."

Rick stepped forward; his voice sharp with urgency. "What the hell is Project Wildfire?" he demanded, his eyes fixed on Jenner.

Jenner didn’t flinch, his face as cold and impassive as ever. "It’s better this way," he said quietly, his tone devoid of any emotion.

Shane, standing beside Rick, snapped his head toward Jenner. "What happens in 30 minutes?" he asked, his voice rising with panic. Jenner remained silent, his gaze dropping as though avoiding the question altogether.

Shane stepped closer, his voice turning aggressive. "What the fuck happens in 30 minutes?" he repeated, his tone like a growl.

Jenner’s monotone shattered, his voice exploding into a furious shout. "Do you know what this place is?" he roared, his eyes blazing with frustration. "We protected the public from some of the nastiest things mankind has ever dreamed up—weaponized smallpox, Ebola strains that could wipe out entire countries! Stuff you don’t want getting out… ever!"

Dale, Allen, Rick, and Shane exchanged alarmed glances, the weight of his words sinking in. Jim remained rooted in place; his eyes locked on Jenner with a chilling intensity.

Jenner exhaled sharply, his voice dropping back to its usual flat tone. "In the event of a catastrophic event, such as a terrorist attack, it’s protocol for these two keys to be used to deploy HITs."

Rick stepped forward again, his jaw tight. "What are HITs?" he demanded.

Jenner turned to him; his expression empty but his voice precise, almost clinical. "High-impulse thermobaric fuel-air explosives," he explained. "Consisting of a two-stage aerosol ignition that produces a blast wave of significantly greater power and duration than any other known explosive… except nuclear."

The group stared at him in stunned silence as he continued, his tone like that of a dispassionate lecturer. "The vacuum-pressure effect ignites the oxygen between 5,000° and 6,000°. It’s designed to cause the greatest possible loss of life and structural damage."

The room fell eerily silent as Jenner’s words hung in the air. He paused, his gaze sweeping over their horrified faces before delivering his final, chilling statement. "It sets the air on fire."

The group recoiled at the cold finality of his words, their expressions a mix of shock, disbelief, and dawning horror. The pulsing red glow of the lights painted their faces as they tried to grasp the magnitude of what Jenner had just activated.

Shane turned abruptly to Allen, his voice cutting through the tense air like a blade. "Allen do what I said, go get the others. Now," he barked, his tone commanding.

Allen hesitated for a fraction of a second, his eyes darting between Shane and the rest of the group. Then, with a sharp nod, the pair of them bolted out of the room, the quick footsteps echoing down the corridor as they ran to warn the others.

Dale stepped closer to Jim, who was still clutching Jacqui’s hand, his face etched with grief. "Jim," Dale said softly but firmly, his voice steady. "She’s gone, son. Let her go. We don’t have much time."

Jim didn’t move, his gaze fixed on Jacqui’s lifeless face. "I can’t," he murmured, his voice breaking.

Before Dale could say more, Jenner’s voice cut through the room, cold and resolute. "You won’t make it past the front door," he said, his monotone delivery as unfeeling as the red lights flashing around them. "Like I said before—once those doors are sealed, they stay sealed."

The group turned toward him, anger and desperation filling the air. Jenner raised his hands slightly, as if to calm them, but his next words only fuelled the fire. "It’s better this way," he continued. " This offers a peaceful way out. No pain. No suffering."

Rick snapped, his anger boiling over as he stepped up to Jenner, his face inches from the scientist’s. "No!" he shouted, his voice cracking with emotion. "That’s not your choice to make! My wife, my son—they don’t deserve this. None of us do! You don’t get to decide how we go out!"

Jenner stared into Rick’s pleading eyes, his own expression wavering for the first time. The desperation in Rick’s voice seemed to strike a chord, and Jenner turned slowly, his hand hesitating before swiping his keycard on a nearby panel. A faint beep sounded as the system acknowledged the override.

"I’ve deactivated the lock," Jenner said quietly, his back to the group. "But all power has been diverted to the protocol, so the shutter still won’t open." He paused, his voice heavy with resignation. "There’s your choice. Take it."

Rick exhaled sharply, the tension in his body loosening slightly. "Thank you," he said sincerely, his voice steady now. "For giving us a chance. I’m grateful."

Jenner turned back to face him; his expression unreadable. "The day will come when you won’t be,” he coldly stated. His voice lingered in the air like a shadow as Rick turned and motioned for Dale and Jim to leave with him.

The group hurried toward the automatic doors. Jim walked behind the others, his eyes dark and his face unreadable. As Rick and Dale stepped through the sliding doors into the generator room, the sound of glass shattering suddenly rang out behind them.

Dale turned back, his heart sinking as he saw Jim standing beside the wall panel, a screwdriver in his hand and broken wires sparking faintly from the now-destroyed controls. The doors sealed shut behind him with a soft hiss, locking Jim and Jenner inside the lab.

"Jim?" Dale quietly asked, his voice cracking with emotion. He pressed his hands against the glass, his face filled with sorrow. "What are you doing?"

Jim met his gaze, his expression calm but resolute. "Go, Dale," he said firmly. "I’ve got a score to settle."

"You don’t have to do this," Dale pleaded, his voice trembling. "You can come with us. We’ll figure this out together. Just… come with us, son."

Rick placed a hand on Dale’s shoulder, his own face lined with regret. "Dale," he said quietly, his tone heavy with understanding. "He’s made up his mind."

Dale’s hand dropped to his side, his shoulders slumping as he blinked back tears. He stared at Jim for a long moment, the weight of unspoken words hanging between them. Finally, he nodded, his voice thick with grief as he said, "Goodbye, son."

Jim’s expression softened briefly, a flicker of gratitude crossing his face. Then, without another word, he turned away, walking back into the lab where Jenner stood silently, watching. Dale lingered for a moment longer before Rick gently pulled him away, urging him to move. Together, they quickly followed the others, leaving Jim behind.

Chapter Text

The automated voice echoed through the facility, calm and detached despite the urgency it delivered: "Twenty-five minutes remain."

Allen and Shane bolted down the hallway, their footsteps pounding against the floor. Allen turned sharply and burst into one of the small rooms, his face lined with urgency, but quickly softened by the sight of his daughters.
Andrea and Amy stood near the door, each carrying one of the girls, their small arms wrapped tightly around their necks. The sisters had bags slung over their shoulders, visibly weighed down with everything they had hurriedly packed. Lizzie and Mika clung to them; their wide eyes filled with fear as the red emergency lights cast flickering shadows across the walls.

"Daddy!" Mika cried out as she saw him, her voice trembling.

Allen immediately rushed to his daughters, kissing Mika’s forehead first and then Lizzie’s, his hands trembling as he cupped their faces. "It’s time to go, girls," he said, his voice soft but urgent.

The girls nodded, their wide, tear-filled eyes looking up at him, clinging tightly to Andrea and Amy. Shane’s voice barked from the hallway outside, loud and commanding. "Let’s move it, people!”

Carol emerged from her room nearby, gripping Sophia’s hand tightly. Both mother and daughter were pale with panic, their breaths coming fast as Carol struggled to keep herself composed for Sophia’s sake. Shane gave them a curt nod but didn’t slow down to comfort them. "Follow me," he commanded sharply, his voice leaving no room for argument.

From another room, Lori appeared, Carl clinging to her back with his small arms wrapped around her shoulders. His father’s sheriff’s hat sat slightly askew on his head. Lori’s gaze locked with Shane’s for a moment, her eyes filled with unmistakable disdain. Shane’s face hardened, but he didn’t respond to her silent fury.

"Come on," he said simply, turning on his heel and motioning for everyone to follow. Lori’s lips pressed into a thin line as she adjusted Carl’s weight on her back and fell into step with the others, her anger giving way to the urgency of keeping her son safe. The hallway filled with hurried footsteps and tense whispers as the group moved as one, every second bringing them closer to the facility’s destruction.

The automated voice announced coldly, "Twenty minutes remaining." The sterile hum of the lab was overtaken by the ominous red glow that pulsed in and out, casting shifting shadows across the room. Jim stood motionless for a moment, his eyes fixed on Jacqui’s pale hand, limp and hanging from beneath the sheet draped over her still body. His jaw tightened, rage simmering beneath the surface.

Dr. Jenner stood on the other side of the room, his face calm and resigned. He didn’t plead or panic; his voice was steady as he spoke. "We’re both dead in a matter of minutes anyway," he said plainly, his tone void of emotion.
Jim’s gaze remained fixed on Jacqui’s lifeless form beneath the sheet. His grip on the bloodied scalpel tightened, his knuckles white as his voice broke through the heavy silence. "I couldn’t save any of them," he said, his tone low and trembling. "Not my wife. Not my kids. Not Jacqui. Not a damn soul."

Jenner, standing a few feet away, met his eyes, his face etched with a strange mix of resignation and understanding. "Neither could I," he said softly, his voice steady but hollow. His gaze flicked briefly to the chaos of his lab, the notes, the blood samples, the test subject files. "Not my wife, not my colleagues… and certainly not the human race.”

The two men stared at each other for a long, weighted moment, the red light blinking around them like a metronome to their shared grief. Then, without another word, Jim lunged, the fury of everything he had lost fuelling his attack.

The automated voice echoed through the facility once again, cold and detached: "Fifteen minutes remaining."

Rick and Dale hurried down the corridor, their breaths ragged, the pulsing red light casting eerie shadows around them. They burst into the lobby, where the rest of the group had gathered by the heavy metal shutter. Shane, Allen, and Andrea were braced against it, straining to lift it with all their combined strength, but the door refused to budge.

Carl’s voice rang out, breaking some of the tension. "Dad!" he called, his face lighting up briefly at the sight of Rick. Lori, standing nearby, let out a breath of relief as Rick reached them. She pulled Rick into a quick hug before he broke away, running to join Shane and the others, his hands pushing futilely against the cold steel.

Shane looked over his shoulder, his face slick with sweat and etched with frustration. "It’s no use, Rick," he said, his voice sharp. "It’s not moving.”

Rick stepped forward, inspecting the shutter, his jaw tightening as he tried to think. Behind him, Amy placed a comforting hand on Dale’s back as he leaned against the wall, bent over and trying to catch his breath. His hat was askew, and his face was pale from exertion.

As the group’s frantic efforts to lift the shutter slowed, Amy looked up from where she stood beside Dale, her face pale but filled with concern. "Dale," she asked softly, her voice trembling. "Where are Jim and Jacqui?"

The question hung in the air like a weight, pulling the group into silence. Those who already knew—Rick, Allen, Dale, Shane—bowed their heads, the grim reality etched into their faces. Dale’s hand tightened around the brim of his hat as he shook his head slowly, his shoulders slumping under the burden of the truth.

The rest of the group froze, their faces falling as they absorbed the unspoken confirmation. Amy’s breath hitched as she looked at Dale, her eyes filling with tears. Andrea reached out, placing a comforting hand on her sister’s arm, but the grief was spreading through the group like a wave.

The heavy silence stretched, broken only by the faint hum of the countdown echoing through the facility. "Ten minutes remaining."

“ARGGGGHHHH”, Jim lunged forward, swinging the blade at Jenner. The doctor sidestepped, grabbing a bottle of hydrofluoric acid from the nearby counter. With a desperate cry, he hurled it at Jim, the liquid splashing across the left side of Jim’s face. Jim roared in agony, clutching at his skin as it burned, but his anger only seemed to grow. Pushing through the searing pain, he rammed Jenner into the desk, driving the scalpel into his shoulder.

Jenner cried out, his hand shooting up to punch Jim in the face, the blow staggering him. With a sudden burst of strength, Jenner shoved Jim back, slamming him into the wall. Breathing heavily, Jenner grabbed a pair of scissors from the desk and, with a guttural shout, drove them into Jim’s chest.

Jim stumbled but didn’t stop. Half-blinded and bleeding, he swung his head forward, slamming it into Jenner’s face. The two men grappled, their combined momentum sending them crashing through the glass doors into the generator room. The sound of shattering glass echoed through the facility.

Jenner scrambled to his feet first, clutching his injured shoulder as Jim lunged again. He managed to block the strike with his hand, the scalpel impaling it clean through. Jenner screamed, the pain doubling him over as they toppled into a cluster of barrels. The barrels tipped, spilling fuel across the floor in dark, spreading pools.

The generator room was filled with the low hum of machinery and the acrid smell of spilled oil. The red lights blinked rhythmically, casting eerie shadows across the walls.

Jim’s chest heaved, blood dripping from the gash on his face where the acid had burned his skin. His voice, ragged with anger and grief, cut through the hum. "Why?" he demanded, his grip tightening on the bloodied scalpel in his hand. "Why Jacqui? Why’d you pick her first?"

Jenner sat slumped against an upright barrel, clutching his injured shoulder, his lab coat stained with a mix of blood and oil. He didn’t respond, his jaw clenched as he avoided Jim’s furious glare.

"Answer me!" Jim bellowed, lurching forward. His voice broke, raw with pain and fury as he screamed in Jenner’s face, spittle spraying onto him. "Why her?!"

Jenner flinched but then snapped, his usually detached demeanour shattering. "Because she was unattached from the group!" he shouted back, his voice rising in uncharacteristic emotion. "She had nobody with an immediate connection. No child. No spouse. No one! She was the first logical choice!"

Jim froze, his expression twisting as the words hit him. His hand shook with rage, and without hesitation, he swung his fist, connecting hard with Jenner’s jaw. Jenner’s head snapped back, and he crumpled further against the barrels. Jim’s voice cracked as he spat through clenched teeth, "She had me."

Jenner’s cold exterior faltered, his eyes filled with something that almost looked like regret. He looked down at the floor, his voice trembling as he whispered, "I’m so sorry."

The words hung in the air, hollow and insufficient. Jim staggered back, his legs giving out as he collapsed against an adjacent barrel. Both men sat in silence, battered and broken, their breathing heavy and uneven. The red lights continued to pulse around them, a grim reminder that their time was running out.

The automated voice echoed through the chaos once more: "Five minutes remaining."

The group’s desperation was palpable as most of them strained against the immovable shutter, their grunts and laboured breathing mixing with the steady hum of the countdown. Lori and Amy huddled with the children, holding them close, whispering reassurances that rang hollow in the tension-filled air. Carol knelt on the floor nearby, rummaging through the satchel Rick had handed her earlier, her hands trembling as she searched.

"Rick," Carol called out, her voice shaky but urgent. "I think I’ve got something that might help!"

Still straining against the metal, Shane glanced over his shoulder, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Carol, I don’t think a nail file’s gonna cut it."

She ignored him and pulled out a small, round object—the grenade Rick had stashed back in Atlanta. The sight of it made her breath hitch as she held it out. "This," she said, her voice steadier now. "Will this work?"

Rick ran over, his face a mixture of relief and apprehension as he took the grenade from her trembling hands. He stared at it, his fingers curling around the cool metal. "Everybody, out of the way!" Shane bellowed, his voice cutting through the panic.

The group scattered in an instant. Lori, Amy, and the children ducked behind the reception desk, Carl clutching his mother’s arm tightly. Dale and Andrea pressed themselves behind a nearby column, while Allen, Carol, and Shane huddled behind a set of chairs.

Rick’s hands trembled as he carefully gripped the grenade. His heart pounded as he pulled the pin, the metallic click ringing in his ears like a death knell. He froze for a split second, staring at the now-armed explosive in his hand, the weight of what he’d just done settling in. His breath hitched before he snapped back into action, placing the grenade near the base of the shutter.

"Rick, move!" Shane shouted.

Rick bolted, leaping over the reception counter and diving next to Carl, pulling the boy close and covering his head with his hands. The automated voice droned in the background: "Three minutes remaining."

The grenade exploded with a deafening BOOM, the force of the blast shattering the metal shutter into jagged pieces and sending a shockwave through the reception area. Smoke and debris filled the air, chairs and papers scattering across the room. The group cowered behind their cover, shielding their faces as the fiery heat washed over them.

When the dust began to settle, Rick peeked up from behind the counter, coughing as he looked toward the shattered remains of the shutter. A gaping hole now stood where it had once been, the jagged edges glowing faintly from the heat of the explosion. The way out was open, but time was running out.

The automated voice droned its final warning: "One minute remaining."

In the cold generator room, Jim and Dr Jenner leaned back against the barrels, their faces pale and slick with sweat, pooling blood beneath them mixing with the spilled oil. Both men closed their eyes, resignation etched into their expressions. The air around them grew hotter by the second, a suffocating heat that pressed against their skin.

Jenner exhaled shakily, whispering something unintelligible, while Jim’s face twisted briefly in sorrow as he thought of Jacqui and his family one last time. The ignition was instant. Flames burst forth, consuming the room in a blinding flash. Jenner and Jim’s faces contorted in the searing heat before they were overtaken, their forms engulfed as fire swept through the room. The sheet covering Jacqui’s body ignited, curling and blackening as her flesh burned, smoke rising rapidly into the air.

The inferno surged, racing through the CDC like a living thing, consuming everything in its path as the air itself ignited.

Outside, the group sprinted through the snow-covered ground, their breaths fogging in the frigid air. Allen carried Lizzie and Mika over his shoulders, their arms clinging tightly to his neck as he pushed forward with everything he had. Behind him, Carol ran as fast as she could, her eyes locked on Shane, who carried Sophia across his chest in a protective grip.

Dale lagged behind, his steps heavy as Amy and Andrea flanked him, shouting encouragement. "Come on, Dale!" Amy yelled, panic lacing her voice. "You have to keep moving!"

Rick, clutching Carl tightly in his arms, pulled Lori by the hand as they pushed through the snow. The frosted-over RV loomed ahead. "Get down!" Shane roared, his voice cutting through the air as they neared the barricades.

Allen and Shane’s group dove behind the snow-covered barriers, shielding themselves as best they could. Rick’s family made it to the RV just as the CDC erupted behind them. The explosion roared like thunder, a massive fireball shooting into the sky, the heat so intense it melted the snow around it in an instant.

The shockwave hit like a freight train, knocking Dale, Amy, and Andrea flat on their faces before they could reach cover. Smoke and ash swirled in the air, debris raining down around them as the group huddled in the snow, shielding themselves from the scorching wave of heat. The CDC was reduced to a blazing inferno, its remains collapsing into the ground as the fire consumed everything, leaving nothing but a smouldering wasteland in its wake.
As the roaring fireball began to subside, the group slowly lifted their heads, their breaths visible in the cold air, mingling with the smoke and ash swirling around them. The heat from the explosion still radiated faintly, contrasting with the icy snow beneath them.

One by one, they turned to look back at the blazing ruins of the CDC. Flames licked hungrily at the collapsed structure, consuming every last remnant of the building they had pinned their fleeting hopes on. The pulsing red lights and cold mechanical voice were gone, replaced by the crackle of fire and the oppressive silence of what was left behind.

Rick stood first, still holding Carl in his arms, Lori at his side. His eyes were wide with disbelief, his face streaked with soot and snow. "Where the hell do we go now?" Lori murmured, the question hanging in the air like a heavy weight.

The others slowly rose to their feet, brushing snow and ash from their clothes. Allen set Lizzie and Mika down gently, his arms shaking from the effort. Carol clutched Sophia tightly, her eyes reflecting the flames as she held her daughter close. Dale leaned on Amy and Andrea, his breathing heavy as he gazed back at the inferno, his face etched with exhaustion and sorrow.

Shane adjusted his grip on his rifle, his jaw tight as he stared at the fiery remains, the anger in his eyes tempered by the grim reality of their situation. No one spoke for a long moment, the enormity of what they had narrowly escaped sinking in.

Rick finally broke the silence, his voice low but resolute. "We keep going. We don’t stop." His gaze swept over the group, his expression hardening with determination. "We’ll find a way. We have to."

The group exchanged weary glances, nodding slowly, though none of them had answers. They turned away from the burning wreckage, the firelight fading behind them as they trudged forward into the cold, uncertain sunrise.

(Note from me: That concludes Season 1 of my rewrite. I hope you’re all enjoying the story so far! I’ve loved reading some of your comments so feel free to continue sharing your thoughts and opinions. Thank you!)

Chapter Text

The sound of white-water rapids roared like thunder, the river churning violently as it surged downstream. The icy water gushed and crashed against the jagged rocks, its deafening noise broken only by the guttural, gargled moans of walkers caught in the current, their twisted forms flailing alongside the three missing group members.

The freezing water was a shock against their skin, numbing their limbs with each passing second. T-Dog’s breath came in ragged gasps as he fought against the relentless current. Without warning, the force of the rapids hurled him sideways, slamming his shoulder into a blunt rock beneath the surface. A sickening pop echoed through his body as his shoulder dislocated, and he let out a piercing cry of pain before being dragged back under. He surfaced momentarily, sputtering and gasping, his face twisted in agony as he dipped beneath the water’s surface again.

"Hold on!" Glenn’s voice cracked as he flailed his arms, his hands grasping desperately for anything—rocks, branches, even slick riverbed—but the force of the rapids dragged him further. He twisted his head frantically, trying to keep T-Dog and Ed in his sight through the freezing spray.

Ed struggled nearby, the current pulling him under. His face scraped against the gravelly riverbed, tearing at his skin and arms as he was dragged mercilessly along. When he surfaced, his movements were sluggish, blood streaking across his face and mingling with the swirling white froth of the water. His mouth opened as if to cry out, but the water swallowed his voice.

Ahead, the river narrowed, the deafening sound of the rapids intensifying as the current accelerated. Glenn’s eyes widened in terror as he saw the drop approaching—a steep, churning fall only seconds away. "Brace!" he screamed desperately, his voice raw and strained. "Brace yourselves!"

The three of them were swept toward the edge, unable to fight the force of the water. The drop came suddenly, the world tilting as the freezing current hurled them over. T-Dog cried out again as his body twisted painfully midair, while Glenn’s scream was cut off as he hit the water below with a bone-jarring impact. Ed struck the side of the drop awkwardly, his body bouncing off the rock before disappearing beneath the surface.

The water below churned violently, throwing their battered bodies like ragdolls. Glenn broke the surface first, coughing and gasping for air as he frantically scanned for the others, his heart pounding in his ears. The river swept them further downstream, their injuries mounting as they all clung to consciousness, desperately trying to stay afloat.

The roar of the rapids faded as the water eventually began to calm, its violent force easing into a steady, sluggish flow. The river widened near a pebbled bay, its shoreline scattered with smooth stones that glistened in the cold, grey light. Dense forest loomed around them, thick with shadows and tangled branches, an eerie silence settling over the clearing.

One by one, Glenn, T-Dog, and Ed stumbled out of the water, their bodies battered and trembling with exhaustion. Glenn collapsed to his knees first, coughing up the icy river water, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. T-Dog staggered behind him, his dislocated shoulder hanging awkwardly at his side, his face twisted in pain as he clenched his teeth. Ed dragged himself ashore last, collapsing onto the pebbles with a groan, blood streaked across his face and arms where the riverbed had torn at him.

The three of them turned back toward the water, their expressions darkening as they watched dismembered walker parts drift lazily downstream. Limbs and torsos bobbed in the current, their pallid flesh stained red where jagged edges of bone jutted out. Walker heads floated past, their cloudy, lifeless eyes staring blankly skyward, mouths still slowly opening and closing in mindless chomping motions, as though unaware they were severed from the bodies that once carried them.

The sickening gargling sounds of the walkers’ final attempts to growl filled the otherwise quiet air, sending a chill up Glenn’s spine. "Jesus," he muttered, his voice hoarse as he wiped the wet hair from his face. "That could’ve been us."

T-Dog winced as he leaned against a large rock, clutching his injured shoulder. "Yeah," he groaned, his voice tight. "Wish you’d thought of that before you made us jump.”

Ed remained silent, staring hollowly at the floating remains as they drifted out of sight, his chest rising and falling with laboured breaths. Around them, the dense forest pressed in, its stillness broken only by the distant murmur of the river and the occasional drip of water falling from their soaked clothes. The three of them lingered there for a moment, shivering and trying to pull themselves together.

T-Dog shifted uncomfortably, wincing as he adjusted his injured shoulder. "Do you reckon the others made it?" he asked, his voice low but cutting through the still air.

Glenn, still catching his breath, looked up and wiped a damp hand across his face. "When we were fighting off the horde," he started, his tone cautious, "I saw… I saw Donna go down." He hesitated, his eyes dropping briefly. "But most of the others—Rick, Shane, Dale—they made it to a vehicle. I think… I think they got out."

T-Dog nodded faintly, digesting the news, as Glenn looked up at the sky. Sparse snowflakes had begun to drift down around them, tiny and delicate against the cold air. He watched one melt as it landed on his hand. "We’ve got to find someplace warm," he muttered, his optimism returning despite the grimness of their situation. "They’re still out there. I know it. But for now, we—"

A deep voice interrupted him, cutting through the quiet. "Well, you guys look like shit."

The three of them turned as quickly as their bruised and battered bodies allowed, their adrenaline spiking despite their exhaustion. Standing a short distance away was a large, muscular Black man. He wore a snug beanie and a navy-blue puffer coat that made him look even broader. In his hands was a hunting rifle, its barrel lowered but at the ready, pointed not at them, but toward the ground. His face was serious but calm, with the faintest trace of a smirk on his lips.

Behind him, a slightly younger Black woman stood, her stance confident and steady. Her frizzy black hair was pulled up into a practical bun, and she carried a fire axe casually in one hand, the blade resting lightly against her thigh in a non-threatening way.

Next to her stood a tall seventeen-year-old Black girl with short, black hair. Her stern expression was unwavering, her sharp gaze locked onto the trio in front of her. She carried no weapon, but her posture was strong, and she gripped the hand of the boy beside her protectively.

The boy, a nerdy-looking white teenager with glasses and a wispy, underdeveloped moustache, shifted awkwardly. His free hand hovered near his side, uncertain, as though he didn’t know whether to wave or stay frozen. His eyes darted nervously from T-Dog to Glenn, then to Ed, taking in their bruises, cuts, and drenched clothes.

For a long, tense moment, nobody moved. Glenn, his hands still half-raised, swallowed hard. "Uh… we’ve had a rough day," he said carefully, forcing a small, cautious smile.

The large man’s smirk grew slightly, his tone gruff but not unkind. "Yeah, no kidding." He tilted his rifle slightly toward the snowy treeline behind him. "You wanna keep standing out here freezing to death, or would you maybe like a hand?”

The woman beside him added, her voice firm but warm, "We’ll help you—as long as you don’t cause us any trouble."

The large man adjusted the rifle in his grip as he glanced back toward the woman. “Relax, Sasha,” he said casually, his tone laced with dry humour. “I don’t think any of them are in any state to cause us trouble, do you?”

Sasha, standing tall with her frizzy hair pulled into a bun, raised an eyebrow at him but kept her grip firm on the axe, the blade resting lightly against her leg. “Ok, fine. You guys do look like shit,” she replied, her voice cool but steady, her gaze flicking over Glenn, T-Dog, and Ed.

Glenn, still on his knees and soaked to the bone, raised his hands slightly with a tired grin.

Ed grunted as he pushed himself up from the pebbled ground, wincing as he cradled his bruised ribs. He shot a weary glance at the newcomers, his face still streaked with blood and dirt. “You all got names, or we just supposed to follow strangers into the woods?” he muttered, his voice gravelly with exhaustion.

The large man let out a low chuckle, resting his rifle casually over his shoulder. “Well, look who’s awake,” he said, his tone light but not unkind. He gestured to himself with his free hand. “Name’s Tyreese.”

He pointed toward the woman with the fire axe. “That’s my younger sister, Sasha,” he continued, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Sasha raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything, her grip on the axe loosening slightly as she tilted her head toward the teenagers behind her. “And that’s Julie,” Tyreese added, nodding to the tall girl with the curly hair and stern expression. “My daughter.”

Julie gave a slight nod, her face still guarded as she held onto the hand of the lanky boy next to her. “And that’s Chris. Julie’s… friend.”

“Boyfriend,” Julie interjected firmly, giving her father a pointed look.

Tyreese sighed deeply and shook his head with visible disapproval, muttering under his breath.

Chris shifted awkwardly, adjusting his glasses and glancing nervously at the others. “Uh, hi,” he mumbled, his voice cracking slightly.

Before they set off, Glenn took a deep breath, still trying to steady himself after the ordeal. He offered a tired but polite introduction. “I’m Glenn,” he said, gesturing weakly toward the others. “That’s T-Dog, and… Ed.”

Tyreese stepped down onto the pebble bay, his boots crunching against the stones. He extended his hand to Glenn, who winced slightly but shook it with his bruised hand. Tyreese’s grip was firm but not painful. “Pleasure’s all mine, Glenn,” Tyreese said with a faint smile. “Let’s get you boys warm.”

Sasha moved toward T-Dog, who was struggling to stay upright. She knelt beside him, her sharp eyes immediately noticing the awkward angle of his dislocated shoulder. “That looks nasty,” she said with a grimace, looping an arm under his uninjured one to help him up. “We’ll get that sorted back at the cabin.”

“Cabin?” Ed asked hoarsely, his voice rasping as Julie and Chris worked together to lift him to his feet. His face was etched with a mix of pain and exhaustion, but curiosity flickered in his eyes. “You say cabin?”

Tyreese gave a quick nod, gesturing toward the forest. “You heard right,” he said simply, his tone steady. “Now let’s move, before this snow gets any worse. Follow me.”

The group exchanged cautious glances but ultimately fell in line behind Tyreese. Sasha steadied T-Dog as they trudged forward, Ed limped alongside Julie and Chris, and Glenn brought up the rear. Snow continued to fall gently around them, the forest closing in as they left the the horrors of the rapids and fallen camp behind them.

Injured and tired, the group trudged through the forest, the snow falling heavier now, blanketing patches of ground not shielded by the dense canopy of trees above. The cold bit harder as the wind picked up, howling faintly through the woods and carrying with it a chilling sound—faint gargling and groans that were unmistakable.

Glenn stiffened; his tired body suddenly tense. Sasha, walking alongside her brother, opened her mouth to warn him, but Tyreese had already stopped in his tracks, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the treeline ahead. "I hear it," he said firmly, his deep voice cutting through the growing tension. He turned slightly, addressing Julie and Chris without taking his eyes off the forest. "Both of you, stand beside Glenn’s group and get your knives out."

Julie and Chris moved quickly, stepping into place near Glenn, who had already stepped forward, clutching his knife tightly despite the trembling in his hand. His breath fogged in the cold air as he readied himself.
Tyreese glanced at him, his expression softening slightly with respect. "I admire your courage kid," he said, his tone steady. "But you’re beat. We’ve got this covered."

Glenn hesitated but nodded, stepping back while keeping his knife raised, his eyes darting toward the direction of the noise.

The walkers began to emerge from the treeline, their silhouettes staggering against the snow-dusted forest. It was a sparse wave, but their low growls and snapping jaws filled the air with dread. Their movements were clumsy but relentless as they stumbled over roots and uneven ground, their hunger evident in their outstretched arms.

Tyreese slung his rifle over his shoulder and reached for the hammer at his belt. He gripped it firmly, the weight of it familiar and reassuring in his large hand. "Stay back," he said simply, his calm authority keeping the group steady.

Sasha took a step forward, her axe raised, this time with a sharp readiness, far from the relaxed posture she’d shown earlier. Her expression was steely, her sharp eyes darting between the advancing walkers.

The wind whipped around them as Tyreese and Sasha moved into position, their silhouettes framed by the falling snow and the looming shadows of the forest. The battered group watched in tense silence, the faint groans of the walkers growing louder as the siblings braced for the fight.

The first walker reached Sasha, its twisted hands grasping for her as it stumbled forward. With a sharp inhale, she stepped into her strike, swinging the axe overhead. The blade came down with a heavy thump, splitting the skull cleanly. Blood sprayed across the snow-dusted ground as the body crumpled in a heap. Sasha planted a firm kick to its chest, dislodging the axe with a grunt as she steadied herself for the next.

Tyreese was already in motion, his hammer swinging in a wide arc. The dull crack of bone echoed as he struck one walker in the temple, sending it collapsing to the ground. Without pausing, he pivoted and brought the hammer down again on another, the sheer force of the blow shattering its skull. The walkers dropped in quick succession, but more were closing in, their guttural groans growing louder as they pressed forward.

Sasha and Tyreese moved together like a well-practiced team. Tyreese pushed back the small swarm with his free hand, shoving walkers into one another to contain them. Sasha followed his lead, swinging low to clear the legs of a walker, sending it tumbling to the ground. Tyreese stomped hard on its skull, the wet crunch mingling with the steady growls of the advancing dead.

Sasha didn’t pause. A mangled, thin-framed female walker lunged toward her, its jaw snapping weakly. With a fluid motion, Sasha sidestepped and swung her axe in a diagonal arc, the blade slicing clean through the neck. The head rolled free, its lifeless eyes still twitching as the body slumped to the ground.

The siblings worked methodically, their blows precise and powerful. Blood stained the pristine snow around them as more bodies fell, the siblings holding their ground and containing the swarm with practiced efficiency. The group watched from behind, tense but silent, awed by their brutal coordination.

As the battle raged on, two walkers veered away from the siblings and toward the sidelined group. One grabbed Julie’s coat, its decayed fingers curling into the fabric as it pulled her closer. She let out a sharp scream, panic flashing in her eyes, but she fought back, twisting and shoving with all her strength.

Chris froze, his face pale as another walker lurched toward him, its teeth gnashing hungrily. His feet remained rooted in place, fear paralyzing him as it drew nearer.

“Julie!” Tyreese’s deep voice boomed through the chaos, his head snapping toward the sound of her scream. His eyes widened, but before he could move, Glenn reacted instinctively, lunging forward, his bruised body moving on adrenaline alone. With a quick, desperate motion, he plunged his knife into the back of the walker’s head. The creature let out a grotesque groan before crumpling to the ground, its grip on Julie’s coat releasing as it fell. Glenn staggered back, panting heavily, his hand trembling as he pulled the blade free.

Meanwhile, T-Dog, despite his injured shoulder, stepped in front of Chris, intercepting the second walker. Using his good arm, he shoved against its chest, holding it at bay as it snapped and clawed at him. “Ah hell” T-Dog barked, gritting his teeth as the strain sent pain shooting through his body.

Julie didn’t hesitate. She grabbed her knife from the floor and ran toward T-Dog, her hand steady despite the fear in her eyes. She stabbed the walker once in the jaw, but it barely reacted, its decayed form still pushing against T-Dog. With a sharp cry of determination, Julie adjusted her grip and drove the blade into the back of its head. The walker shuddered once before collapsing, its weight dragging down against T-Dog, who stumbled back but stayed on his feet.

Julie pulled her knife free, her breathing ragged as she stood over the motionless body. Tyreese turned back, relief washing over his face as he saw Julie safe. “You alright?” he called out, his voice filled with concern.

Julie nodded shakily, her gaze flicking between Glenn and Chris. “Yeah,” she panted, glancing at Glenn. “Thanks.”

T-Dog grimaced but managed a weak grin. “Next time,” he muttered, clutching his shoulder, “aim for the head the first time.”

Tyreese strode over to Julie, his hammer still in hand, and gave her a stern look saying, "he's right. We've been over this, Julie. You always aim for the head first. Always."

Julie rolled her eyes, brushing snow off her coat and sheathing her knife. "We know, Dad," she said with a tone that teetered on defiance. "We’re fine, aren’t we?"

Tyreese’s temper flared for a moment, his face tightening as he stepped closer. "Next time, you might not be so lucky," he snapped.

Chris, still pale and shaken, shifted uncomfortably before mustering the courage to interject. "It would be easier if you let us have proper weapons," he muttered, his voice barely audible but still carrying an edge of frustration.

Tyreese turned sharply toward him, his gaze hard. "If you can’t even use a simple knife to save your own ass, I’m sure as hell not putting a gun in your hands," he said, his tone sharp as steel. "A weapon is only as good as the person holding it, and right now? You’ve got a lot to prove before you even think about carrying one. Both of you."

Chris looked down, his face flushing with embarrassment as Julie reached out to squeeze his hand. Tyreese sighed, his temper cooling slightly as he turned back toward the group. "Let’s carry on moving," he said, gesturing toward the path ahead. "This isn’t the place to stand around arguing."

The group exchanged glances before falling back into step, the weight of Tyreese’s words hanging over them as the snowfall thickened, muffling their hurried footsteps.

Chapter Text

The small cabin was cozy despite its wear, the snow outside settling softly on the sloped roof and blanketing the clearing around it. Inside, the fire crackled warmly in the hearth, its light casting flickering shadows on the walls.

Sasha stepped back into the cabin, balancing an armful of freshly chopped firewood. She kicked the door closed with her boot, shaking the snow off herself before setting the wood down by the fire.

The three men sat close to the warmth, now in dry clothes borrowed from Tyreese. T-Dog sat shirtless, his bandaged torso catching the firelight as Tyreese stood beside him, rolling his dislocated shoulder back and forth, his broad hand braced against it. He grunted with effort, his face tight with concentration.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” T-Dog asked, his tone sceptical.

Tyreese let out a low chuckle, still working his shoulder. “Man, trust me, I’ve had my fair share of joints popping out of place,” he replied, a hint of humour in his voice.

T-Dog squinted at him, his expression turning thoughtful. “You look familiar,” he said slowly, his eyes narrowing as he searched his memory. Then it clicked. “Wait a minute—you’re Tyreese… WILLIAMS. You played linebacker for the Falcons, right!? Me and my brother watched the NFL almost every week.”

Tyreese smirked as Sasha, now unpacking the firewood, rolled her eyes dramatically. “Do I have to hear this story every time we bump into strangers?” she muttered, shaking her head.

“Yes… yes you do,” Tyreese replied with mock pride. “I did play for them. For a while, anyway.”

He sat down beside the fire, the humour in his voice softening. “But then Julie was born,” he continued, his tone more reflective. “And I chose a less demanding lifestyle so I could be around more, for her and her mother.”

The room grew quiet for a moment as Tyreese spoke. Julie, who had been dabbing antiseptic on Glenn’s bruises, froze briefly, her face a picture of sadness. Glenn noticed, his expression softening as he carefully asked, “I take it she didn’t make it?”

Before Tyreese could answer, Julie spoke up, her voice bitter but calm. “We wouldn’t know. She took off long before the world went to shit.”

Tyreese’s face darkened slightly, but he nodded. “Drained our bank accounts and disappeared,” he said, his voice steady but heavy. “Didn’t leave a note. Nothing. She just… never came back. Hell, I mean we’re still technically married.”

Julie kept her eyes down, focusing on Glenn’s injuries, while the room remained silent for a beat. The crackling fire filled the void as the weight of his words settled over the group.

Sasha, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, noticed the heavy silence settling over the group. She pushed off the wall and stepped closer, her sharp eyes flicking from Julie’s downcast face to T-Dog’s sceptical expression.

“Yes,” she said, her tone firm as she shifted the conversation back. “We know what we’re doing. This clumsy brute would pop a joint out of place near enough every season—at least once.” She smirked at Tyreese, who gave her a mock offended look.

She moved to stand behind T-Dog, her hands hovering over his dislocated shoulder. “Lucky for him, his little sister was always there to make it all better with a loving…”

Before she finished her sentence, she firmly gripped his arm and shoulder, twisted sharply, and popped the joint back into place with a sickening pop!

“...nudge,” she said smoothly, finishing her sentence as T-Dog let out a sharp yell, his face scrunching up in pain.

“Aw, hell!” T-Dog shouted, clutching his now-set shoulder as he breathed heavily through clenched teeth. “You couldn’t warn a guy first?”

Sasha grinned and patted his good shoulder. “Feels better though, right?”

T-Dog groaned but managed a lopsided grin through the pain.

Glenn, still wincing as Julie dabbed antiseptic on a gash near his temple, glanced over at Sasha with a mix of admiration and curiosity. “Where’d you learn to do that? Are you… were you a doctor or something?”

Tyreese smirked from his spot near the fire, his broad shoulders shaking slightly with amusement. “Nah, it’s something even cooler than that,” he said, shooting his sister a proud grin.

Sasha rolled her eyes, ignoring her brother’s attempt to boost her ego. “I was a firefighter,” she said matter-of-factly. “Worked hard to get there, too. I was even about to become the first female fire chief at my station. But…” Her voice trailed off slightly as her expression darkened. “Then the world fell apart, and it never happened.”

The group fell silent for a moment, a shared understanding passing between them. Dreams and futures—things that once seemed so certain—were now just fragments of another life.

Ed, sitting stiffly as Chris patched him up, pulled a face of disapproval. His lips pressed into a thin line, and his brow furrowed slightly at the idea of a woman in such a position of authority. His disapproving grunt was subtle, but Chris caught it immediately.

Without a word, Chris adjusted his grip on the gauze he was wrapping around Ed’s arm and, with a completely innocent expression, pressed down just a little harder than necessary on a sensitive wound.

Ed hissed sharply, his face twisting in pain. “Watch it, kid!” he barked.

Chris gave a quick, insincere smile, his glasses glinting in the firelight. “My bad, my hand must’ve slipped… sorry,”

He turned away slightly, his lips twitching into a smirk he tried—and failed—to hide. Julie caught the expression and stifled a snicker, earning a side-eye from her father.

As the fire crackled and the warmth began to settle into their bones, Tyreese stood and walked over to the small wooden cupboards lining one side of the cabin. He opened them one by one, his broad shoulders sagging slightly as he inspected their contents. The shelves were nearly bare—just a few dusty cans of beans, a jar of pickles, and some scattered dry goods that wouldn’t last more than a couple of days.

He closed one of the doors with a soft thud and turned back to the group, his face serious. “We’re low. Real low,” he said, his deep voice carrying a weight of concern. “First thing in the morning, I’ll take the rifle and see if I can hunt something—deer, rabbit, anything to tie us over.”

Before anyone could respond, Glenn leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Hold on,” he said, his brows furrowed in thought. “The river can’t have carried us too far from the quarry. If there’s a main road nearby, we might be able to figure out where we are.”

Chris, still sitting cross-legged near Julie, perked up. Without a word, he began rummaging through his worn rucksack, pulling out a large, folded map. He spread it across the floor in front of him, the edges curling slightly from use. “Here,” he said, tapping a highlighted section. “I’ve already marked where the cabin is. Why?”

Glenn nodded, his face lighting up. “I used to do supply runs for our group—into Atlanta and out. If we can find our bearings, I could go back out there, grab some supplies, at least enough to tie us over for the worst part of winter.”

Tyreese immediately shook his head, his voice firm. “We’re not going near the city. It’s too dangerous. Dead-Rotters are packed in there like sardines, It’s not worth the risk.”

Sasha, still standing near the fire, crossed her arms and spoke up. “Tyreese, come on. Look outside—it’s coming down heavier by the minute. You think you’re gonna find a deer out there in a blizzard? Even if you do, tracking it through the fresh snow will be a nightmare.”

The two siblings locked eyes, the firelight casting flickering shadows across their faces. Tyreese let out a deep sigh, rubbing his hand down his face. “I hear you, Sasha. But heading into the city is a death sentence. We’ve got three injured people and two kids here. We can’t afford to take a risk like that.”

Julie, still sitting near Chris with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, spoke up. “We’re not kids, you know. We’re seventeen. Practically adults.” Her voice was firm, but there was an edge of frustration in it.

Tyreese turned his head toward her, his brow furrowing, but before he could respond, Glenn leaned forward slightly stating that, “smaller groups move faster, stay quieter. Me, Tyreese, and one more—we could make it work. It’s risky, sure, but we’d have a better chance than if we all tried to move together.”

Julie’s eyes lit up with determination. “Then let me and Chris go,” she said suddenly, sitting up straighter. “We can handle it.”

Tyreese’s head snapped toward her, his expression darkening immediately. “Julie, no. Absolutely not. You’re not—”

“For fuck’s sake, Dad!” Julie interrupted, her voice sharp and trembling slightly with emotion. “Will you stop being so protective for two damn minutes? You go on and on about how we need to learn how to survive, but every time we try, you shut us down.” She stood up now, her shoulders squared. “We’re coming, and we’ll pull our weight. Okay?”

The cabin went still. Chris looked like he wanted to sink into the floor, and even Sasha raised her eyebrows, glancing between her brother and niece. Tyreese just stared at Julie, his mouth slightly open, clearly stunned by her sudden outburst.

After a beat, he pointed a finger at her. “First of all, don’t ever talk to me like that again. You hear me?” His voice was low, steady, but not unkind. Julie crossed her arms again but gave a small nod.

Tyreese let out a deep sigh, rubbing his hand down his face as if the weight of fatherhood had just tripled on his shoulders. “You’re stubborn, god knows where you get that from,” he muttered under his breath before looking back at her. “Alright. Fine. But you do exactly what I say, and you don’t question me out there. You hear me?”

Julie nodded again, her expression softening slightly, her earlier fire dimming into something closer to relief. “We hear you.”

Chris gave an awkward nod as well, adjusting his glasses. “Yes, sir.”

Tyreese let out another sigh, shaking his head. “We should get moving before it gets dark. This storm’s not slowing down any time soon.

Glenn stood, stretching slightly despite his bruises.

The group began gathering their gear. The fire crackled on, its warmth not quite reaching the cold dread settling in everyone’s stomachs. Outside, the snow continued to fall, and the faint shadows of the trees grew darker as the day crept closer to night.

The group stepped outside into the biting cold, their boots crunching against the fresh layer of snow blanketing the ground. The air was sharp, and the heavy clouds above hinted at more snowfall on the way. Tyreese led them down a short path beside the cabin, his breath fogging with every exhale.

“Chris,” Tyreese said, gesturing toward a large, tarp-covered object. “Give me a hand with this.”

Chris hesitated briefly before stepping forward, his gloved hands gripping the edge of the worn tarp alongside Tyreese. With a few firm, ruffled pulls, they dragged it back, the material stiff from the cold.

Beneath it, a Land Rover Defender came into view, its rugged body coated in a fine layer of dust but otherwise in surprisingly good condition. The sturdy off-road tires were caked with mud that had long since dried, and the thick windows were smudged but intact.

Tyreese straightened up, crossing his arms with a smug grin as he admired the vehicle. “My wife didn’t get her hands on everything of mine,” he said, his voice tinged with pride.

T-Dog let out a low whistle, his eyes wide as he took a step closer. “Man, you’ve been holding out on us! This thing’s a tank.”

Ed, standing stiffly with his arms wrapped around himself for warmth, raised an eyebrow and muttered, “Didn’t expect one of these out here.”

Tyreese chuckled, slapping the side of the vehicle affectionately. “Well, you didn’t think we were walking all the way to the city, did you? I’m stubborn, not stupid.”

Glenn stepped closer, running a hand across the cold metal of the hood. “This is perfect,” he said with a nod. “Plenty of room for supplies, sturdy enough to get us in and out.”

“Alright, let’s load up what we need and get moving. Roads might be icy, and I’d rather not be out there when night falls.”

The group sprang into action. Bags were packed tighter, weapons checked, and the snow continued to fall around them, settling softly on the roof of the vehicle.

The group gathered near the Land Rover, their breaths fogging in the cold air. The tension was thick, the weight of their separation hanging heavily in the silence. Sasha stepped forward first, wrapping her arms tightly around her niece. “You stay sharp out there, Julie. Keep your head on straight,” she said softly before pulling back and looking her in the eyes. Julie nodded, her expression serious.

Sasha then turned to Tyreese, her voice firm but carrying a sisterly warmth. “You be careful out there, big guy.”

Tyreese smirked faintly but pulled her into a quick hug, patting her back. “Says the one, who’s job literally revolved around running toward danger, not away from it.”

Glenn gave a small wave to the others staying behind, exchanging a nod with T-Dog and Ed. Chris offered a quick, awkward smile before climbing into the vehicle behind Julie.

“Alright,” Tyreese said, his voice carrying over the group. “We’ll be back in a few days you should be fine for food until then.”

With that, the group split—one half climbing into the vehicle, the other watching as the engine roared to life, the sound cutting through the stillness of the snowy woods. Sasha stood at the front of the cabin, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, watching as the Land Rover disappeared down the winding path and into the frost-covered forest.

Chapter Text

The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a faint orange glow that quickly disappeared behind thick storm clouds. The blizzard howled around the Land Rover as it crept forward through the heavy snow, its headlights barely piercing the swirling whiteout. The highway, once a chaotic escape route filled with cars fleeing the city, was now nearly unrecognizable—a frozen graveyard of abandoned vehicles slowly being buried under the accumulating snow.

Tyreese kept a firm grip on the wheel, his knuckles white as he squinted through the frost-covered windshield. The wipers scraped against the glass, fighting a losing battle against the icy buildup. Glenn sat in the passenger seat, leaning forward slightly, his eyes scanning the road—or what little he could see of it. In the backseat, Julie and Chris huddled close together, their breath fogging up the windows as they tried to peer out at the frozen wasteland around them.

No one spoke. The silence inside the vehicle was heavy, broken only by the steady hum of the engine and the occasional rattle of a loose piece of gear in the back. Each passenger was lost in their own thoughts.

Ahead, the faint silhouette of the city began to take shape through the haze—a jagged skyline partially obscured by the swirling storm. The path they were carving felt impossibly narrow, the road ahead uncertain, but there was no turning back now.

Julie, staring out at the frozen wasteland, broke the silence with a soft voice. “It’s kind of beautiful, isn’t it?” Her breath fogged up the glass as she leaned closer to the window. “Before the world ended, everything was too busy… too loud. The snow never got a chance to settle like this.”

Tyreese’s eyes flicked briefly to the rearview mirror, his deep voice cutting through her wistful tone. “It might look pretty, Jules, but don’t forget how dangerous this storm is. We can barely see the road as it is. If something happens and we get separated…” He paused, shaking his head. “We might not be able to regroup. You can’t lose focus out here.”

Julie sighed, her small smile fading slightly as her father’s practical words doused the moment’s beauty. She leaned back against her seat, her expression hidden in the dim light of the vehicle.

Chris, sitting beside her, glanced at her face before speaking up. “I think it’s beautiful too,” he said softly. “Back home in Florida, being the Sunshine State and all, we hardly ever saw snow. Maybe a flurry every few years, and even then, it would melt before it hit the ground.”

Julie’s face softened, and despite the chill in the air, she smiled faintly. Slowly, she reached out and took Chris’s frozen hand in hers, her fingers wrapping around his trembling ones. They sat quietly, their hands clasped together, drawing warmth from the faint connection.

Tyreese glanced at them in the rearview mirror but said nothing, his focus shifting back to the barely visible road ahead. The headlights carved a fragile path through the whiteout, the city skyline growing faintly larger in the distance.

Glenn squinted into the blizzard ahead, his eyes darting over the fleeting shapes barely illuminated by the headlights.

Then—movement.

“Tyreese, look out!” Glenn shouted, his voice sharp and urgent.

Tyreese’s head snapped forward just as a cluster of frozen walkers emerged from the swirling snow, their stiff, frostbitten bodies standing in eerie silence in the middle of the road. Their faces were locked in ghastly expressions, icicles hanging from gaping mouths and frozen fingers outstretched as if still reaching for something long gone.

Tyreese yanked the wheel hard to the left, the tires skidding and struggling against the icy road. The Defender fishtailed, its back end whipping out as the vehicle groaned under the strain. Chris let out a muffled yell, and Julie braced herself against the door. Glenn clutched the dashboard, his knuckles white.

The car steadied just in time, narrowly avoiding the first group of walkers, but more silhouettes loomed in the headlights—dozens of them, frozen in place, like macabre statues in a graveyard of snow. There were too many to avoid.

“Hold on!” Tyreese bellowed as the vehicle ploughed into the cluster. The sound was gut-wrenching—a mix of crunching ice, splintering bone, and the dull thuds of bodies colliding with metal. The windshield spider-webbed with cracks as a walker’s frozen arm smashed against the glass.

The force of the impact caused the tires to lose traction entirely. “Shit!” Tyreese swore, fighting the wheel as the Defender skidded sideways. The vehicle spun slightly, and despite Tyreese’s best efforts to regain control, the massive weight of the SUV was unstoppable on the slick surface.

The headlights swung wildly as the vehicle slid off the road, mounting a snowbank before crashing through the glass windows of an old coffee shop. The sound of shattering glass and splintering wood echoed through the storm as the Defender came to a violent stop, half-buried in snow and debris.

For a moment, everything was still.

Steam hissed from the engine, the cracked windshield now opaque with frost and spiderweb cracks. Snow blew in through the shattered glass front of the café, swirling around the broken tables and upturned chairs.

“Is everyone okay?” Tyreese said through gritted teeth, his hands still gripping the wheel, his chest heaving from the adrenaline.

Glenn coughed, holding his forehead where it had struck the dashboard. “Yeah… yeah, I think so.”

Chris’s voice trembled from the backseat. “We’re okay. Julie?”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, her voice shaken but steady as she squeezed Chris’s hand.

The blizzard continued to howl outside; the faint moans of walkers carried on the wind. Tyreese exhaled sharply, staring out into the swirling white storm beyond the broken café windows.

He muttered under his breath, his voice low and heavy, “this will have attracted a lot of attention, we need to move—fast.”

The group stepped out of the wrecked car one by one, their boots crunching on broken glass and snow as they surveyed the aftermath. The cold hit them immediately, sharp and biting, and the swirling blizzard made it hard to see more than a few feet ahead. The café around them was in shambles, with tables and chairs overturned and snow dusting the floor through the shattered windows.

Glenn wiped his hand over a fresh gash on his forehead, squinting toward the outside. “Tyreese, I think we’re fine,” he said, his voice cutting through the howling wind. He pointed toward a cluster of walkers just outside the coffee shop. Their grotesque faces were intact, skin blue and frostbitten, their mouths twitching as faint groans escaped. But their bodies remained completely still, frozen in place by the biting cold. Only their ghastly, white eyes shifted, fixating hungrily on the small group inside.

Glenn turned back to the others, his expression calm despite the chaos around them. “Look,” he said, gesturing toward the motionless walkers. “They’re not moving. We have some time to consider our next move more carefully.”

Tyreese’s jaw tightened as he followed Glenn’s gaze, but he nodded. Julie and Chris huddled close together, their breaths visible in the icy air, while Tyreese adjusted the rifle slung over his shoulder.

“Let’s take a second to assess where we are and figure out where we need to go,” Glenn continued, his voice steady but firm. “Last thing we want to do is march off blindly into a snowstorm and get seperated.”

The group exchanged glances, their tension easing slightly at Glenn’s levelheadedness. Tyreese exhaled deeply, his broad shoulders slumping just a bit as he nodded in agreement. “Alright,” he said, his voice low. “We’ll take a beat. But if we stay here too long, we’ll freeze to death.”

Understanding Tyreese’s urgency, Glenn stepped carefully through the shattered doorway, the cold immediately biting at his face as the wind whipped snow into his hair and eyes. He squinted against the blizzard, pulling his jacket tighter around himself as he scanned the nearby buildings. The faded sign above the coffee shop caught his attention—Roast & Toast Café. Just next door, the weathered red lettering of Tony’s Pizza stood out faintly against the snow-covered storefront.

Glenn tilted his head, trying to peer across the street, but the blizzard was too thick, the swirling snow reducing visibility to nearly nothing. He frowned, straining his eyes, but whatever was there remained obscured. With a sigh, he turned and made his way back inside, the slight warmth of the café a sharp contrast to the icy outdoors.

“Chris,” Glenn called, shaking snow from his jacket. “Let me see that map again.”

Chris nodded and reached into his pack, pulling out the large map and handing it over. They cleared the cluttered café counter, brushing aside overturned cups and old napkins to make space. Glenn spread the map flat and leaned over it, Tyreese holding a corner in place.

Meanwhile, Julie moved methodically through the café, packing what little she could find into her pack. She grabbed a few packets of crisps from a display and scooped coffee beans from an overturned jar into a pouch, her hands working quickly and efficiently.

Glenn tapped a spot on the map with his finger. “I’m fairly sure we’re here,” he said, pointing to the intersection they had crashed by. “Roast & Toast Café and Tony’s Pizza—this matches the names on the buildings outside.” He traced a line across the map to the other side of the street. “And if I’m right, that puts us directly across from this shopping mall, it could be perfect.”

Tyreese frowned, leaning in closer. “A mall? That’s a lot of ground to cover. Could be crawling with dead-rotters.”

Glenn nodded but pointed toward the blizzard outside. “Normally, yeah. Trying to get into a place like that would be suicide. But if the walkers outside are all frozen, then it might be easier than usual. The hardest part is always getting inside—and it looks like the storm already took care of most of that for us.”

Chris raised an eyebrow. “There’ll still be some inside, though… It will still be suicide.”

“Maybe,” Glenn admitted, “but this is the best chance we’ve got. If we can clear the stores by the entrance and keep quiet, we might be able to get in and out with enough supplies before the storm lets up.”
Tyreese pondered on the idea, weighing the risks.

Glenn leaned over the map, his finger tracing the area surrounding the mall. “Small groups work more effectively,” he said, his voice steady and thoughtful. “If we get trapped or backed into a corner, having all four of us grouped together won’t do us any good. We’ll need to cover one another by splitting into two teams.

Tyreese nodded; his arms crossed as he considered the plan. “Makes sense,” he said. “But we stick close enough to regroup if something goes wrong. No one wanders too far.”

Julie straightened up, slinging her pack over her shoulder. “Me and Chris will partner up,” she said confidently, glancing at Chris, who gave her a small nod.

“No way,” Tyreese said immediately, his deep voice cutting through the room. His stern gaze locked onto Julie. “You’re with me.”

Julie’s expression darkened, her lips parting as if ready to argue, but Glenn quickly intervened, raising a hand to de-escalate. “Hold on,” he said, glancing between them. “Actually, it might make more sense if Julie comes with me.”

Tyreese frowned but didn’t interrupt as Glenn continued. “Chris and I have the best knowledge of the layout. If we split into two groups, it would be smart to have one of us in each group to guide everyone. Julie coming with me balances things out.”

Tyreese and Chris exchanged an awkward look, the tension between them palpable. Tyreese’s jaw tightened, but after a moment of consideration, he exhaled sharply and nodded. “Alright,” he said gruffly. “But you keep her safe,” he added, pointing at Glenn.

Julie crossed her arms, giving her father a pointed look, but kept her mouth shut this time. Chris adjusted his glasses, glancing nervously between Tyreese and Julie.

Glenn stepped back, folding the map and slipping it into Chris’ pack. “It’s settled, then,” he said, his tone final.

The group began preparing in tense silence, the plan set but the weight of their task looming large. The snow continued to swirl outside, and the dark shadow of the mall ahead promised both hope and danger.

Chapter Text

The blizzard began to thin, the swirling snow settling into softer flurries. The once-hidden surroundings of the street became clearer, revealing the skeletal remains of abandoned cars, storefronts buried under layers of frost, and the frozen walkers scattered along the road. The split teams advanced carefully, staying within sight of one another as they crept through the snow. Weapons were drawn, their breaths visible in the frigid air.

The walkers, encased in ice, twitched faintly as the group passed. Cracks and faint groans sounded from the frozen shells as they attempted to move, their brittle limbs straining against the frost. But the ice held, keeping them trapped and immobile.

As the group neared the mall, the tall windows and barricaded doors loomed ahead, their surfaces coated in snow and grime. Glenn’s attention was torn away as a faint, muffled sound reached his ears—a woman’s voice. “Come on Dale, You have to keep moving!” the voice echoed, distant but urgent, carried by the last gusts of the blizzard.

Glenn froze mid-step, his heart skipping a beat. The voice was familiar. He furrowed his brow, questioning himself. "Amy?" he murmured under his breath, the name catching in his throat. Without thinking, he branched off from the group, his feet crunching through the snow as he moved toward the sound, his mind racing.

“Glenn!” Tyreese’s deep voice called after him. “Where are you going?”

Glenn turned slightly, his face pale with uncertainty. “Didn’t you hear that?” he asked, his voice trembling. “A voice—someone yelling. It sounded like-“

The others exchanged uneasy glances. Julie clutched her knife tightly, her gaze darting to the exposed street around them. “I didn’t hear anything,” she said nervously.

“Neither did I,” Tyreese added, his tone cautious. “Glenn, we’re too exposed out here. Get back with the group.”

Glenn hesitated, his mind swirling with doubt. The voice had felt so real, but as he scanned the abandoned street, there was nothing but the faint whistle of the dying storm. He sighed, running a hand down his face as he turned back toward the group.

But before he could take another step, the ground beneath them rumbled violently. A deafening boom shattered the fragile quiet, sending shockwaves through the street. The air exploded with sound as windows all around them shattered, glass raining down in deadly shards.

“What the-“ Tyreese bellowed, his voice nearly drowned out by the roar.

Frozen walkers splintered apart as the shockwave reached them, their brittle forms breaking into jagged pieces. The massive glass windows of the mall exploded outward, sending shards flying into the group. Julie screamed as Chris threw himself over her, shielding her from the sharp rain of debris. Blood smeared across his arm as a shard sliced him, but he held firm.

A colossal fireball erupted further down the street, casting an orange glow through the fading blizzard. Tyreese and Glenn stumbled; their faces etched with shock as they turned toward the source of the explosion.

“What the hell was that?” Tyreese shouted, his voice raw and panicked.

Glenn didn’t answer, his wide eyes fixed on the growing plume of smoke and fire rising into the sky, the sheer force of the blast leaving the group stunned and vulnerable.

Glenn’s mind raced as the fiery plume loomed in the distance, the remnants of the shockwave still ringing in his ears. His voice was frantic, barely coherent as he started spit-balling landmarks he thought might be in that direction. “It could be… maybe the museum, or… or clinic maybe.”

Chris, clutching his bleeding arm but still alert, interjected with a strained voice. “The CDC. The CDC is in that direction isn’t it.”

The words hit Glenn like a brick wall, and he froze mid-thought. “Shit,” he muttered, his face draining of colour as his mind pieced together the possibilities.

Before he could explain, Julie’s voice cut through the tense air. “Dad!” she yelled, her tone sharp with alarm.

Glenn and Tyreese whipped around just in time to see the glassless storefront of the mall stirring with movement. Inside, dark figures began to emerge, drawn from the depths of the mall by the noise of the explosion. Their shambling forms grew more distinct as they stumbled closer, their groans rising above the fading wind.

“Fuck,” Tyreese hissed under his breath. “We gotta move, Glenn. Now.”

Glenn turned back to the fireball in the distance, his jaw tightening. “We have to go toward the explosion.”

Tyreese shot him a glare, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?” he barked, gesturing at the smoke. “In what world do you run toward an explosion?”

Glenn grabbed Tyreese’s arm; his voice urgent but pleading. “Just trust me! Please. I’m asking you to trust me, it’s not like we have many other options.”

Tyreese hesitated, his instincts screaming against the idea. But then he glanced around—the walkers emerging from the mall, the isolated figures creeping out of nearby storefronts. They were quickly being surrounded. With a reluctant nod, he gritted his teeth. “Alright, fine.”

Without wasting another second, the group bolted through the snow-blanketed road, their boots crunching against the icy ground as they ran. Glenn led the way, his eyes fixed on the towering plume of smoke that now acted as their beacon. Tyreese stayed close behind, his hammer clutched tightly in his hand, while Chris and Julie trailed just behind, their uneven breaths visible in the cold air.

The moans of the walkers grew fainter as they pressed forward, the firelight ahead cutting through the fading blizzard. Every step toward the unknown was a gamble, but Glenn’s determination kept them moving.

The gentle snowfall drifted softly around Rick’s group as they huddled near the vehicles, their breaths visible in the cold. Rick’s voice carried over the stillness, steady and resolute. “We have to keep moving,” he said firmly, his eyes scanning the group. “Staying here isn’t an option. We—”

“Hey! Dumbasses, MOVE!”

The shout cut through the quiet like a gunshot. The entire group whipped their heads toward the sound, their eyes widening as Glenn’s group came charging toward them from the swirling snow. Glenn was at the front, waving his arms frantically, his voice raw with urgency.

Andrea’s mouth fell open in disbelief, her voice trembling as she said, “Glenn?”

Before anyone could process what was happening, Carol’s voice rang out, sharp with alarm. “Look!” she yelled, pointing past Glenn’s group toward a dark mass looming in the distance.

The blood drained from Rick’s face as he saw it—a horde of walkers, hundreds of them, shambling forward in an endless wave, their groans growing louder as they closed the gap. Glenn’s urgency made sense now, his frantic shout sparking chaos and panic.

“Go! Get inside the vehicles!” Rick barked, his commanding voice snapping the group into motion. He grabbed Lori and Carl, ushering them toward the SUV. “Carol, Sophia, with us—move!”

Shane took the lead, throwing open the doors to the SUV and waving them inside. Rick, Lori, Carl, Carol, and Sophia all piled into the vehicle; the tension palpable as they slammed the doors shut. Shane jumped in the driver’s seat; his jaw tight as he started the engine.

Meanwhile, Dale was already throwing open the RV’s door, shouting for the others to get inside. Andrea and Amy sprinted toward it, their breaths coming in frantic puffs of air. Allen scooped up Mika and Lizzie, running as fast as he could with the girls clinging to him. Tyreese and Julie brought up the rear, Chris close behind. Glenn was the last to climb in, slamming the RV door shut behind him.

Inside the SUV, Shane revved the engine, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Hold on!” he growled. The tires spun in the snow for a moment before catching traction, the vehicle lurching forward.

In the RV, Dale gripped the steering wheel, his hands trembling slightly as Andrea stood beside him, scanning the encroaching horde through the windshield. “Come on old man, you got this!” she encouraged.”

The two vehicles roared to life, pulling away from the snowy clearing as the horde closed in behind them. The walkers’ groans grew fainter as they drove away, the dark mass disappearing into the falling snow, but the tension inside both vehicles was suffocating. The narrow escape left everyone shaken, their thoughts racing as Glenn set the route from inside the RV.

Andrea sat down next to Tyreese, her gaze shifting between him and his group, who were huddled close together in the RV. She noticed how he kept a protective watch over Julie and Chris, his eyes scanning the unfamiliar faces around him with subtle caution. She leaned back in her seat and smirked slightly, trying to ease the tension. “So,” she said lightly, “Did Glenn save your life too?”

Tyreese glanced at her, his lips twitching into a small smile at the attempt to make him feel less like an outsider. “Actually,” he said, his voice low but steady, “it was the other way around. Pulled him out of the river myself.”

From across the RV, Glenn overheard and turned in his seat, shaking his head with an amused expression. “That’s a slight exaggeration,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “But yeah, Tyreese did save us. No denying that.”

Allen, sitting near the back with his daughters, frowned slightly and leaned forward. “Us?” he repeated, catching the odd phrasing. “You said ‘us.’ Who else made it?”

Glenn glanced at Allen, his smile growing faint but not answering. Instead, he turned his gaze out the window, watching the snow-covered road ahead as the RV followed the SUV’s tracks.

The silence lingered for a moment before Andrea shifted her focus back to Tyreese. She gave him a knowing smile, sensing the layers of untold stories behind his calm demeanour. Outside, the snow continued to fall gently, the vehicles moving at a steady pace through the white-blanketed world.

After about an hour’s drive, Allen’s question was finally answered. The vehicles pulled to a stop outside the snow-covered cabin, its windows glowing faintly with firelight. Three figures stood waiting in front of the cabin; their weapons drawn as a precaution. Relief swept through the group as they realized these were familiar faces, still alive and holding their ground.

One by one, the group exited the vehicles, visibly relieved to reunite with more of their own. Allen immediately rushed forward, pulling T-Dog into a tight hug despite his bandaged arm. “Man, it’s good to see you,” Allen said, his voice thick with emotion. Amy followed, wrapping her arms around T-Dog with a smile, her relief evident.

Tyreese stepped out next, his breath visible in the cold air as he approached the cabin. His sister, Sasha, lowered her weapon in surprise, her eyes darting over the new faces he’d brought with him. Tyreese enveloped her in a hug, his powerful arms squeezing tightly. “This is a lot of people TY,” she muttered, her voice tinged with alarm as she scanned the group.

Amid the warmth of reunions, Ed stood by awkwardly, his bruised and battered face grim as he stepped out of the cabin. Nobody rushed to greet him, and the atmosphere around him remained cold. Carol sat frozen in the SUV, her hands gripping the seatbelt as if it were the only thing keeping her grounded. But then, Sophia bolted from the car, running to her father with her arms wide.

“Daddy!” she cried, wrapping her arms around him.

Ed winced at the contact, his injuries flaring. “Get off,” he muttered harshly, prying her arms away.

Sophia stepped back, her face falling as Carol hesitated in the car. Lori noticed her trembling hands and the distant look in her eyes. With quiet understanding, Lori leaned in and whispered, “come on honey,” before stepping out to approach Ed together. Carol placed a soft kiss on his cheek and murmured, “We missed you.”

“Sure, you did,” he replied coldly, his tone cutting. Lori stiffened but said nothing, glancing back at Carol, who remained rooted in place beside her husband. The others, caught up in introducing themselves and exchanging names, didn’t notice the tension in the Peletier family reunion.

The joy of the moment was abruptly disrupted by T-Dog’s voice cutting through the chatter. “Where’s Jacqui? And Jim?” he asked, his tone tense as his eyes scanned the group.

Allen, standing near the door of the cabin, was the first to respond. “They… they stayed behind,” he said carefully, avoiding the gruesome truth. “They were inside the CDC.”

T-Dog’s face fell, and the group around him grew quiet. Allen swallowed hard before continuing. “Donna didn’t make it, either,” he added softly.

Glenn stepped forward, placing a hand on Allen’s shoulder. “We know,” he said gently. “And we’re sorry for your loss.”

The sombre mood hung heavily in the air as the group began to file into the cabin. Shane and Rick worked together, lugging what remained of the supplies from the RV inside. The others followed, their faces a mixture of relief and sadness, the brief joy of reunion overshadowed by the ever-present reality of their losses. Inside, the group settled around the fire, ready to plan their next move in the warmth of the small but crowded cabin.

Chapter Text

The group had come a long way since leaving the cabin behind, the memory of its warmth now a distant echo. Andrea’s makeshift calendar marked the passage of time, estimating they were well into late January. The cold still bit at their skin, but the snow had lessened, leaving a grey, barren landscape in its wake. The convoy had paused on a highway in Mert County, Georgia, a scattered graveyard of abandoned vehicles stretching in both directions.

Tyreese, Sasha, T-Dog, Glenn, and Allen worked steadily in the chill; their breaths visible as they hauled cars out of the way to clear a path. Each movement was precise and deliberate; the silence of the highway made the metallic groans of the cars echo unnervingly. The RV, stationed a few cars back, stood waiting for a clear path, Dale perched near the driver's seat while Andrea kept him company, with a rifle resting on her lap.

A little further down the highway, Lori, Carol, and Chris rifled through abandoned vehicles. They worked in quiet efficiency, rummaging through glove compartments and backseats for anything useful: cans of food, stray bottles of water, spare tools. Carol lingered near one car, her focus split between searching and stealing glances toward Sophia, visible through the trees as part of Rick’s group.

“She’ll be okay, she’s with Rick,” Lori softly spoke, reassuring Carol, mother to mother.

Inside the RV, the atmosphere was lighter. Julie and Amy sat cross-legged on the worn seating area around a table, dealing cards with Lizzie and Mika. The girls’ laughter occasionally bubbled out, a rare and welcome sound.

Meanwhile, Rick, Shane, Ed, Carl, and Sophia scouted the nearby forest, moving carefully through the trees. The crunch of leaves underfoot and the faint sound of birdsong accompanied their search for fresh water. Rick led the way, his eyes scanning the terrain, while Shane trailed slightly behind, his shotgun at the ready. Ed stuck close to the children, his gruff demeanour unchanged, but his watchful eye occasionally flicked toward Sophia with a hint of unease.

Carl and Sophia wandered slightly away from the group, their small footsteps crunching on the forest floor. The bare trees stretched overhead, their gnarled branches casting faint shadows in the pale winter light. Carl was speaking animatedly, his voice a mixture of excitement and frustration.

“I really wish I’d taken some of the comics from the CDC,” he said, kicking a stray rock with his boot. “I’ve read the same ones over and over again. It’s getting boring.”

Sophia walked beside him but barely acknowledged his words, her gaze fixed ahead, distant and distracted. Carl frowned, glancing at her. “You’ve been so much quieter since we found your daddy,” he said, his voice quieter now, tinged with slight curiosity.

Sophia’s ears seemed to prick at the comment, but she didn’t respond. Her face remained expressionless, and her silence hung heavily between them. Carl’s face twisted with frustration. He didn’t like being ignored, especially not by his friend. “I wish I’d stayed in the RV and played with Lizzie and Mika,” he muttered, his tone sharp and petulant.

Sophia’s eyes flicked toward him briefly, her expression softening just slightly, almost as if his words had stung. But she still said nothing.

The tension was broken by Ed’s gruff voice cutting through the quiet. “Sophia!” he barked, his tone sharp. “Don’t wander too far now.”

Shane turned toward him; his shotgun slung over his shoulder. “Keep your voice down,” he hissed. “We don’t know what’s out here.”

Rick, slightly ahead of the group, motioned for Carl to come back. “I want you to stay close too Carl,” he called, his voice steady but firm. Carl sighed, kicking at the ground again as he trudged back toward his dad.

Rick adjusted the sheriff’s hat on Carl’s head. Carl glanced up at him, his face still twisted in annoyance. “Sophia’s not my friend anymore,” he muttered, his voice low but hurt.

Rick looked past his son and saw Ed placing a rough hand on Sophia’s shoulder, gripping her firmly and pulling her closer to him. Sophia’s face was downcast, her small frame tense under her father’s touch. Rick’s gaze softened as he turned his attention back to Carl, reaching for his son’s hand.

“She’s been through a lot recently,” Rick said gently.

Carl frowned; his brow furrowed. “So have we,” he replied, his voice stubborn. “But—”

Rick placed a hand on Carl’s shoulder, interrupting him and meeting his gaze. “I know, son,” he said quietly. “But not everybody is as tough as you are. Sometimes your friends need time. And when they’re ready, you’ve gotta be there for them. Alright?”

Carl hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line. Finally, he nodded. Rick gave him a small smile and squeezed his shoulder. “She’ll talk to you when she’s ready. You’ll see.”

Carl looked ahead at Sophia, who was walking with her head down as Ed kept her close. He didn’t fully understand, but he trusted his dad enough to let it go for now. Rick stood, placing a hand on Carl’s back as they re-joined the others, the quiet woods stretching out ahead of them.

The wind howled softly across the open highway as Carol and Lori moved carefully between the abandoned vehicles, their boots crunching against patches of ice and dirt. The air was heavy with stillness, the frozen graveyard of cars stretching endlessly in both directions. Each vehicle told a silent story—some with doors left ajar as if their owners had fled in a panic, others with belongings still neatly packed inside, untouched by looters.

Carol peered into the window of a dusty family car, her breath fogging up the glass as she scanned the interior. A stuffed bear lay discarded on the front seat, its fur matted with grime. She swallowed hard, already feeling uneasy about rummaging through what once belonged to people who never made it out. Across from her, on the other side of the same car, Lori mirrored her hesitation.

Their eyes met over the roof, silent understanding passing between them.

Then Lori’s gaze shifted to the back seat—and she saw it.

A car seat. Tiny sneakers tucked neatly into its footwell. A streak of dried blood staining the worn fabric.

Carol’s breath hitched, and she immediately pulled away from the car as if burned. Lori’s stomach turned at the sight, a wave of nausea creeping over her. She forced herself to look away, shaking her head. "Let’s move on," she muttered. "I—I don’t want to look at this."

Carol wrapped her arms around herself, her voice barely above a whisper. "This isn’t right," she said shakily. "This place is a graveyard."

Lori stepped around the vehicle, reaching out to place a comforting hand on Carol’s arm. "I know, honey" she admitted softly. "But if we don’t take what we need, we won’t make it out of here either."

Carol kept her eyes down, struggling with the morality. Lori gave her a small squeeze, trying to steady both of them. "You know, I stopped thinking about how much I left behind at home," Lori continued, her voice tinged with guilt. "All those canned peaches sitting in my pantry… when Shane came for Carl and me, I didn’t think to take half of what I should’ve. And now? I hope someone finds that house. I hope they find those peaches. I hope it keeps someone going, even for just a little while."

Carol exhaled slowly, considering her words. As much as the thought of scavenging felt wrong, Lori had a point—these things weren’t helping anyone by sitting here. She nodded and wiped at her eyes. "Alright," she said, her voice steadier. "We should keep looking."

Lori gave her an appreciative smile before they resumed searching. As they moved, Carol cast a sidelong glance at Lori, prying just a little. "Shane must’ve cared for you both a lot to come back for you," she noted.

Lori’s body tensed instantly, a shiver running down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold. The words lingered in the air between them, carrying an unspoken weight. Carol meant it as an innocent observation, but there was something in her tone—something that made Lori’s stomach twist. Did others notice? Did they see the bond she and Shane had shared when she believed Rick was dead?

She forced herself to keep her expression neutral, offering only a clipped nod. "Yeah," she said, her voice betraying none of the storm raging inside her. "I suppose he did."

Carol didn’t push further, but Lori couldn’t shake the unease settling over her. Her secret—what Shane did to her at the CDC—remained unspoken, unknown to the group. But in that moment, she felt something shift. Maybe she wasn’t as alone in carrying it as she thought.

Carol zipped open a faded suitcase, her hands brushing past neatly folded clothes that once belonged to someone long gone. She felt the weight of their conversation hanging between them, heavier than the silence of the highway around them. She glanced at Lori, who was rummaging through another bag beside her, and finally, she asked, "If you don’t mind me asking… Why have you and Shane been so distant since the quarry?"

Lori froze mid-movement, her fingers gripping the fabric of a winter coat she had just pulled out. She didn’t look up right away, her lips pressing together. Carol watched her carefully, realizing she had struck a nerve.

Lori swallowed hard before slowly turning to face her, her eyes glassy with emotion. She glanced toward the others still clearing the roadblock—before her vision blurred with tears. Her shoulders trembled as she let out a shaky breath.

Carol’s face softened. She moved closer, placing a gentle hand on Lori’s back. “Hey… what is it?”

Lori closed her eyes, shaking her head. “I truly believed Rick was dead,” she whispered. “Shane told me he saw him die.”

Carol’s breath hitched at the admission, her hand stilling on Lori’s back. She didn’t know what to say, so she simply let Lori cry, offering her quiet support as the tears finally fell.

Lori wiped at her face with her sleeve, her voice raw as she continued. “Now that Rick’s back, I can see it in Shane. The way he looks at me. The way he watches Rick.” She paused, swallowing thickly before adding, “I’m afraid of how jealous he’s gotten.”

Carol furrowed her brows, her stomach twisting uncomfortably at Lori’s words. There was something deeper in her tone—something she wasn’t saying. But Carol didn’t push. Instead, she gently wrapped her arms around Lori, holding her close in the cold air.

“Just stick by Rick,” Carol murmured. “He’s a good man. He’ll do anything for you and your son.”

Lori clung to the words, nodding as she took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. She reached up, drying her tears as best she could before offering Carol a small, appreciative smile. “Can we just keep this between us?” she asked quietly.

Carol nodded without hesitation. “Of course.”

The two women held onto the moment a little longer before they finally pulled away. With a deep breath, they returned to their task, rifling through the scattered luggage and supplies, rejoining Chris, who was still sorting through the nearby cars.

The sun now started to hang low in the sky, its golden light shimmering off the still surface of a lake. The group—Rick, Carl, Shane, Ed, and Sophia—stood at the water’s edge, a flicker of relief passing between them at the discovery.

“This is good,” Rick muttered, hands on his hips.

Shane, standing slightly apart, squinted at the murky water, his expression unimpressed. “It’s stagnant,” he said, shaking his head. “We need running water, this’ll just make us sick.”

Carl barely heard them. His gaze had drifted to the shoreline where frogs croaked lazily in the shallows. He turned to Sophia, his face hopeful. “Wanna look for frogs with me?”

She hesitated but didn’t answer. Instead, she kept her eyes down, her fingers curling into her sleeves. Carl frowned, kicking at the dirt before mumbling, “Whatever,” and heading toward the water on his own.
Then, Rick’s voice cut through the quiet. “Carl—stop moving.”

Carl froze, confusion flickering across his face. “What?”

“Shane, look.”

Rick’s tense expression shifted into something lighter, something rare—genuine happiness. Shane followed his gaze, his own lips parting slightly at the sight before them.

A deer.

It stood at the lake’s edge, lowering its head to sip from the water, completely unaware of their presence. Its coat was smooth, brown, untouched by the harshness of the world around them. No antlers—just a doe, young and beautiful in its innocence.

Carl took a small step forward.

The deer’s ears twitched, and it lifted its head, turning its large, dark eyes toward him. The moment felt frozen in time. Carl, breathless, stretched out his fingers as if he could touch it. Sophia’s dull expression lifted for the first time, her eyes widening with awe as she watched her friend approach the animal with such gentleness.

Then—

A gunshot rang through the trees.

The impact was instant. The bullet ripped through the deer’s chest, passing clean through—

—And straight into Carl’s shoulder.

The force sent him sprawling backward, his small body hitting the dirt hard, his hat tumbling off into the dust.

The deer collapsed in the same instant, its legs buckling, eyes wide with fading life.

Time seemed to stand still.

Then—

“EEEHHH!”

The scream didn’t come from Carl. It came from Sophia. The sound of terror ripped from her throat as she watched her friend hit the ground.

Rick’s face twisted in horror. “CARL!”

Shane’s stomach dropped, his breath catching as he blurted, “Shit!” before they both bolted toward the unconscious boy.

The moment shattered into chaos. Rick skidded to his knees, hands immediately pressing to his son’s bleeding shoulder, his voice frantic, “Stay with me, stay with me,Carl” Shane hovered over them, eyes darting from Carl’s limp form to the trees, scanning for the source of the shot.

Then—movement.

A skinny man emerged from the woods, dressed in a camo vest, a hunting rifle still clutched in his hands. His face, at first marked with a victorious grin, twisted into horror as he took in the scene before him.

“Oh—oh God,” he stammered, his rifle lowering. “Oh, shit—”

Before he could say another word, Ed let out a furious roar.

The burly man charged at him, his boots pounding against the dirt. “WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?”

The hunter barely had time to react before Ed’s fist slammed into his face. The man stumbled backward, gripping his jaw, his expression a mixture of panic and pain.

Back on the highway, the group had finally cleared a path, allowing their convoy to move forward once they were ready. The day’s labour had been exhausting, but it was progress. Tyreese and Sasha stood shoulder to shoulder; their breath still heavy and visible from the exertion. Andrea approached, offering them both a couple of bottled waters, which they gratefully accepted.

“Good work, I’m not sure we’d have ever been able to move all of those without you guys,” she said as they wiped sweat from their foreheads before drinking deeply.

Nearby, Allen climbed into the RV to check on his daughters. Inside, Amy and Julie were still keeping Lizzie and Mika entertained.

Dale, meanwhile, sat perched atop the RV, his usual post for keeping watch. The sunset glare caught the rim of his bucket hat, so he reached up to adjust it, squinting against the fading light. That’s when he heard it—a sound, faint at first but growing louder by the second. Hoofbeats. Fast ones.

His grip on the rifle tightened, and he instinctively raised it, peering through the scope toward the approaching noise.

Three horses galloped down the road at full speed, kicking up dust from the asphalt, their riders moving with urgency. It took Dale a moment to process the sight—three girls, dressed in traditional farm clothing, barrelling toward them with panicked energy. The one leading them had a short brunette bob and was waving her arms frantically, shouting something Dale couldn’t make out over the distance.

But it wasn’t just them.

A mass followed closely behind, moving with an unnatural, lurching speed. Walkers.

Dale’s stomach dropped.

“Shit,” he muttered before calling out, his voice sharp and urgent. “Something’s coming!”

The others snapped to attention, their moment of respite vanishing in an instant. Sasha spun toward the road, hand already gripping her axe. Tyreese reached for his hammer, stepping forward with tense shoulders. Andrea, already alert, grabbed her pistol, eyes narrowing toward the approaching figures.

The dust cloud grew larger, the frantic shouts of the girls now cutting through the fading evening light. The mass behind them—grotesque, stumbling, endless—was closing in.

Their moment of calm was over.

They had incoming.

Chapter Text

“Get off the road!”

The woman’s voice rang clear now as she and her two companions charged toward the survivors, their horses kicking up dirt as they closed the distance.

The three riders came to a sudden halt in front of the group, their presence demanding attention. The leader, a young woman with sharp features and a determined glare, scanned the survivors before her. She had a short brunette bob and wore a weathered jacket, her hands gripping the reins tightly.

Beside her, a blonde girl, no older than seventeen, shifted nervously in the saddle. She had large blue eyes, her golden ponytail swaying over her grey flannel shirt, her riding boots firmly locked into the stirrups.

The third rider, the eldest of the three, had a strong, imposing build. Her long, straight brown hair was tucked behind her ears with a red hairband, her expression stern as her eyes darted between the stunned survivors and the approaching threat.

The survivors hesitated, their instincts torn between following the woman’s orders or gauging whether these women were a threat. Eyes flicked from the riders to the massive horde still at a reasonable distance but closing in fast.
“What, are you all deaf or something? DO what she said and MOVE!” the woman with the red hairband barked, her frustration boiling over.

Before anyone could react, a gunshot ripped through the air.

Every head snapped toward the treeline where Rick’s group had gone.

“For fuck’s sake,” the eldest rider spat in a thick southern accent, as she turned to the blonde girl. “Beth, you remembered to tell Otis to hold off on hunting today, right?”

The girl, Beth, paled, gripping her reins tightly. “U-um… he already left before I could. I swear, Lacey!”

A heavy silence fell between them before the groans of the approaching horde reminded everyone of the real danger. The Walkers split off, the majority now lurching toward the direction of the gunshot.

Lacey’s frustration turned to anger as she swung back to the leader of the group. “What’s your next move, Maggie, huh? This was all your plan! What the fuck are we supposed to do now?”

Maggie, her face riddled with anxiety, watched as the horde drifted toward the trees. Her fingers clenched around the reins, panic creeping into her expression. Before she could respond, faint cries carried through the forest.

Sophia’s high-pitched scream rang through the forest all the way to the road.

Carol and Lori’s instincts overtook them immediately. Both women broke into a sprint toward the treeline, their desperate cries joining the ones from the woods.

“Carl!”

“Sophia!”

Before they could make it far, Andrea and Tyreese lunged after them, grabbing hold of each woman, restraining them with firm but careful grips.

“We don’t know what’s out there!” Tyreese gritted out as Carol thrashed against him.

Lori struggled against Andrea’s grasp, tears in her eyes. “Our children are out there, let go of us!”

Tyreese’s arms remained locked around Carol’s weak frame as she struggled against his giant figure. He calmy reminded them that, “your husbands are with your children, you would only get lost out there looking for them, so can you please just calm down.”

The mothers stopped their struggle but tears still ran across their faces.

Glenn, still frozen in place, looked to Maggie. She sat rigid on her horse, gripping the reins so tightly her knuckles had gone white. She was caught between fear and the heavy weight of responsibility pressing down on her.

Glenn forced himself to move, stepping closer and looking up at her. “Look—if that’s your man out there, it sounds like he’s run into some of our people. And now that horde is heading right for them.”

Maggie looked down at him, her breathing quick, her mind racing. Glenn could see it in her eyes—she had taken on more than she thought she could handle. She was scared.

“Shit,” she muttered under her breath, her expression hardening. She turned to Lacey, voice sharp with urgency. “New plan. Follow me. We have to warn Otis.”

Lacey gave a short, frustrated nod. “And what about them?” she jerked her head toward the survivors.

Maggie turned to Beth, levelling her with a firm look. “Beth, you take them home. Get them off this road. Circle back. Do not lead that herd to the farm, you understand me?”

Beth, still shaken, nodded quickly. “I—I got it.”

Maggie exhaled, giving her a brief, reassuring nod before turning her horse toward the woods. Before she could ride off, Glenn grabbed her reins.

“I’m coming with you,” he said.

Maggie blinked. “What?”

Glenn was already turning to the others, urgency in his voice. “Rick and Shane aren’t going to trust you or your people. Not without one of us there to tell them you’re not a threat.”

Maggie hesitated, but she knew she didn’t have time to argue.

T-Dog stepped forward, clasping Glenn’s arm before helping him climb up onto the horse behind Maggie. Glenn’s hands gripped her waist tightly as he adjusted himself in the saddle.

“Alright,” Maggie muttered, taking one last look at Beth before turning her horse sharply toward the woods. “Hold on.”

And with that, they were gone, disappearing into the trees with Lacey close behind.

Beth swallowed hard, gripping her reins before turning to the anxious group still standing on the road. “You heard her,” she said, voice steadier than before. “Follow me.”

With the echoes of distant cries and the groans of the undead growing louder, there was no time to hesitate. The survivors quickly moved to follow the young girl as her horse paved the way for their small convoy.

Tension ran high in the forest, the panic thick in the air. Shane was the one trying to keep everyone from losing it completely, his voice sharp as he worked through a plan.

“Rick, keep pressure on the wound! Harder!” Shane barked, glancing down at Carl’s ghostly pale face, his breath coming in weak gasps. The pool of blood beneath him was growing, staining the forest floor. Rick could barely see through his own tears, his hands slick and shaking as he pressed down on his son’s wound, his sobs uncontrollable.

“Carl, please!” Rick choked out, snot and tears streaking his face. “Stay with me, please, Carl!”

Nearby, Ed had the skinny man by the scruff of his coat, his fury unmatched. “What’s your name!?” he roared, shaking him violently. “Where the hell are you from!?” He kicked the man’s rifle away into the dirt, his knuckles white with rage.

The man’s lips trembled as he stammered out, “Otis—my name’s Otis Bennett.” His wide, terrified eyes darted to the boy bleeding out before him. “A few miles east of here—there’s a farm. Hershel. He—he can help your boy! He’s a doctor! I swear I didn’t mean to—”

Shane stepped forward, his presence like a storm about to break. “Let him go,” he ordered Ed, his voice stone cold. Ed hesitated but finally shoved Otis backward with a grunt. Shane loomed over the hunter; eyes locked onto him like a predator. “You listen to me,” Shane growled, jabbing a finger into Otis’s chest. “That little boy’s blood is on your hands weather you meant it or not. You’re gonna take us to this farm right now, or I swear to God you won’t be walking away from here.”

Sophia stood trembling in the hostility around her. She wondered if she should just run off into the forest on her own, she knew how to climb trees she would be safe. But her little feet were rooted in place, pee trickled down her leg, seeing her father so angry and her best friend’s lifeless body draining out into the dirt was too much for her tiny frame to handle without her mother.

Otis nodded rapidly to Shane’s threat, fear overtaking him, but before anyone could move, branches snapped behind them.

Hoofbeats.

The sound echoed through the clearing, and suddenly, through the dense trees beside the lake, three figures burst into view on horseback.

Maggie, Glenn, and Lacey.

Maggie yanked back on the reins, her horse skidding to a stop, her green eyes locking onto the tragic scene before her. Her mouth fell open, and she swore under her breath.

Glenn was off the horse in an instant, his sneakers kicking up dirt as he ran to Rick’s side. Rick barely noticed, still shaking and sobbing.

“Rick—we gotta move,” Glenn panted, swapping Rick’s hands for his own, pressing down hard on Carl’s wound. “There’s a lot of walkers heading this way—that gunshot is leading them right to you!”

Shane’s eyes snapped up, immediately on guard as he turned toward the new arrivals. He stepped in front of Rick and Carl, gripping his shotgun tightly. “Who the hell are you?” he snapped at Maggie and Lacey. His voice was still edged with suspicion when he turned to Glenn. “And where the hell is everybody else?”

“They’re already on their way!” Glenn nearly shouted; his voice desperate. “Please, just trust me! We have to get Carl out of here now!”

Before Shane could respond, the underbrush rustled and the first walker broke through the treeline—its jaw half-hanging, its skin gray and rotten.

More followed.

Shane’s decision was made for him.

He snapped his head to Ed and Otis. “Take care of any that come through! Buy us time!”

Ed immediately reached for the rifle he had kicked away earlier, shoving it into Otis’s hands before raising his own. Otis, still pale-faced, nodded quickly, stepping beside him as the walkers advanced.

Shane turned back to Maggie, his grip on his shotgun tightening. “He said there’s a farm with a doctor, right? Get us there. Now.”

With urgency pressing in around them, Shane and Glenn moved swiftly to get Rick onto the horse. Lacey held out a steadying hand as they lifted him up, his blood-soaked hands never leaving Carl. His son’s body was limp, his breaths weak, but still there.

“Easy, easy—” Shane grunted as they carefully lifted Carl, slotting him between Rick’s legs, sandwiched between Lacey in the front and Rick at the back. Lacey instinctively reached back to steady the child, her grip firm but careful.
Rick barely heard them, his arms tightening around Carl’s small frame as though afraid he’d slip away at any moment.

Shane’s focus snapped to Sophia, her state had gone unnoticed during the chaos, barking at Glenn, his voice firm and unwavering. “Take Sophia too, get her out of here!” He ordered.

Sophia’s wide, tear-streaked eyes darted between the faces around her. Her breathing was shallow, frozen in fear.

Glenn nodded immediately. “Come on, Sophia,” he said, reaching down to help her onto the horse. She hesitated, her fingers clutching at her sleeves, before finally stepping forward. Glenn hoisted her up in front of him, making sure she was secure before adjusting his grip around Maggie’s waist, keeping her snug between them.

Shane took one last glance at the forming horde beyond the trees, their moans growing louder. “We’ll be right behind you,” he told Maggie. Then he turned to Rick. “Hold on to your boy.”

Rick didn’t respond, just tightened his hold on Carl, his face hollow with panic and pain.

Maggie and Lacey exchanged a brief nod before Maggie flicked the reins. The horses bolted forward, kicking up dirt as they galloped into the deepening woods, carrying Rick, Carl, Glenn, and Sophia toward the farm.

Shane, Ed, and Otis remained behind, the realisation of what was coming, now sinking in as the moans of walkers grew closer.

“Guess we’re on foot,” Shane muttered.

Otis swallowed hard, gripping his rifle. “It ain’t far,” he said, though his voice wavered slightly.

Shane squared his shoulders, eyes hard as steel. “Then let’s get a move on.”

With that, the three of them turned and ran and circled back, weaving through the trees in pursuit of the others—desperate to outrun the horde, making sure they didn’t lead it back to their new destination.

Chapter Text

The horses thundered across a barren crop field, their hooves kicking up dirt and brittle stalks as they raced toward the farmhouse in the distance. The wind rushed past them, cold and biting, but it was nothing compared to the fire of desperation in Maggie’s voice as she bellowed, “Dad!!”

Rick clung desperately to Carl’s limp body, his hands gripping his son as if sheer hope alone could keep him alive. Lacey’s horse bore their weight, its breaths heavy as it pushed forward with powerful strides.

Glenn kept Sophia close, his arms wrapped securely around her as she buried her face against Maggie’s back.

On the farmhouse porch, a slightly wrinkled woman stood wrapped in a thick blanket, the glow of a cigarette dimming between her fingers. Her frizzy blonde hair was caught in the wind as she squinted into the field, her sharp eyes narrowing when she caught sight of the charging riders.

Something was wrong.

She tapped out her cigarette hurriedly, preserving the rest in an ashtray before spinning on her heel. Her voice rang through the house, sharp and commanding. “Hershel, get out here!”

“Patricia, what are you screeching like that for? What could possibly be so—”

Hershel stepped onto the porch, his boots creaking against the wood, his voice steady but laced with irritation. The elderly man, dressed in faded farming slacks and a crisp white church shirt, wiped his hands on a rag, expecting nothing more than another overreaction from his neighbour.

Then Maggie’s voice rang through the air again, desperate and raw.

“Dad!!”

The urgency in her scream cut through him like a blade, and his words died in his throat as the horses came tearing across the open field, kicking up dust and brittle stalks.

Hershel barely had time to react before Maggie yanked back on the reins, bringing the horses to a jarring stop. Lacey followed suit, her breathing heavy as she twisted in her saddle. The moment the horses turned, Hershel and Patricia saw it—

The blood.

So much of it. Streaked across the grey horse’s back, dripping onto the dirt. Soaking the man clutching onto the boy in his arms.

Lacey leapt off her horse first, her hands already moving to help as Rick slid down, his grip on Carl never loosening. His son’s small body dangled like a ragdoll in his arms, blood still seeping from the wound.

Rick staggered toward the farmhouse, his eyes wild, his face streaked with sweat and tears. His voice broke as he pleaded, "Are you a doctor? Please… save my boy, I’m begging you. "

Hershel’s eyes flicked to his daughters, sharp with disapproval. Trespassers. Strangers. This was his land, his farm, and this wasn’t how things were done.

But then he looked at the boy.

The grey pallor of his skin. The shallow rise and fall of his chest. The blood—God, so much blood.

That argument would have to wait.

“Was he bit?” Hershel asked firmly.

“He was shot, by your man Otis.” Rick hoped that using guilt would increase his chances of getting help from these people. “I… I think the bullet’s still in there. Please, you gotta save him,” Rick pleaded.

Hershel didn’t hesitate. As soon as Carl was through the door, he marched through the house, his face set with determination. He rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, exposing his weathered forearms, and started barking orders without missing a beat.

“Patricia, I’ll need my full kit—sterilized.” His voice was firm, commanding. “Scalpels, clamps, sutures—everything.”

Patricia, still wide-eyed from the chaos, nodded quickly and rushed off toward the back of the house.

“Maggie, painkillers, coagulants—get me everything we have,” Hershel continued as he turned into the nearest guest bedroom, already making space.

“Lacey,” he snapped, barely looking over his shoulder. “Towels, sheets, alcohol. Now.”

Lacey took off without a word as Hershel yanked the bedding off the old wooden-framed bed, tossing it into a corner. He worked quickly; his hands steady despite the mounting pressure of saving this little boys life.

“Put him here,” he ordered, pointing to the freshly stripped mattress.

Rick, still clutching Carl’s limp body, hesitated only for a second before carefully laying his son down. His hands trembled as he stepped back, his breath ragged.

Two male figures hesitantly peered around the door frame, their expressions torn between curiosity and concern. Both were young, maybe sixteen, and both fairly skinny. The shorter of the two had scruffy hair, his first patches of facial hair beginning to show. He wore faded dungarees, his fingers gripping the strap nervously. The taller boy, neater in appearance and sharing Patricia’s blonde hair, swallowed hard as he took in the scene.

“Dad?” the shorter boy asked cautiously, his southern voice uncertain. “What’s going on?”

The taller boy’s face paled. “Whoa… that’s a lot of blood.”

Hershel barely looked up, his focus unwavering. “Billy, Jimmy. I want both of you outside.” His voice left no room for argument. “I haven’t got time for your prying, now go help Arnold in the barn.”

The two boys exchanged one last uneasy glance before obeying, their footsteps retreating down the hall.

Inside the room, Rick stood frozen, his fingers twitching at his sides. He hovered beside the bed, lost in the sheer chaos of the moment, his body moving without true thought. Hershel, moving with precision, barely spared him a glance as he issued another order.

“Pillowcase.”

Rick blinked, struggling to process the words. His hands fumbled uselessly at his sides while Hershel remained steady, already unbuckling Carl’s belt from his small jeans.

“Is he alive?” Rick asked faintly, his voice barely audible.

Hershel didn’t answer. “Pillowcase,” he repeated, firmer this time.

Rick’s hands shook as he reached for the one on the bed, but before he could do anything, Patricia, Maggie, and Lacey rushed back into the room, arms full of the supplies Hershel had demanded. Without hesitation, Patricia yanked the pillowcase from Ricks hand.

“Fold it into a pad,” Hershel instructed, his tone unwavering as Patricia handed it off to Rick. “Press it hard against the wound.”

Rick obeyed, pressing the makeshift dressing down, his breath catching at the sight of Carl’s blood soaking into the fabric.

Hershel pulled his stethoscope from his kit, placing it against Carl’s small chest. The room fell completely silent. Every breath hitched. Every second stretched unbearably long.

Then—

“He’s got a heartbeat,” Hershel finally announced.

The collective exhale in the room was almost deafening.

“I’ll take it from here,” Lacey said, stepping in and nudging Rick’s trembling hands off the pad.

Hershel barely glanced at him, asking for both of their names. Rick shakenly answered the man and Hershel calmly said, “Rick, we’re going to do everything we can to try and save your boy, but you’ve got to give us some room, we’ll send for you when he’s stable.”

Rick shook his head. “No, I—”

“Son, I’m not asking.” Hershel’s voice was firm, unrelenting.

Maggie stepped forward, gently placing a hand on Rick’s arm. “Come on,” she said softly.

Rick hesitated, his bloodied hands curling into fists before finally letting Maggie guide him toward the door. As soon as he stepped into the hallway, Glenn and Sophia were there, waiting anxiously.

Rick’s legs felt weak beneath him. His vision blurred.

Glenn guided Rick outside, keeping a steady grip on his arm as they stepped onto the farmhouse porch. The cool afternoon air hit them, sharp against the sweat and blood clinging to Rick’s skin. He barely registered it as Glenn eased him down onto the wooden deck, his movements were twitchy, like he wasn’t truly present.

Maggie emerged moments later, carrying some wet rags. “Here,” she said, handing them to Glenn. “I gotta go help my dad—your boy’s in good hands.”

Glenn took the rags, his eyes lingering on her for a beat longer than he meant to. In the harsh sunlight, he noticed how hazel her eyes were, warm despite the exhaustion in them. He swallowed and nodded. “Thanks.”

She didn’t say anything more, just gave Rick a quick glance before hurrying back inside, disappearing behind the farmhouse door.

Glenn exhaled through his nose and turned back to Rick, who sat slumped forward, his forearms resting on his knees. His eyes were bloodshot, watery, his chest rising and falling in shaky, uneven breaths. Glenn gently dabbed the rag over Rick’s face, wiping away the streaks of Carl’s blood smeared across his skin.

Rick didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. He just let it happen.

Glenn hesitated before moving to clean Rick’s hands, the blood thick and dark between his fingers. His hands shook as he wrung out the rag, red water dripping onto the porch beneath them. Neither of them spoke.

Then, the low rumble of engines broke the silence.

Glenn and Rick lifted their heads, their gazes snapping toward the dirt road leading up to the house. Through the blinding light, they spotted the approaching vehicles—Dale’s RV, and the SUV.

Leading them, guiding the way down the winding path, was Beth on horseback, her posture worn and slumped with exhaustion. The afternoon sun caught her weary expression as she steered the horse closer.

They had made it.

Chapter Text

The passengers of the convoy stepped out one by one, taking in the vast farmland surrounding them. The stretch of open fields, the farmhouse, the big red barn—it was all a stark contrast to the highways and forests they’d been navigating through for the past weeks. For a brief moment, there was a collective exhale, a sliver of relief at having arrived somewhere that looked safe.

But the relief didn’t last long.

Beth, who had been leading them off the highway, let out a small gasp before her legs buckled, and she collapsed to her knees beside her horse. Dale, despite his age, moved quickly, crouching beside her and keeping her steady with a firm grip on her shoulders.

“Easy now,” he said gently, his weathered hands grounding her. “You alright, sweetheart?”

Beth nodded weakly, her breath uneven, but Dale wasn’t convinced. He turned his head. “Amy, get her some water from the RV, please.”

Amy nodded and jogged off toward the vehicle while Tyreese and Andrea stood at a distance, their eyes scanning the property. Julie and Chris remained inside the RV with Lizzie, Mika, and Allen for now, their cautious gazes peeking through the small window.

T-Dog stepped out beside Tyreese and Andrea, taking in the land with a wide grin. “Damn,” he muttered, letting out a low whistle. “Now this is a sight.”

But his smile faded the moment the SUV doors slammed open.

Carol and Lori bolted out, their instincts overriding any hesitation.

Carol’s feet barely touched the ground as she sprinted toward Sophia, who stood near Glenn and Rick, small and alone. “Sophia!” she cried, crashing into her daughter, wrapping her up in a tight, tearful embrace. Carol’s fingers clutched at her jacket, smoothing her hair, as if reassuring herself that she was real.

Lori, however, froze.

Her breath hitched when she saw the blood.

There was so much of it.

It was streaked across Rick’s hands, his clothes, smears of it still clinging to his face despite Glenn’s attempts to wipe it away. But worse than the blood—Carl wasn’t there.

Her voice came out trembling. “Rick… where is he… where’s my little boy?”

Rick didn’t respond. He just stared ahead, hollow, lost in the trauma of the last hour. His hands flexed uselessly on his knees, his mouth parted like he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.

Lori took a step closer. “Rick?”

He remained silent.

Glenn saw the panic rising in her and stepped forward, gently pulling her into a hug. “He’s alive,” Glenn reassured her, rubbing her back as her whole body trembled. “He’s alive, Lori. He got shot, but we got him here. There’s a doctor inside—Hershel. He’s working on him right now.”

Lori let out a strangled sob, the weight of it all hitting her at once. Her legs gave out beneath her, and she crumpled beside Rick on the porch deck, her hands clutching at his arms as if she could hold him together.
Rick finally moved.

He wrapped his arms around her, burying his face into her shoulder, and together they sat there broken and waiting.

A loud, metallic clang echoed across the property as a large, muscular man bolted the double doors to the red barn at the centre of the farm. His movements were abrupt, his broad shoulders rising and falling with frustration as he secured the heavy latch. His thick arms were tense, his jaw set.

Arnold Greene—mid-twenties, towering, built like an ox—turned toward the main house and immediately noticed the new faces surrounding his family home. The sight of the unfamiliar vehicles made his eyes narrow in displeasure. His family had barely adjusted to letting the Bennet’s stay with them, and now more people are showing up? His patience was already thin.

Disgruntled, he stormed toward the newcomers, his boots crunching over the dirt. His heavy steps were fast, purposeful.

As he moved, two younger boys crossed his path—Jimmy Bennet and Billy Greene, both gawking at the scene unfolding as they watched the group’s arrival.

Billy, was the first to react when Arnold barrelled past them, barging between the teenagers. “Hey! What the fuck, Arnold?” he snapped, stumbling slightly.

Arnold didn’t slow down, didn’t even glance at them. “Watch your tone, Billy,” he muttered in a deep, warning voice. “And clear off, the pair of you. This doesn’t concern you.”

Billy’s irritation simmered, but Jimmy gave him a knowing look and sighed. There was no arguing with Arnold when he was like this.

With a shared, resigned exhale, the brothers turned back the way they came—trailing toward the newcomers at a safer distance.

They weren’t about to miss whatever was about to kick off.

Arnold stormed across the dirt path, his boots digging into the ground with each heavy step. His broad shoulders were squared, fists clenched at his sides, his temper flaring hotter with every breath. Behind him, Jimmy and Billy followed, their pace slower but their interest piqued— Billy knew his older brother’s temper all too well.

The moment he reached the group, his anger erupted. “Beth! What is all this? What do you think this place is, huh?” he barked, his sharp eyes locking onto Beth. “This ain’t a homeless shelter!”

Beth barely had time to register his words, still catching her breath, still exhausted from leading the convoy here. She flinched at his aggression but didn’t respond.

Arnold sneered, his gaze sweeping over the unfamiliar faces with open hostility. He scoffed before turning his glare back on his half-sister. “Dad might’ve let your little boyfriend and his family stay, but this?” He jabbed a finger toward the ragged group standing by the vehicles. “This is too far.”

Dale stiffened beside Beth, his lips pressing into a thin line. He didn’t flinch at the comment, but there was no denying the sting of it. Arnold wasn’t wrong. They weren’t like these people. This farm—this life—was still untouched by the world’s destruction. These folks still had their land, their home, their safety.

The rest of them? They had nothing.

They WERE homeless.

"That’s enough, boy!"

A sharp, commanding voice cut through the tension, silencing the argument in an instant.

From the deck, Hershel stood behind Rick and Lori, his presence demanding authority. His crisp white church shirt, once pristine, was now smeared with fresh blood—a stark reminder of the battle taking place inside. His weary eyes, though tired, still burned with disappointment as they landed on his son.

"A young boy's life hangs in the balance,” Hershel said, his voice low and firm, “all because of one man's carelessness.” He let the words linger, his meaning clear. “Our man’s carelessness,” he added, his gaze narrowing.

Arnold’s jaw tightened, his nostrils flaring, but he remained silent.

“The least you can do,” Hershel continued, “is show some manners for the time being. Let alone screaming at Bethy like that. Look at her, Arnold. She can barely stand.”

Beth wavered on her feet; exhaustion evident in her trembling limbs. She wasn’t about to let Arnold see her falter, but it was undeniable.

Hershel straightened; his voice unwavering. “Now clear off. I’m sure there’s better things you could be doing.”

Arnold’s mouth opened slightly like he wanted to argue, but Hershel’s glare alone was enough to shut him down. His temper, cut off at the root, left him seething as he turned on his heel and stormed off toward the barn without another word.

As he passed, Billy couldn’t help himself—his voice dropped into a mocking tone. “Watch your tone, Arnold.”

Jimmy and Billy both snickered, but their amusement was short-lived.

“You two, clear off as well!” Hershel barked.

The smirks disappeared from their faces immediately.

“Go be useful for once,” Hershel added with irritation.

Jimmy hesitated for a moment before scurrying over to his girlfriend, who was now managing to stand on her own with less of Dale’s support. Without a word, he looped an arm around her back and started guiding her toward the house.

Billy scoffed under his breath as he watched his friend walk off with his sister. “Ditching me for her, again” he muttered before shaking his head and heading toward the chicken coop, kicking at the dirt in frustration.

Lori shakily pushed herself up from the porch, her legs unsteady beneath her as she turned to face Hershel. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her breaths shallow, as she looked up at the man who held her son’s fate in his hands.

“Are you—are you the man helping my boy?” she quivered, barely getting the words out.

Hershel met her gaze and gave a solemn nod. “I am,” he confirmed. His voice was calm, but firm—measured, like a man who had seen enough life and death to know not to make promises.

Lori’s lips trembled, and she swallowed hard before forcing herself to ask, “Is he…?”

“He’s stable,” Hershel assured her, though his tone remained serious. “But he’s lost a lot of blood. He needs an operation. Doing that now, would be too risky. He needs a transfusion first.” His sharp eyes flicked between her and Rick. “Do you know his blood type?”

Rick, who had barely spoken since leaving Carl’s side, stiffened at the question. His eyes snapped up to Hershel, his voice shaking but immediate. “A-positive. Same as me.”

Hershel gave a small nod. “Splendid,” he said, gesturing toward the house. “Come inside. Patricia will start the transfusion.”

Rick nodded numbly and moved without hesitation, his body operating purely on instinct.

Lori, however, wasn’t done. She took a small step forward, desperation in her eyes. “Will that… will that save him?”

Hershel opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, the sound of heavy footsteps pounding across the farmland caught everyone’s attention.

Heads turned just in time to see three figures rushing toward the house.

Shane. Otis. Ed.

They were breathless, soaked in sweat, but thankfully, not pursued by walkers.

Otis, however, was struggling. His clumsiness made it difficult to keep up, and every time he stumbled, Shane yanked him forward by the collar of his vest, dragging him back onto his feet. By the time they reached the group, Shane had had enough—he shoved Otis forward, sending him stumbling to his knees in the dirt.

Otis coughed, his hands pressing into the ground as he pleaded, "I swear, it was an accident!" His voice was hoarse, desperate.

Shane wasn’t having any of it. He stood over him, breathing hard, his fists clenched at his sides. His face was drenched in sweat, his temper burning beneath the surface. He barely noticed Ed doubling over to catch his breath.
Shane’s eyes darted across the porch, locking onto Lori. “Is he alive?” he demanded, his voice tight, urgent.

A heavy silence fell over the group.

Hershel finally spoke. “The transfusion will buy him some time,” he said evenly. “But it won’t be enough. I need to remove the bullet fragments, and I can’t do that with the tools I have here.”

Shane’s breathing was still ragged, his mind racing. “So what now then?”

Hershel’s gaze remained steady.

They all knew the answer.

They were going to have to get what he needed. And soon.

Chapter Text

Nightfall had settled, bringing with it a bone-chilling cold that crept through the small pickup truck. The heater was useless, doing little to fight off the early spring air that seeped through the cracks in the doors. Inside, the atmosphere was just as frigid.

Jimmy sat behind the wheel, his knuckles gripping it tighter than necessary, his breath clouding faintly in the cab. Beside him, Shane was silent for now, the tension rolling off him in waves. In the flatbed, Otis sat alone, his hunched figure barely visible through the rearview mirror. Empty duffle bags lay by his feet, waiting to be filled.

The destination loomed ahead—Jimmy’ school, Cranwall High.

Him and all the Greene children had walked those halls at one point or another. Before the outbreak, he and Beth had been in the same school year. She was the sweet girl next door; he was the boy who never quite knew how to tell her how he felt at first. Billy, his best friend and Beth’s younger brother, had been a year behind them, expected to be held back a year - though now, that seemed like the least of anyone’s concerns.

None of that mattered anymore.

The school had been transformed into a safe zone when everything first fell apart. Medical stations had been set up, volunteers and soldiers working tirelessly to help the infected.

That was the downfall. There was no stopping it from changing them. All those petrified teachers, teenagers, and parents, turning on one another and spilling so much blood.

Jimmy’s grip on the wheel tightened. He could still remember the screaming. The blood. The way people begged for help.

A sharp snap of fingers pulled him back to the present.

“For fuck sake, kid, are you even watching the road?” Shane’s voice cut through the quiet, sharp and impatient. “I said, how much further?”

Jimmy stumbled over his words, snapping out of his thoughts. “It’s—” He cleared his throat, forcing himself to focus. “It’s just ahead.”

The truck rumbled down the dark road, the school’s silhouette coming into view against the night sky. The once-bustling parking lot was now a ghost town, littered with abandoned vehicles and scattered debris.

Jimmy slowed the truck and pulled into a parking spot just outside the perimeter. Any closer, and they’d risk drawing the attention of whatever still roamed those halls.

Shane exhaled, his hand reaching for his shotgun.

They had arrived.

Now came the hard part.

Otis climbed out of the flatbed, landing heavily on the cracked pavement. Without a word, he reached down, grabbed the empty duffle bags, and tossed one to each of them—Jimmy and Shane catching theirs with little enthusiasm.

Shane slung his over his shoulder, his jaw tightening as he watched Otis pick up his rifle. His grip flexed around the strap of his own bag, his teeth grinding together.

That damn rifle.

The reason they were here. The reason Carl was dying.

He could feel the anger simmering under his skin, but he swallowed it back.

Jimmy moved around to the back of the truck, grabbing another rifle. His movements were steady, but there was no hiding the tension in his shoulders. The air was thick with unspoken words, but no one dared break the silence.

They turned toward the looming structure before them. The school stood eerily still; its windows shattered and covered with flicks of dry blood. The front doors were slightly ajar, creaking as the wind pushed against them.

Without another word, the three of them made their way inside through the reception area, their footsteps echoing against the linoleum floors.

The halls ahead stretched into darkness, littered with remnants of a place that had once been filled with innocence and life.

Now, it was just cold and still.

Shane stopped just inside the reception area, turning to face the other two. His voice was low but firm, the kind of tone that left no room for argument.

His eyes landed on Jimmy. “This place is a goddamn maze. You know it best. You’re leading the way.”

Jimmy nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. He did know this place—every hall, every shortcut. He could still picture how it used to be.

“There were trailers on the sports field,” he said after a moment, his voice steady but quiet. “That’s where they kept all the medical supplies and most of the infected. Hershel gave me a list of what he needs. Here,” he whispered, passing Shane the crumpled-up list.

Otis let out a short, forced chuckle, hoisting his rifle higher over his shoulder. “Piece of cake, right?”

Jimmy turned to look at him, his face unreadable. His dad still didn’t get it.

Shaking his head, he exhaled. “The fastest way to the field is through the gym,” he admitted. His stomach twisted at the memory. “That’s where it happened. The worst of it.”

Shane’s brows furrowed. “How many are in there, kid?”

Jimmy’s fingers curled around the strap of his rifle. “I... I don't know, there was a lot of infected when I got out of there. A hundred maybe.”

Shane sighed through his nose, already frustrated.

Jimmy took a deep breath before continuing, “If we go through the stands, climb across the bleachers, we can get past them without drawing too much attention.

Shane gestured his shotgun forward, to motion Jimmy to start walking and lead the way.

And with that, they moved forward, deeper into the dark, silent halls of the school, toward the ghosts of the past that still lingered there.

The long corridors stretched out before them, eerily empty, the silence pressing in on all sides. Dust hung in the air; particles illuminated by the faint moonlight trickling in through broken windows. The walls were lined with old posters, some peeling, others defaced with crude drawings from students who once thought this school would be the worst of their problems.

But it wasn’t the corridors that worried them.

It was what lay beyond the double doors ahead.

As the trio approached, the groans became unmistakable - a deep, guttural chorus of hunger echoing from the other side of the gymnasium doors.

Shane moved first, gripping his shotgun in one hand as he pressed his palm against the door, ready to push it open.

The group crept into the gymnasium, their footsteps light against the dusty floor. The air was thick with decay, a putrid mix of sweat, dried blood, and rotting flesh.

The walkers were distracted.

A rat, perched high on a ledge just out of reach, twitched its nose, oblivious to the snapping jaws below. There were far fewer of them than Jimmy had predicted—many must have wandered off over time—but at least forty remained, their skeletal arms stretching desperately for the unbothered meal.

Otis moved first, scaling the bleachers cautiously, followed by Shane, then Jimmy.

Their goal was clear—the double doors leading outside to the sports field. The trailers with the medical supplies were just beyond them.

Jimmy stepped carefully between the benches, his eyes darting to the devoured bodies sprawled across the seats, long since dried out. Bullet holes peppered the walls and wooden panels in sporadic, reckless patterns.

He swallowed thickly. He remembered.

How the military had turned on those they were meant to protect. How the orders to quarantine were received over the radio—cold, emotionless. How they opened fire without hesitation.

Even on the uninfected.

Even on him.

He had survived only because his former classmates had turned fast. Their sudden attack had thrown the soldiers into chaos, giving Jimmy just enough time to slip through the back door.

But now, he was here again.

And the ghosts of that night weren’t done with him yet.

His boot caught something—a body draped over a bench, stiff and lifeless.

Jimmy stumbled forward, his rifle slipping from his grasp, clattering loudly down the bleachers.

The sound was deafening.

Shane and Otis’s heads whipped around, their eyes going wide as the infected snapped toward the noise.

Their moment of cover was gone.

A guttural chorus of moans erupted from the horde as they turned toward the fresh, living scent of new prey.

“Shit, shit, shit—” Jimmy hissed under his breath, scrambling to grab his weapon as the dead lunged toward him.

Otis instinctively moved to jump down, to help—but Shane’s hand shot out, gripping his shirt.

“Stop being an idiot.” Shane’s voice was low, cold, but firm. His dark eyes locked onto Otis’s, unyielding. “They haven’t noticed us yet.”

Otis turned to him in horror. "Haven’t noticed us? That’s my son!”

His voice was too loud.

The walkers nearest to them snapped their heads up, their rotting lips peeling back in hunger as they turned toward the sound.

Jimmy didn’t have time to look back.

His heart pounded as he raised his rifle and fired, darting between the outstretched hands grabbing for him.

One snagged his shirt—a soldier.

Or at least, it used to be.

The walker’s gas mask was still secured over its decomposed face, muffling its chomping bites.

A gunshot rang out, splitting its skull open, dropping it instantly.

Jimmy barely had time to process it before Otis lowered his rifle, reloading in a frenzy.

“Jimmy, run!”

Jimmy did.

But not toward them.

He darted into a side hallway, heading deeper into the school, his gunshots ringing through the corridors as he cleared his path.

Then, after a few moments—

Silence.

Shane cursed under his breath, lifting his shotgun and firing at the closest walkers, taking down three in quick succession.

Otis was already moving toward the double doors. He shoved them open and barrelled outside, gasping for breath as the cold night air hit him.

Shane moved to follow—but hands grabbed him from behind.

A growl, the snap of teeth just inches from his ear.

“Shit!”

He twisted violently, slamming a walker against the door frame, but more hands followed—pulling, clawing.

The doors slammed shut.

Otis spun at the sound, realizing—

Shane was still inside.

“Shane!”

But Shane was already moving.

He ripped his hunting knife from his belt, driving it into the skull of the closest walker.

Another one grabbed at his arm—he yanked free, slicing its throat wide open, sending dark, congealed blood spilling onto the gym floor. However, it kept coming for him, so he plunged the knife into its temple, instantly stopping its advances.

He charged up the bleachers, vaulting over a bench, then slammed through another set of doors, disappearing down a dimly lit hallway.

Outside, Otis stood there, breathing hard, the silence pressing in around him. The gymnasium doors were sealed shut behind him, the echo of chaos still ringing in his ears. His eyes darted toward the two large medical trailers sitting in the open sports field.

He didn’t know what Hershel needed. Shane had the list.

His stomach twisted.

Patricia had always handled this sort of thing—medicine, supplies, patching-up the livestock. But right now, she wasn’t here. She was back at the farm, her hands covered in that boy’s blood, fighting to save the life that he had nearly taken.

It was a freak accident.

That single thought had been the only thing replaying over in his mind ever since he shot Carl.

Otis swallowed hard, his chest tightening as his vision blurred with unshed tears.

Then—crash!

The sound of breaking glass shattered the silence, snapping Otis’s attention upward.

Shane climbed out from a shattered first-floor window, gripping the ledge with both hands, his face twisted in concentration. Without hesitation, he let go, his body plummeting toward the ground.

The drop was fast—too fast.

Shane hit the ground with a hard thud, rolling awkwardly as his ankle twisted beneath him.

“Ah, shit—!” he exclaimed, collapsing onto his side, clutching his foot.

Otis ran toward him without thinking, skidding onto his knees beside him. “You alright?”

Shane gritted his teeth, breathing through the pain. His hands flexed, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might snap. But he nodded, forcing himself upright with Otis’s help.

“Let’s just get what we came for,” he growled, voice sharp with frustration. “And get the hell out of here.”

Otis nodded, gripping Shane’s arm firmly as he helped him limp toward the medical trailers.

The pair of them tore through the medical trailers with urgency, their movements sloppy. Every cabinet was yanked open, every drawer rummaged through, their hands grabbing anything and everything that matched Hershel’s list.

Shane held the paper tightly in his grip, checking it over again and again, ensuring they weren’t missing anything.

Morphine, sutures, scalpels, forceps…

Antibiotics, blood bags, coagulants…

Otis shoved bottles of medication into his duffle bag, his fingers fumbling slightly as he grabbed a tank of anaesthetic and tucked it in with the rest. Shane rifled through another drawer, stuffing gauze and surgical tools into his bag without care for organization—they’d figure it out later.

They could’ve used Jimmy’s bag.

Could’ve doubled up on supplies—grabbed extra essentials that weren’t on the list.

But Jimmy wasn’t here.

And Carl didn’t have time to wait.

“This’ll have to do,” Shane muttered, zipping his bag shut, his breathing heavy. He slung it over his shoulder and glanced toward the exit.

Otis did the same, hoisting his own bag onto his back.

With their hands full, their hearts pounding, and the weight of Carl’s life literally on their shoulders—

They stepped back into the cold night.

They knew they couldn’t go back the way they came.

The gym was overrun, the hallways crawling. So, they pushed forward, deeper into the school, their only escape through a much longer path—the cafeteria.

Their movements were no longer cautious. The dead knew they were here.

They came from every angle, shambling from doorways, emerging from dark classrooms, drawn by the sound, the scent, the hunt.

Shane and Otis barrelled through the halls, shoving, knocking over anything in their way. Chairs, desks, even bodies were sent sprawling. Shane fired at anything too close. Otis swung his rifle like a club, sending rotten skulls caving in with sickening cracks.

Finally—they burst outside.

The pickup truck was within sight, parked at the edge of the lot.

But Shane was slow, his twisted ankle screaming with every step.

And Otis—he was out of breath, his lungs burning, his legs shaking under the weight of exhaustion.

Gunfire suddenly rang out from inside the school.

Jimmy.

But the walkers at their heels didn’t turn toward the sound.

They were locked onto them, the chase too enticing to abandon.

“I can’t leave him, Shane!” Otis wheezed, his breath ragged, his wide, tear-filled eyes flicking to the school. “He’s, my son!”

Shane grabbed him by the front of his vest, yanking him forward. Their faces were inches apart, sweat mixing with the cold night air.

“Carl needs what’s in that bag,” Shane growled, his eyes dark, dangerous. “You caused that.”

Otis’s breath hitched at the coldness in his voice.

The walkers were closing in.

Otis shrugged off Shane’s grip, fear flickering across his face. "He's my son... Shane."

Shane didn’t hesitate.

The hunting knife was in his hand before Otis even saw it.

And then—he drove it straight into Otis’s kneecap.

A sickening pop echoed as Shane twisted the blade, severing tendon and cartilage.

Otis screamed, collapsing onto the pavement. His hands clawed at the wound; his fingers slick with blood. "Shane!"

But Shane wasn’t listening.

He wrestled with him, tearing at the duffle bag strapped across his back.

Otis fought, his nails raking at Shane, his hand grabbing a fistful of Shane’s hair and ripping out a large chunk.

Shane roared in pain but pulled harder.

And then—

The walkers reached them.

They fell onto Otis, teeth sinking into his legs, his side, his arms.

His screams turned from anger, to agony, to pure terror.

His grip on Shane weakened.

Shane ripped the duffle bag free and stumbled backward, leaving the knife buried in Otis’s shattered knee.

Suddenly, Jimmy burst out of the building, swinging his empty rifle like a bat, smashing stray walkers in his way.

He barely had time to process the scene before him.

His father, pinned beneath the dead.

Ripped.

Torn.

Silenced.

Jimmy’s voice was barely above a whisper, choked and hollow.

“Dad…”

But Shane wasn’t waiting.

He turned, sprinted to the truck, and threw himself into the driver’s seat, jamming the key into the ignition. The engine roared to life.

Jimmy snapped out of it, blinking through his grief, and ran.

With everything he had left, he leapt into the flatbed of the truck just as Shane hit the gas.

The tires screeched.

The pickup peeled away, leaving Otis behind.

Leaving the swarm behind.

And leaving Jimmy with the last image of his father—his body being torn apart, his voice forever silenced.

Chapter Text

It had been almost twelve hours since Shane, Otis, and Jimmy had left the farm. The minutes had stretched into hours, and now the hours dragged like lead weights on Lori’s shoulders.

She paced the floor beside Carl’s makeshift hospital bed, her arms folded tightly across her chest, chewing at her fingernails until the skin stung. Her eyes were red, her voice raw as she muttered for the tenth time, “They should’ve been back by now…”

Amy stood beside her, trying to offer what little comfort she could, her hand gently resting on Lori’s back. “They’ll come. Just hang on, okay?” she said softly, though her own voice lacked conviction. She didn’t believe it any more than Lori did.

Andrea, focused and calm under pressure, was on the other side of the room helping Patricia move some equipment, clearing the way so she could reach the blood bag hanging above Rick’s limp arm.

Rick lay motionless, drenched in sweat, his skin pale and clammy, lips nearly colourless. The transfusion had bought Carl time—but it was draining Rick.

His body, weakened by blood loss, could no longer keep pace with Carl’s needs.

And time was slipping through their fingers.

Patricia retrieved the blood bag carefully, exchanging a grim look with Hershel across the room.

They were running out of blood.

Running out time.

Suddenly, Lacey’s voice rang out from the porch, sharp and sudden, “They’re back!!” The words echoed, filled with both relief and dread.

Heads turned. Conversations stopped.

In the distance, the battered pickup truck bounced violently down the dirt path, its headlights casting long shadows over the fields as it sped toward the farmhouse.

The brakes screeched as Shane slammed them, the vehicle lurching to a stop just outside the house.

A wave of silent movement followed.

Members of the group gathered near the edge of the house but kept a respectful distance. Carol stood to the side, clutching the charm on her necklace, her lips moving in a whispered prayer.

On the porch, Glenn and Maggie rose slowly from the swinging bench, eyes fixed on the scene unfolding before them.

Shane threw open the driver’s side door and stormed out of the vehicle, face drenched in sweat and blood.

Jimmy climbed out of the flatbed with shaking limbs, his face ghost white, hollow and unreadable.

Shane didn’t say a word. He yanked the duffel bags from the back and limped with them slung over his shoulder, jaw clenched, eyes straight ahead as he marched toward the front steps.

Hershel emerged from the house at the same time, his expression hopeful for only a fraction of a second—until he saw the state of them.

He stopped just shy of the porch. “Otis?” he asked quietly.

Jimmy couldn’t speak. His lips parted, but no sound came.

Shane spoke for him, his voice sharp and low. “He didn’t make it.”

Hershel looked away, exhaling slowly through his nose, murmuring the words, “Nobody is to tell Patricia.” “Not until after—”

“Tell me what, Hershel?”

The voice came from behind him—hollow, already trembling.

Patricia stepped out from the front door, having followed the commotion. Her eyes darted toward Shane, the blood on his hands and shirt, then down to the duffel bags hanging heavily at his side.

But it was Jimmy that caught her breath.

He couldn’t meet her eyes.

“Jimmy… where’s your father?” she asked, her voice tight. “What’s happened?”

Jimmy shook his head, his lips quivering.

“…Oh.”

The word came out broken.

Her hand covered her mouth, but she couldn’t stop the sob that escaped her chest. Her knees weakened, and Hershel reached for her, steadying her gently as she buried her face into his shoulder.

The rest of the group turned away, some out of respect, others because they couldn’t bear to watch.

Patricia and Jimmy held onto each other, mother and son bound together in silent, shuddering grief. She clutched him tightly, like she could hold back the world from taking anything else. Jimmy didn’t speak—he simply wept against her shoulder, his entire body trembling with the weight of what he’d witnessed.

Hershel, standing firmly at the top of the porch steps, allowed them that moment.

Then, in a voice firm but gentle, he gave the order. “Lacey… take them somewhere private. Get Billy to come with you. That boy needs a friend right now.”

Lacey nodded. She crossed the yard, carefully wrapping an arm around Patricia’s shoulders and another around Jimmy’s, guiding them slowly toward the stables. Billy was already following behind, his usual cocky demeanour gone, replaced with quiet understanding.

Once they disappeared from view, Hershel turned back to the group still gathered near the porch, his expression sharp and searching.

“I need a steady set of hands,” he said bluntly, scanning the faces before him.

“I’ll do it,” Shane said without hesitation, stepping forward.

Hershel’s eyes snapped to him. “No.”

There was no warmth in his tone. Just tired certainty.

“Son, look at the state of you. You’re injured; you’re exhausted—you’ve done enough for that boy for one night.”

Shane squared his jaw. “I’m fine.”

Hershel didn’t waver. “Dammit, I said no!”.”

A tense silence hung between them for a beat before Shane dropped the duffel bags heavily on the porch. Without another word, he turned and stormed off toward the RV, brushing past Dale without a glance. Dale watched him go; concern etched deep into the lines of his face.

T-Dog, silent and thoughtful, followed behind Shane, giving Hershel a brief nod as he passed.

Hershel looked back to the remaining group. “Well?” he asked, voice still rough with urgency.

“Sasha’s got a good hand,” Tyreese said firmly, his deep voice cutting through the hesitant quiet that followed Hershel’s request.

Sasha blinked, caught off guard. She’d been standing near the porch steps, arms crossed, watching everything unfold. She hadn’t expected that from her brother.

Her eyes widened. “What? No… I—”

“That boy in there, needs this surgery. He’ll die without it and I can’t do it by myself, so you’ll follow me if you want him to survive this,” Hershel interjected.

Maggie gestured for her hand to take hers and guided her towards the house.

“What the fuck Tye!” Sasha called out, throwing him an incredulous look, one that screamed what the fuck did you just do?

Tyreese gave a small, apologetic shrug, but didn’t back down. “You’ve run headfirst into burning buildings… You’ll do fine.”

Before Sasha could object again, Maggie was already pulling inside the house.

She cast one last helpless glance behind her before vanishing through the doorway, her nerves catching up with her as Maggie led her toward the back room where Hershel was preparing to begin.

As Hershel entered the room, Lori’s face was nearly as pale as Rick’s as she hovered near Carl’s bedside, wringing her hands anxiously. Her voice cracked with worry as she asked, "Did they get the stuff?"

Hershel nodded without missing a beat. “Yes. We have what we need. But now it’s time for both of you to wait outside till we’re finished.”

Lori’s eyes, wide and fearful, locked onto Sasha as Maggie moved her into place beside Carl. Panic rose in Lori’s chest, making her voice shrill.

“Wait, wait—where’s Patricia? Why is Sasha here?”

Hershel kept his voice even, calm, but firm. He didn’t stop prepping as he spoke, tying Carl gently but firmly to the table with strips of clean cloth to keep him from thrashing.

“Otis is dead,” Hershel said simply, as he doused the operating area with iodine. “Patricia’s not in any state to assist. Sasha’s helping. She’ll be fine.”

Lori shook her head, about to argue, but Amy was already moving to guide her toward the door, whispering soft reassurances. Andrea slid an arm under Rick’s, lifting him carefully to his unsteady feet, his skin deathly pale and clammy.

Before Lori was fully ushered out, Sasha met her gaze and offered a small, calm smile.

“You don’t have to worry,” she said, her voice steady and warm. “He’s in safe hands.”

Something about her confidence, her steadiness, gave Lori just enough strength to let herself be led from the room.

Inside, Maggie and Sasha now stood shoulder to shoulder, both gloved and ready, opposite Hershel.

Hershel glanced up at them, his face composed and focused.

“Ready?” he asked quietly.

Both young women nodded firmly.

Hershel gave a small nod back.

Without hesitation, he made the first incision.

Meanwhile, Dale stood a fair distance away from the house, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as he observed Shane at the water pump. Shane scrubbed his bloodstained hands and face, the cold water rushing over his skin, dripping onto the frost-bitten ground.

He moved mechanically, almost detached.

When Shane tilted his head and caught sight of Dale watching, he met him with a cold, blank stare. No anger. No warmth. Just an empty indifference that made the hairs on Dale’s arms stand on end against the cool night air.
Dale didn’t look away.

“What happened to Otis, Shane?” he called out, his voice steady but probing.

Shane switched off the pump, letting the handle snap back into place with a metallic clang. He sighed, shaking the water from his hands.

“It’s like I said,” Shane muttered, shrugging past him. “He didn’t make it, Dale.”

Dale, stubborn as ever, stepped forward, stopping Shane in his tracks.

“How did he die?” Dale pressed. “What happened?”

Shane’s jaw twitched. His hand balled into a fist and relaxed again at his side.

“You tryin’ to accuse me of something, Dale?” he asked, his tone uneasy but defensive.

Dale shook his head slowly. “I just think we deserve to know the whole story, that’s all.”

For a moment, Shane just stood there, breathing heavily through his nose. Then he took a step closer, until their faces were only inches apart.

“He was too slow,” Shane said, his voice low, a breath away from a snarl. “Walkers caught up to him. Dragged his clumsy ass down and ate him alive.”

He gave a half-hearted, almost mocking smile, as if daring Dale to question him again.
Shane turned to leave—

But Dale couldn’t help himself.

“So how’d you end up with his bag?”

Shane froze mid-step.

The smile evaporated from his face, replaced by a furious scowl.

Without warning, he shoved Dale roughly, sending the old man staggering back a step.

“Back off, Dale,” Shane barked, his voice slicing through the cold night.

Dale caught his balance, his heart hammering.

“Did you kill him?” Dale said, his voice lower, sharper. “Is that the kind of man you’ve become now, Shane? You’ve changed… since the Quarry.”

For a second, Shane just stood there, chest heaving.

Then he let out a hollow, almost bored chuckle, like Dale’s words barely grazed him.

The tense moment was broken when Arnold, Lacey, and Beth approached from the direction of the chicken coop, drawn by the raised voices.

“Everything alright, folks?” Arnold asked, eyeing Shane’s body language suspiciously.

Shane scoffed under his breath, gave Dale a glare full of unsaid threats, and stomped off toward the farmhouse without another word.

Lacey watched him go, then turned to Dale, frowning. “Dale, is it? What was all that about?”

Thinking fast—and thinking carefully—Dale forced a chuckle and shrugged.

“I accused him of eating some of my rations,” he lied smoothly, unwilling to risk sowing distrust among their new hosts with a suspicion he couldn’t prove… yet.

Beth’s concerned expression softened.

She smiled sweetly and said, “We’ve got heaps of food stored from the last harvest. You’re welcome to a portion if you’re hungry.”

Dale gave a guilty smile, appreciating her kindness even though the weight of the possible truth pressed heavily on his shoulders.

He accepted her offer with a nod, and the group slowly made their way back toward the house, leaving the cold darkness and Shane’s retreating figure behind.

Near the RV, the evening had fallen into a quiet, steady rhythm. Ed, Tyreese, Julie, Chris, and T-Dog were setting up a small cluster of tents around the vehicles, their hands moving automatically despite the biting chill in the air.

The farmhouse, already bursting at the seams with Hershel’s children and the Bennet family, had no room left to spare.

They would have to make do with the outdoors for now.

Inside the RV, it was warmer and quieter. Allen sat on the worn sofa, sound asleep, his arms wrapped protectively around his daughters, Lizzie and Mika, who had also dozed off against him. The soft sound of their breathing filled the cramped space.

Toward the back of the RV, Carol sat near the small dinette table, carefully brushing Sophia’s hair with gentle, patient strokes. The little girl sat motionless, her small hands folded in her lap, her eyes distant and glassy.

Carol’s voice was low and trembling as she sang a lullaby, the melody almost cracking under the weight of her heartache.

Between strokes of the brush, she tried—tried so desperately—to coax words from her daughter. A smile. A glance. Anything.

But Sophia remained silent.
A small tear slipped down Carol’s cheek as she continued to sing, her voice soft and breaking.

She brushed and sang and prayed—prayed—that the world hadn’t already broken the only thing she had left.

Sat just outside Carl’s room, Rick and Lori clutched onto each other’s hands, the muted sounds of the house around them feeling distant, almost dreamlike.

Lori’s voice broke the fragile silence. “What are we gonna do, Rick? What if he doesn’t make it?”

Rick, still pale but no longer as drained from the transfusion, squeezed her hand tighter. His stomach twisted with the weight of words he hadn’t dared to say aloud.

Lori caught the change in his expression, her brows knitting with concern. “What is it?” she asked quietly.

Rick exhaled, looking down at their joined hands before meeting her eyes again. His voice was cold, bleak.

“Maybe this isn’t a world for children anymore, Lori.”

Lori’s fingers slipped from his as if she’d been burned. She straightened up, shaking her head quickly.

“Well, we have a child, Rick,” she said sharply, her voice trembling with anger and fear. “Living in this world. Right here. Right now.”

Rick pressed further, his voice low but relentless. “Maybe he shouldn’t be. Maybe…” He swallowed hard. “Maybe this is how it’s supposed to be for him, Lori.”

Her eyes widened, horror flashing across her face as fresh tears welled up.

“You don’t mean that,” she said, voice shaking. “You can’t mean that. I understand the thought crossing your mind, but you can’t believe that’s true. You can't.”

Rick leaned back, rubbing his face with his free hand. “It didn’t cross my mind,” he muttered. “It sat there. The whole time I was giving him blood, I kept thinking… he’s warm, he’s comfortable. He’s not out there wondering if tomorrow he’ll be ripped apart or starve to death… or if he’ll live long enough to turn into one of those things.”

Lori’s voice rose, her grief and anger colliding. “And what about Sophia, Rick? Or Lizzie? Or Mika? What if someone gets pregnant—Do they not deserve a fighting chance at life?”

The word pregnant hit him like a physical blow. His head snapped up to look at her.

Her face crumpled under the weight of it all. She gave him a glassy, almost apologetic look.

“I’ve missed my period Rick,” she said, barely above a whisper.

Rick stared at her, stunned into silence.

Then, instinctively, he pulled her into him, wrapping his arms around her as she began to sob into his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice cracking as he pressed his face into her hair, the cold dread of what this meant for them—and the group—setting in like a knife to the gut.

Chapter Text

Nearly an hour had passed, each minute crawling by slower than the last. Rick and Lori remained sitting on the hardwood floor outside Carl’s makeshift operating room, shoulders pressed tightly together, silently holding onto each other.

No words were spoken.

Rick’s eyes were distant, staring blankly ahead at the worn wooden floorboards. He held Lori close, his grip firm yet gentle.

Lori rested her head against his shoulder, eyes puffy and red from crying. Her breathing had finally steadied, the tears drying on her cheeks. But the heaviness in her chest remained, an unbearable weight pressing down on her heart.

The silence around them was thick, broken only by faint murmurs from the room behind them, the clink of metal instruments, the steady voice of Hershel directing Maggie and Sasha.

Rick’s mind spiralled quietly, each thought darker than the last as he turned over the idea of bringing another child into this world. Years ago, they had talked about having more kids, imagining Carl as an older brother, picturing a growing family. But time had always gotten away from them. Jobs, commitments, life—always something. Carl needed attention, their marriage needed fixing, and before they knew it, they’d stopped talking about more children altogether.

He remembered clearly the way their arguments had escalated, how those small, petty resentments had grown into harsh, cutting words and prolonged silences. Yet when the world ended, all those fights suddenly felt so meaningless. In the face of losing everything, they’d somehow become closer again, leaning on each other for survival, comfort, and strength.

But recently, he’d felt it returning—that same old distance, creeping quietly back into Lori. Rick couldn’t quite place the source. At first, he’d thought it was just Carl’s injury, but now, staring down at her tear-streaked face as they waited in painful silence, he knew something deeper was troubling her.

And now, another child. Rick felt an uneasy mixture of hope and dread knotting in his stomach. Another innocent life, another vulnerability, another reason to fear. He wanted to protect Lori, to support her, but he knew deep down the world they lived in had stripped away their ability to guarantee safety for anyone—let alone a new-born.

Yet as uncertain as everything was, one thing remained clear in Rick’s mind: no matter how strained things might become, he would never abandon her.

Rick shifted slightly, breaking the heavy silence for the first time in what felt like hours. He gently squeezed Lori’s hand, unsure of how much comfort he could realistically provide. “Are you okay?” he asked softly, almost afraid of her response.

Lori sighed deeply, leaning her head back against the wall and staring blankly ahead, her eyes worn and tired. “I don’t know, Rick. How can I even answer a question like that anymore… I’m frightened. About Carl… about the baby.” she admitted, her voice barely louder than a whisper.

Rick hesitated, considering his next words carefully. He glanced toward the closed door of the makeshift operating room, as though he might see through it to their son. “Hershel seems like he knows what he’s doing,” he finally said, trying to reassure her—and perhaps himself.

Lori nodded slowly, but her mind remained fixed on another worry entirely. She hesitated before voicing it, her fingers nervously tracing patterns along Rick’s knuckles. “And what about the baby?” she asked softly, her voice strained and uncertain.

He swallowed hard. The prospect of another child loomed heavily between them.

“Did you really mean what you said earlier?” she asked shakily. “That this isn’t a world for kids anymore?”

Rick looked away, guilt washing over him as he thought of his earlier words. “I don’t know,” he murmured, his voice low and full of regret. “Sometimes it feels selfish. How can we protect them, Lori? We couldn’t even protect the son we already have. How are we supposed to raise another child in a world like this?”

Lori gently turned his face back toward her, her eyes searching his desperately, her expression a mixture of hurt and resolve. “But giving up feels wrong too, Rick. This child deserves a chance, doesn’t it? We can’t just choose despair. If we don’t hold onto hope, even if it’s reckless, what are we fighting for?”

He hesitated, wrestling with her words. “But think about the practicalities, Lori,” he insisted, growing more desperate. “Babies cry. They’re loud, they’re vulnerable. What if something happens? A walker, or worse? What if the baby puts Carl or Sophia or someone else in danger? It’s not just about us anymore.”

Lori’s voice rose slightly, anger edging into desperation. “And what about the others? Sophia, Lizzie, Mika? They’re kids too. Should we just give up on them, Rick? This baby could be a symbol of hope—a sign that the world hasn’t beaten us yet.”

Rick lowered his head, closing his eyes for a moment, struggling to process her words. He felt the truth behind them, but the fear remained rooted deep in his chest. “This baby will know nothing, but survival Lori. From the moment it is born, it will be fighting for its life.”

Lori reached out, gently lifting his chin so their eyes met again, hers shimmering with determination despite her fear. “How is that any different from before?” she whispered softly. “Carl was seven weeks premature remember… he fought to be alive, and he’s in that room right now still fighting to keep going.

Rick took a slow breath, her words piercing the cloud of doubt in his mind. He pulled her close, resting his forehead against hers, exhaling softly as he finally surrendered to hope.

Lori’s voice softly carried on whispering, “Rick, look around. We’re on a farm, isolated from the cities and the worst of the walkers. There’s generators, fresh water, and food supplies stored from their harvest. Winter is about to end, and we’ll help prepare for the next harvest. Not to mention Hershel’s a doctor—probably one of the only ones left. Honestly, there might not be a safer place left to have a child… We can do this Honey.”

Before Rick could reply, the door to Carl’s room opened, interrupting their conversation. Maggie stepped out quietly, removing her gloves. Smudges of Carl’s blood were still etched into the fabric of her dungarees. Rick and Lori immediately rose to their feet, their hearts frozen in dread as they prepared for the worst kind of news a parent could receive.

But instead, Maggie’s lips curved into a gentle smile. “He did really well,” she said warmly, her voice filled with relief. “Hershel got all the fragments. Carl should be waking up soon. You can come inside if you like.”

The weight on Rick and Lori’s shoulders lifted instantly, relief washing over them as tears filled Lori’s eyes. They stepped forward together, hand in hand, the earlier conversation momentarily forgotten as they moved toward their son.

Hershel quietly gathered up his medical instruments, carefully placing them onto a metal tray to be sterilized and put away. His movements were calm and precise, a practiced routine that gave no indication of the stress and precision required only moments before.

Beside Carl’s bed, Sasha stood quietly, gently holding the boy’s small, pale hand. She wore a soft, reassuring smile as Rick and Lori stepped into the room. On the surface, Sasha projected calm and confidence, but inside, she was shaken. That surgery had been one of the most terrifying experiences of her life, and though relief washed through her at the successful outcome, she was mostly just glad it was finally over.

Before she could fully compose herself, Lori moved swiftly toward Sasha, enveloping her in an unexpected hug. Sasha hesitated at first, her arms awkwardly hovering mid-air, unsure how to react. But after a moment, she softened, sinking into the embrace, finding comfort and reassurance in Lori’s sincere gratitude.

Rick approached Carl’s bedside slowly, his eyes locked onto his son’s pale, sleeping face. He placed a gentle hand on Carl’s bare shoulder, just opposite the large, clean bandage covering the fresh surgical wound. His eyes filled with tears, a mixture of relief and lingering fear washing over him.

Taking a deep breath, Rick turned toward Hershel, reaching out to firmly shake the older man’s hand. His voice trembled with emotion.

“Thank you, Hershel,” Rick said sincerely, his words thick with gratitude. “You saved my boy’s life. We’re in your debt.”

Hershel met his gaze with quiet strength, offering Rick a subtle, reassuring nod. “He’s a fighter alright,” he said with a smile. “Now if you don’t mind, Maggie and I must go offer our comforts to Patricia and Jimmy.” He said before leaving the room with his daughter, allowing the family to have a private moment as Carl began to slowly stir awake.

A small wave of guilt washed over Rick as he realized the heavy cost of Carl's survival—a life lost to save his son. But those complicated feelings evaporated the moment Carl’s eyes fluttered open, and his soft, groggy voice filled the room, quietly calling out, “Mom? Dad?”

“We’re right here, baby,” Lori said immediately, kneeling beside his bed, gently kissing his small hand. Relief and warmth spread through her expression as she touched his face softly.

Carl’s gaze moved slowly to Rick, his pale face breaking into a sleepy but radiant smile. “Did you see it, Dad?”

Rick’s brows knitted slightly, confused. He leaned closer, gently squeezing Carl’s shoulder. “See what, Carl?”

Carl’s grin widened, totally unconcerned by the unfamiliar room or the trauma he'd just experienced. “The deer,” he said softly, his voice full of sleepy wonder. “It let me get so close…so close I could almost touch it.”

Rick’s eyes immediately filled with tears, his throat tightening. He forced a smile, stroking his son's forehead tenderly. “Yeah,” he whispered back, voice thick with emotion. “I sure did, Carl.”

Contented, Carl drifted back into sleep, still woozy from medication and the immense blood loss he'd endured. Rick stood there silently for a moment, watching the gentle rise and fall of Carl’s chest.

Quietly, Rick turned toward Sasha, who still stood nearby, observing with a gentle smile. “Would you mind staying with him just a minute?” Rick asked softly. Sasha nodded warmly, quietly taking Carl’s hand again.

Rick took Lori’s hand and led her carefully outside, closing the door gently behind them. He paused, his eyes searching hers, gathering his thoughts before speaking.

“I was wrong,” he began softly, looking into Lori's eyes with conviction. “Having this baby—it’s still dangerous. It’s still a huge risk, for us and for everyone else. But there IS a place for children in this world, Lori.”

She listened silently, waiting patiently for him to continue.

“Did you hear him just now?” Rick asked, his voice thick with emotion. “He didn’t talk about the pain, or the bullet, or even the surgery. He talked about the deer. He saw beauty in a moment of horror.”

Lori nodded slowly, her eyes beginning to well with tears again as she understood what he was trying to say.

“We need kids in this world,” Rick continued gently, squeezing her hand firmly. “They see things differently from us. They still have hope, and wonder, and innocence. They see the good even when all we see is the ugliness. That’s how we survive. That’s how we beat this.”

Lori’s breath shuddered softly, a tear escaping down her cheek. She leaned into Rick’s embrace, comforted by his warmth, reassured by his newfound certainty.

They stood together, quiet but united, resolved to face whatever uncertain future awaited them—and the family they would bring into this damaged but still hopeful world.

Chapter Text

It was now the early hours of the morning, a cool fog gently enveloping the farm, softening the shapes of tents, vehicles, and distant trees into shadowy outlines. The quiet stillness was punctuated only by the rhythmic chirping of crickets.

Inside the RV, Allen slept peacefully on the sofa, his arms wrapped protectively around his daughters, who rested comfortably against him. Outside, beneath the muted, foggy sky, Dale, Andrea, and Amy had drifted off in separate camping chairs, each huddled under their own blanket but positioned close enough to draw comfort from each other's presence in the chilly morning air.

On the farmhouse porch, Glenn and Carol sat quietly side by side, both wide awake despite the lateness of the hour. Their quiet conversation drifted softly, blending into the calm surroundings. Sophia lay curled next to her mother, her small head nestled safely in Carol’s lap, breathing deeply in peaceful slumber.

Nearby, in one of the temporary tents set up the night before, Julie and Chris slept soundly, undisturbed by the quiet murmurs and gentle sounds of the early morning. Just outside their tent, Tyreese sat quietly on a fallen log, tending carefully to a small fire. The flickering flames cast a warm, orange glow across his contemplative face.

Inside the farmhouse Lori remained by Carl’s bedside, her delicate fingers gently stroking her son's hair as he rested peacefully, breathing steady and calm.

Rick stepped out onto the creaky wooden porch, the cool morning air brushing gently against his weary face. Beside him, Sasha followed closely, her steps steady, the shadows of a long night hung beneath her eyes.

The creak from the porch deck awakened the slumbering survivors scattered around the property. One by one, they rose, stretching limbs stiffened by restless sleep.

Andrea approached first, her eyes soft with empathy. Without a word, she embraced Rick warmly, lingering just long enough to convey the depth of her relief. Glenn followed, clapping Rick lightly on the shoulder with a reassuring nod, his youthful optimism peeking through even the darkest of moments. Dale, adjusting his weathered hat, offered Rick a solemn yet fatherly handshake, his gaze heavy with silent understanding.

Nearby, Tyreese stood tall, watching his younger sister with pride sparkling unmistakably in his eyes. Without hesitation, he stepped forward and enveloped Sasha in a fierce, brotherly embrace, lifting her slightly off the ground as he squeezed tightly. Sasha laughed softly, releasing tension she'd carried throughout the long night. As Tyreese set her back down, he cupped her face gently with his large hands, pride radiating from him.

“We heard You did good, Sis,” he proudly stated, his voice thick with emotion.

Shane stood quietly beneath the heavy branches of a sprawling oak, its leaves casting shadowed patterns across his stony expression. He watched silently as warmth and relief rippled through the group, each embrace and comforting touch a painful reminder of the isolation he felt within this group.

Amy, rubbing sleep from her eyes, approached Rick cautiously, concern etched clearly on her youthful face. "Rick, how's Carl doing?" she asked softly, her eyes hopeful yet cautious.

Rick turned towards her, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "He's gonna pull through," he replied confidently, warmth clear in his voice. He glanced back toward the farmhouse. "Thanks to Hershel, Maggie, and Sasha," he added gratefully, placing a reassuring hand on Sasha's shoulder, his tired eyes meeting hers with sincere gratitude.

In that moment, Rick paused, his gaze drifting to Shane standing motionless under the tree. Their eyes met, tension and gratitude intertwining in an unspoken exchange. Rick took a deep breath, his voice carrying clearly through the quiet morning air. "And Shane," he declared firmly, ensuring everyone could hear. "We would've lost Carl if it wasn't for him."

A brief hush fell over the group. Shane straightened slightly, his eyes narrowing subtly as he processed Rick's acknowledgment. Rick held Shane's gaze for a moment longer, offering him a respectful nod. A complicated expression flashed across Shane's face—something between bitterness, pride, and a lingering shadow of regret—before he returned the nod with a slow, tense acknowledgment.

Carol slowly rose to her feet, gently stirring Sophia from her sleep as she did. The young girl rubbed her sleepy eyes, blinking cautiously into the soft daylight, her expression blank and uncertain. Rick turned towards them, his features softening immediately as Carol approached him, her hands resting protectively on Sophia's fragile shoulders.

"Is it alright for Sophia to see him?" Carol asked hesitantly, glancing anxiously at the farmhouse door behind Rick. Sophia remained silent, eyes wide and distant, still locked in the quiet world that had shielded her since trauma had stolen her voice.

Rick offered a reassuring nod. "Of course. I reckon he’ll need his friend when he wakes up again," he said gently, kneeling slightly to Sophia’s level, offering her a warm, comforting smile. Carol leaned in close to Rick, lowering her voice to a whisper filled with both desperation and hope, "I just think—maybe seeing Carl could help bring her back, even a little."

Rick placed a reassuring hand on Carol's arm, understanding clear in his tired, sympathetic gaze. "I sure hope so too," he whispered back encouragingly, his voice warm and comforting.

Julie and Chris emerged from their tent, pausing as they took in the scene unfolding before them. Julie stepped forward, her expression earnest and caring.

"Rick," Julie said softly, "Chris and I can sit with Sophia for a while, if you'd like."

Rick gave a grateful nod. "Thank you, Julie, that'd mean a lot."

As Sophia made her way quietly inside, Julie glanced back at Chris with a mischievous smile, her eyes sparkling playfully for just a moment before turning back toward the house. Chris suppressed a small grin, following closely behind her. Carol reached out gently as Julie passed, affectionately rubbing the young girl’s shoulder, silently thanking her for the kindness and support.

Quietly, Carol followed the kids inside the farmhouse, her heart lifting ever so slightly.

Glenn glanced toward the empty crop field, noticing a slender figure slowly making her way toward the gathering. He gently nudged Andrea’s arm, making her aware of the young girl’s approach.

Beth, the youngest daughter stepped hesitantly forward, her shy eyes briefly meeting theirs before quickly darting downward. Clearing her throat gently, she spoke softly, her voice fragile yet steady: "Um, daddy wanted me to tell you that... We’re having a memorial service for Otis soon. we would really appreciate it if you could all come pay your respects."

A solemn silence fell briefly over the group as the weight of the news settled in. Rick nodded warmly, his voice quiet but sincere. "We'll be right over. Thank you, Beth."

At a distance, Shane remained rooted in place beneath the oak tree, his expression darkening significantly. A sickening twist of guilt clawed at his chest, memories of Otis’s final moments flooding his mind with relentless torment.

Shane's jaw tightened, his fists clenched tightly at his sides, but he remained silent.

Beth offered a shy, appreciative smile before turning and quietly making her way back toward the farmhouse. As she walked away, Rick’s eyes drifted once again to Shane, noticing the rigid tension in his friend's posture. Their gazes briefly locked, before Shane abruptly looked away, retreating towards the RV.

As the morning sun climbed higher, casting brighter rays across the Greene farm, the survivors slowly pulled themselves together, murmuring quietly as they began to follow Beth toward the distant site for Otis’s memorial. They moved in small groups, a solemn mood radiating amongst the group.

Away from the others, Shane had retreated into the cramped confines of the RV’s tiny bathroom, locking the door behind him. He stared hard into the dirty mirror, bitterness carved deeply into his rugged face. Leaning closer, Shane tilted his head to inspect the patchy bald spot where Otis had torn out a chunk of his hair during their desperate struggle. A surge of rage pulsed through him as he ran his fingers over the exposed scalp, frustration boiling at the thought that the others might've noticed it too.

With a swift, angry motion, Shane smacked his forehead in self-disgust, exhaling sharply as the pain briefly distracted him from the guilt gnawing relentlessly within. Snatching the communal electric shaver, he held his own gaze fiercely in the mirror as he began to shave off thick clumps of his slick black hair. Each stroke of the razor felt both punishing and cleansing, a physical attempt at shedding the secrets and shame haunting him. Dark, dense locks of hair tumbled into the sink below, until Shane’s scalp was dark and stubbly, glistening beneath the bathroom’s dim fluorescent light.

He quickly brushed away the hair into the small trashcan, eyes cold and determined as he swung open the cubicle door, nearly colliding with Allen, who jumped back slightly in startled surprise. Allen’s eyes widened as he took in Shane’s drastic transformation.

“Whoa," Allen blurted with a half-chuckle, trying to ease the tension. "That's a Bald choice," he quipped playfully, clearly amused by his own pun.

Shane stared back at him, humourless and intense, not even acknowledging the attempt at a joke. He brushed past Allen without a word, stepping heavily toward the RV door.

Allen lingered for a moment, shaking his head in quiet amusement at his own joke before following Shane out of the RV. The two men stepped into the brightening daylight, Shane’s expression cold and unyielding, Allen’s bemused grin slowly fading as they joined the group moving toward the others.

A heavy, respectful silence settled over the gathered survivors as they stood solemnly around the symbolic grave—a modest cairn of rocks slowly rising as each mourner contributed their stone. Rick’s group remained respectfully quiet; heads bowed as Hershel Greene began his heartfelt eulogy. dressed in his best Sunday suit, Hershel’s voice trembled gently, yet resonated powerfully across the crowd.

"We are gathered in the presence of God, as He watches over our brother Otis," Hershel spoke clearly, eyes misting slightly. "We thank the Lord for the years Otis was part of our lives. We ask You to watch over him. He gave his life to save a child—now, more than ever, our most precious asset."

One by one, Hershel’s people stepped forward, placing a stone upon the growing monument. "We ask You, God, to embrace our brother and watch over those who survive him. His devoted wife Patricia, and his cherished son Jimmy."

Patricia, moved slowly, grief shuddering through her as she gently laid her stone upon the tower, tears streaming silently down her face, before she returned to Maggie’s comforting arms.

Jimmy followed closely behind, struggling bravely to hold back his tears as he honoured his father's memory. He held his position by the monument, unable to pull away. Billy steadily approached his best friend, easing him away so he could re-join the service.

Hershel paused, steadying himself briefly before continuing. "Otis was a clumsy yet selfless man. He did not hesitate to correct his mistakes, and even in death, he made things right, by saving that boy."

Standing at the edge of the mourners, Shane felt the crushing weight of guilt pressing down harder with every word and every stone placed on the grave. Each syllable Hershel spoke felt like a stab, reopening the wound of what he had done. His heart pounded painfully when Hershel’s gentle eyes turned directly toward him, speaking softly yet clearly enough for everyone to hear.

"Shane," Hershel said gently, "will you speak for Otis?"

Shane shifted uneasily, eyes darting downward. "I'm no good at it," he muttered, trying desperately to conceal the torment he felt beneath his stoic exterior.

Patricia’s tearful voice suddenly broke through the heavy silence. She stepped forward shakily, her eyes pleading as she looked directly at Shane. "You were the last one with him," she choked out, her voice quivering with desperation. "Please—will you share his final moments? I need to hear it. I need to know his death had meaning."

Shane’s throat tightened, his fists clenching helplessly at his sides. He glanced at Patricia, seeing her anguish clearly etched into every feature of her face. The crowd was now watching him closely, their gaze’s expectant.

Dale watched Shane closely, his eyes sharp with suspicion. Last night’s argument still lingered in his mind, and now, seeing Shane’s uneasy shifts and distant stare, Dale felt his doubts harden. There was guilt in Shane’s face—more than grief. Dale folded his arms, quietly resolved to keep watching.

Shane took a steady breath, his voice low and gravelly as he began, every word wrapped in strained emotion. “We were about done,” he said, gaze fixed somewhere distant. “The Walkers were on our heel, I was limping—it wasn’t lookin’ good for either of us. Jimmy was still trapped inside the school, that’s when Otis grabbed his bag, handed it to me.” He paused, his jaw tightening. “‘I can’t leave my boy behind,’ that’s what he said. As he gave me the bag, he told me, ‘Save the boy. But I can’t leave mine behind.’”

A choked sob escaped Jimmy as Patricia pulled him into a fierce embrace, her tears flowing freely as she rocked her son gently. Shane’s words hung heavy in the air, drawing the mourners closer in their grief.

But off to the side, Dale’s frown deepened. His sharp mind replayed Shane’s words from the night before—“He was too slow.” Now, Shane was painting him a hero. It didn’t add up. The story was too clean, too noble, and Dale could feel the cracks beneath it.

Shane pressed on; his voice rough with conviction. “I made it to the truck, but when I looked back…” He trailed off, eyes clouded. Patricia’s glassy eyes locked onto him, silently begging for the truth—or at least, something she could believe.

Limping forward, Shane approached the rock tower, his movements slow, deliberate. “If not for Otis,” he continued, his gaze drifting to Lori, locking with hers, “I’d be dead. Same goes for Carl. He saved us both. If a death ever had any meaning… it was his.”

With that, Shane picked up a rock, his fingers curling tightly around it. He stepped forward and placed it atop the grave, letting it settle into place before stepping back, his face unreadable. The group stood in quiet reverence—but Dale’s eyes never left him.

Meanwhile, back inside the farmhouse, the atmosphere in Carl’s room was calm and hushed. Julie and Chris sat quietly on a sofa, watching over the sleeping boy, whispering things to each other and giggling. Carol sat nearby, her hands folded gently in her lap, keeping a watchful, maternal eye over the children.

In the corner, Lizzie sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping absently through a worn book. Across from her, Mika held a small doll in her lap, watching her older sister with hopeful eyes. “Lizzie,” Mika asked softly, “do you wanna play dollies with us?”

Lizzie didn’t look up, her gaze locked on the pages. “Not now,” she muttered flatly. Mika sighed, shoulders slumping, and returned to brushing her doll’s tangled hair with Sophia.

Carol’s gentle voice carried softly across the room. “Lizzie,” she called kindly, “is there anything you want to talk about, sweetheart?

Lizzie answered bluntly with a firm, “No.”

Carol remained unphased and addressed the sensitive topic by whispering, “you know, I also lost my mother when I was about your age.”

Lizzie’s eyes narrowed slightly, her lips pressing into a thin line. Without looking up, she answered bluntly, “My mother isn’t dead… Daddy says she’s in a better place now.”

Carol paused, feeling the weight in the girl’s words. Her expression softened with quiet understanding; her voice even gentler as she offered reassurance. “Of course, sweetie. Of course she is. I’m just trying to say… there’s plenty of people here who are looking out for you. And if you ever want to talk, we’re here for you”

Lizzie stayed silent; her gaze still fixed stubbornly on the book. Across the room, Mika glanced up briefly, then went back to playing with her doll, the quiet rhythm of the farmhouse settling around them once again.

Lizzie slowly lowered her book, her eyes lifting to meet Carol’s warm, patient smile. But instead of softening, Lizzie’s expression hardened, her voice sharp and cutting. “I don’t need any help from you,” she said coldly. “You can’t protect me. I mean—look at Sophia. She’s so fucked up she can’t even speak.”

A small, unsettling smile tugged at Lizzie’s lips as she held Carol’s gaze for a beat longer, then calmly turned her attention back to the pages, as if nothing had been said.

Carol sat frozen, the words landing like a slap, knocking the breath from her chest. She glanced helplessly at Julie and Chris, both equally stunned, their eyes wide.

“Excuse me a minute,” Carol said softly, voice tight as she forced composure back into her face. She stood, smoothing her hands down her jeans, and walked briskly toward the door.

As she stepped out of the room, a quiet, stifled chuckle escaped Julie and Chris behind her. Carol’s face pinched in quiet hurt as the sound followed her into the hall. Without a word, she pulled the farmhouse door closed behind her, leaving the muffled laughter and the sting of Lizzie’s words lingering in the air.

As Carol stepped off the porch, she paused, taking a deep breath to steady herself, the cool air filling her lungs after the sting of Lizzie’s words. Across the yard, she spotted Ed staggering out of their tent, his eyes bleary, his posture slouched. He wiped at his face with a dirty hand, his movements sluggish. Clearly hungover.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” he barked, his voice rough and accusing. “Where the hell is everybody?”

Carol kept her tone even, though the edge of weariness crept in. “They’re at Otis’s funeral,” she answered quietly. “Maybe you should clean yourself up before they get back. I’m not sure they’d be too happy knowing you’ve been stashing away supplies.”

Ed’s face twisted with anger, his lip curling. “Maybe you should shut your damn mouth,” he snapped, venom in every word.

Before Carol could respond, movement on the dirt path caught her eye—the large group returning from the funeral, their silhouettes slowly approaching in the warm afternoon light. She spotted Allen walking beside Andrea and Amy. A surge of determination rose in her chest.

“Allen!” Carol called out, stepping forward urgently. “I need to have a word with you. About Lizzie.”

Allen and Andrea exchanged quick glances, their expressions shifting to mild concern. “What is it?” Allen asked. “Is she alright?”

Carol pressed her lips together, then explained quickly, “She said some incredibly hurtful things about Sophia… and she used some really foul language.”

Amy’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Seriously? Lizzie?” she echoed, shaking her head. “She’s always so lovely when we watch them.”

Allen’s face mirrored Amy’s surprise. “What happened?” he asked, concern giving way to doubt.

Carol’s frustration bubbled beneath her calm façade. “We were talking about Donna and—” But before she could finish, Allen’s voice rose sharply, cutting her off.

“What the fuck are you doing talking to my kids about their dead mother?” he demanded, his tone hard and accusatory.

Carol’s breath caught. “I—I was just—”

“You stay out of it, Carol,” Allen snapped, his face darkening with anger. “That’s not your business, you’ve no right to discuss her with them again. Got it?”

Carol stood frozen, flustered and taken aback, the sting of his words hitting harder than she expected. She meekly nodded, bowing her head before quietly retreating toward her tent, her shoulders hunched as small tears slid silently down her cheeks. She slipped inside, pulling the flap closed behind her, the thin fabric barely muffling the commotion outside. Alone in the dim light, she sat heavily on her sleeping bag, wiping at her face.

Outside, Andrea and Amy stood quietly beside Allen, tension lingering in the air after his outburst. Andrea gave him a measured look, her voice calm but firm. “Maybe that was a bit harsh, Allen,” she said gently, her words careful but honest.

Allen let out a slow breath, running a hand through his thinning hair as the anger drained from his face, replaced by tired frustration. “My family is my business, Andrea,” he replied, his tone softening. He paused, glancing toward the farmhouse. “I’ll apologize to her. After I’ve had a word with Lizzie.”

Andrea nodded slightly, accepting his answer, though the concern in her eyes remained. Together, they stood in the settling quiet.

After entering the farmhouse Allen stepped into Carl’s room; his footsteps quiet but purposeful. His eyes immediately fell on Julie and Chris, tangled together in a clumsy make-out session on the worn sofa, their lips pressed together, oblivious to the world around them. Nearby, Carl remained fast asleep, his chest rising and falling steadily. Across the room, Sophia and Mika sat cross-legged on the floor, still quietly playing with their dolls, completely unphased.

Allen cleared his throat sharply, a pointed cough echoing through the small space. Julie and Chris jolted apart instantly, their faces flushing red as they scrambled to sit up straight. Chris fumbled to adjust his glasses, both of them locking wide, guilty eyes on Allen.

“Uh—we—” Julie started, her words tumbling awkwardly.

“I—uh—” Chris stammered beside her.

Allen cut them off before they could dig themselves deeper. His tone was flat, unimpressed. “I don’t care. Just tell me where Lizzie is.”

Julie exchanged a quick glance with Chris before answering. “Bathroom. She said she needed a minute after Carol left.”

Allen nodded once, his expression firm but not unkind. “Thanks. And you two…” He fixed them both with a fatherly glare. “Keep it PG around the kids next time, yeah?”

Julie and Chris both mumbled embarrassed agreements as Allen turned and headed out of the room. His steps carried him down the short hallway toward the bathroom door, where he stopped, frowning slightly at the sound of the lock clicking in place on the other side.

Allen stood outside the locked bathroom door, resting a hand gently against the worn wood. He leaned in slightly, his voice low, steady, and trying to be soothing.

“Lizzie, you in there, sweetheart?” he asked softly through the door.

There was a pause, then her voice came back sharp and distant. “Go away.”

Allen let out a quiet sigh, pressing his lips together. He rubbed the back of his neck, gathering his thoughts, then spoke again, keeping his tone calm and patient.

“Look, you’re not in trouble,” he reassured her. “I’m not mad. I just… I want to understand what’s going on. That’s all.”

Allen pressed his palm gently against the door once more, his voice softening further. “Look… just open the door, sweetheart. We can talk about it. Please.”

There was a quiet click as the lock turned. Slowly, the door creaked open, revealing Lizzie standing there, her small frame rigid, her wide eyes looking up at him without expression.

Allen gave her a gentle smile, one full of warmth and worry. He knelt to her level, placing a steady, fatherly hand on her shoulder. “Hey,” he said softly. “I know you miss your mother. But you can’t shut me out, Lizzie. And you can’t go upsetting people, like you did to Carol.”

His voice faltered slightly with emotion. “I know I… shut down a little after the quarry. But you girls are my priority. You can come to me with anything. Anything at all.”

Lizzie held his gaze for a long, unsettling moment, her eyes unblinking, thoughtful. Then she spoke, her voice quiet but unnervingly cold. “I don’t miss her,” she said flatly. “She was weak. Weak like Carol. Things are better now.”

Allen’s breath caught, startled by the bluntness, the hardness behind his daughter’s words. Before he could respond, Lizzie suddenly stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug, pressing her cheek briefly against his chest.

Then, without another word, she pulled away and walked calmly back toward Carl’s room, leaving Allen kneeling in the doorway, his smile faded, his heart heavy, and a flicker of unease settling deep inside him.

Chapter Text

Inside her dimly lit tent, Carol sat quietly, her hands resting in her lap, fingers loosely intertwined as she worked to steady her breath. Her eyes were red, her cheeks stained from quiet tears, but her expression was composed now—tired, yes, but steady.

The gentle rustling of leaves outside was interrupted by the deep, softened voice of Allen calling through the fabric.

“Carol. You in there? Have you got a minute to talk?”

His tone was calm, almost apologetic, a far cry from the edge he’d shown earlier. Carol blinked and glanced across the tent. Her eyes landed on the half-empty scotch bottle lying on Ed’s rumpled sleeping bag. With a quick, practiced motion, she scooped it up and tucked it out of sight beneath a pile of clothes. No one needed to see that.

She took one more breath, wiped the last trace of tears from beneath her eyes, and moved to the tent flap. With a quiet zip, she opened it, squinting slightly into the afternoon light as she stepped out to face Allen.

"Hey," Allen said gently, his voice thick with apology as he stood just outside the tent, hands resting loosely on his hips.

"Hey," Carol answered timidly, her voice barely above a whisper.

He shifted his weight, lowering his head slightly before speaking again. "Listen… I really didn’t mean to yell at you the way I did. I should’ve known you were only looking out for my girls." His tone softened further, the tension in his posture easing as he opened up.

He took a breath and continued. "After Otis' funeral yesterday… it made me realize—we never really got a chance to say goodbye to Donna. Her death was so… abrupt. I’m not even sure the girls have processed it. Heck, I don’t think I have either. Jacqui and Jim too…” He sighed, remembering the fallen members of their community.

He shifted Carol a soft smile before continuing. “Everything’s been moving so fast."

His eyes met hers, sincere and a little weary. "I’m sorry.”

Carol studied the honesty in his face—the weight he was carrying, the regret—and gave a small nod, accepting the olive branch he was offering.

Carol offered a faint, understanding, “thank you,” her voice soft but steady. “You know… Hershel seems like a respectable man of faith,” she said gently. “I’m sure we could ask him to do another service. Something simple. Maybe that’ll give your family some closure… give the girls a chance to say goodbye properly.”

Allen looked at her for a long moment, the tension in his jaw easing as her words settled in. He gave a slow nod, the thought clearly striking a chord. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah… I’ll have a word with him later.”

The two stood in silence for a few seconds, the air between them lighter now, touched with mutual understanding.

Inside the farmhouse, the midday light filtered softly through the kitchen windows as Rick, Shane, Hershel, and Maggie stood around the old wooden dining table. Spread across it was a large, worn map of the surrounding area, weighed down at the corners with mismatched objects—an empty mug, a pocketknife, a glass jar.

Rick leaned over the map; his brow furrowed with thought. “How much food and ammunition do you have in your supply?”

Hershel straightened slightly, his tone polite but firm. “We have ammunition,” he said, “but it’s off-limits. I don’t want your people carrying firearms on my land. This isn’t an armed camp—it’s my home. I don’t even let my own children carry them”

Shane shifted immediately, ready to argue. “With all due respect—”

But Rick cut him off before the tension could rise. “We’ll respect that request,” he said plainly. “We stick to knives which remain holstered at all times.”

Shane’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t back down. “What about the dead?” he pressed. “If they come marching through here like they did in the woods, a toothpick ain’t gonna cut it.”

Hershel’s calm demeanour sharpened just slightly; his pride touched. “We have our methods for dealing with that,” he said pointedly. “If you see one, you come to us first and we’ll handle it.”

Rick nodded, diffusing the moment. “Fine by me.” He refocused. “But sorry to ask again—how much food do you have?”

Hershel hesitated. “Enough,” he said cautiously.

Rick understood the careful wording. They were still strangers here—unproven guests. He nodded slowly. “Enough for both our people?”

Maggie and Hershel exchanged a loaded glance. Hershel opened his mouth to speak, but Maggie jumped in before he could. “I can go into town,” she offered, her voice confident. “We need some more antibiotics, anyway, couldn’t hurt to have a look for more food too.”

Hershel turned to her, concern flickering in his eyes. “Maggie—”

“I’ve done it before,” she said, cutting off any protest. “I’ll be fine.”

Rick followed her gaze out the window toward their makeshift camp, where Glenn was helping wipe down the side of the RV. He nodded toward the young man. “I know you’ve already made acquaintances with Glenn over there,” he said with a small smile. “He’s our go-to-town expert. Should bring him along with you—just in case.”

Maggie looked toward Glenn, her expression softening. A small smile crept onto her face as she watched him work, unaware he’d just been volunteered.

Maggie slipped out of the room; her boots soft on the wooden floorboards. Shane adjusted his police cap and followed a step behind, his eyes trailing her closely. Rick moved to follow, the hem of his beige sheriff's shirt swaying with his stride—until Hershel raised a hand, halting him.

“Rick,” Hershel said, his voice low but firm. “There’s no easy way for me to say this. We don’t usually take in strangers. I can’t have your people thinking you staying here is permanent.”

Rick opened his mouth, ready to speak, but Hershel pressed on, his tone resolute. “You’re only welcome on my land until your boy is fit for travel. We’ve worked hard for the food we have—I can’t allow you to take advantage of what’s ours. I’m sorry.”

Rick stood still, the words hitting harder than he expected. He drew a slow breath. “Hershel, we can give you some space,” he offered. “We’ll move our camp closer to the barn. We’re not trying to take over your doorstep. But you don’t know what it’s like out there.”

Hershel sighed, his eyes drifting toward the barn through the window. “That won’t be necessary,” he said quietly. “You’ll be better off closer to the house. Carl needs rest and care. He should be on his feet in a couple of weeks, at most.”

Rick hesitated, then took a step closer, urgency creeping into his voice. “Hershel, please reconsider. We’ve got the manpower to grow more food and keep this place safe. We could help make this place thrive, from what we’ve seen out there, it’s a miracle this place is still standing.”

Hershel’s posture stiffened. The courtesy in his voice began to fade. “Rick, are any of your people farmers… can any of them even ride a horse?”

Rick faltered, then answered truthfully. “No. But we can learn.”

“No.” Hershel said, his voice sharpening. “I’m not prepared to waste resources teaching thirteen strangers—and six children—how to survive on land I’ve kept alive for decades.”

He leaned in slightly, his gaze hardening. “I’m not a superstitious man, Rick. But do you know why the number thirteen is considered unlucky?”

Rick shook his head slowly, his disbelief growing.

“Judas,” Hershel said coldly. “He was Jesus’ thirteenth guest at the last supper, before he looked him in the eye and betrayed him.”

He let the words hang heavy between them before finishing, “You may present as my ally, or friend now… but I don’t know you. And I can’t trust you or your people, I’m sorry my mind has been made up.”

“Seven children,” Rick blurted, his voice rising before he could catch himself. “They’ll be seven children, not six.”

Hershel paused, his brow creasing slightly in confusion. He’d met all the kids already. “Seven?” he repeated.

Rick nodded, exhaling hard. “Lori thinks she’s pregnant. We’ve asked Glenn to be discreet, to pick up a test when he goes into town. Just to be sure.”

Hershel’s expression remained unmoved. “I’m sorry, Rick. My mind is made up on this.”

Rick’s frustration boiled just beneath the surface. He took a step closer, his voice taut with rising anger. “Seven children, Hershel. Seven children you’ll be throwing back out there, with the dead. Please Hershel, I’m begging you to just think about it.”

At that word—dead—Hershel flinched slightly, his jaw tightening as if Rick had struck a nerve. The tone had shifted. The calm old man’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, the air between them thick with tension.

“You have two weeks,” Hershel said coolly. “Two weeks from now, your people leave. That’s more than enough time for you to get your affairs in order. Don’t make me regret my generosity.”

Rick stared at him, chest rising and falling. But he said nothing more. Hershel turned away, leaving Rick alone with the map.

Through the lenses of a pair of weathered binoculars, Glenn stood beside the empty campsite, watching Maggie ride across the open field. She was effortlessly riding one horse while leading another by the reins. A battered Stetson shaded her face, her loosely fitted purple shirt fluttering slightly with the breeze. Her riding boots were locked firmly into the stirrups, every movement confident and natural.

Glenn grinned to himself, his voice a soft murmur. “Hello, farmer’s daughter…”

He barely had a second to enjoy the moment when suddenly his view was cut off—Lori’s face appearing directly in front of the binoculars. Glenn flinched, nearly dropping them as he was jolted back to reality.

Lori didn’t say a word about it, just gave him a knowing grin and held out a folded piece of paper. “Dale, Andrea, and Lacey put together a list for you both,” she said, handing it to him.

She glanced around quickly, checking for wandering ears, then leaned in slightly, her voice lower and more serious. “And the other thing we asked you to get… we’d appreciate it if you kept that discreet, please.”

Glenn nodded slowly, his grin fading. “Does anybody else know?”

“No, not yet. Just Rick” Lori said firmly. “And until we know for sure, we’d like to keep it that way.”

“Sure,” Glenn replied, giving a small nod and rubbing the brim of his cap, unsettled by the burden of keeping a secret from the rest of the group.

Meanwhile, Arnold and Lacey led a small group through the back end of the Greene property—T-Dog, Tyreese, Andrea, and Amy trailing behind them as the unofficial tour continued. They moved past a line of solar panels positioned just beyond the barn, the sunlight bouncing cleanly off the glass.

“This is what keeps the place running,” Lacey said, gesturing toward the humming generator beside the panels. “Solar-powered, stores up enough to keep the essentials going. lights, refrigeration.”

Arnold chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “You wouldn’t believe the fight we had getting these installed. Dad hated the idea at first. Said it went against the way he was raised. He liked doing things ‘the right way’—by hand.”
Lacey smirked, her voice drier. “That was before Maggie’s mom left him. His second wife,” she added, glancing over her shoulder. “After that, he was too wasted most nights to even notice we had 'em installed. By the time he quit drinking again, the farm already had its own power grid.”

T-Dog raised a brow. “Second wife?”

“Yeah,” Lacey grinned, amused. “Daddy’s had a few.”

Andrea tilted her head, curious. “So, you’re all half-siblings then?”

Arnold shook his head. “Not all of us. Me, Lacey… and—” he hesitated for a beat, “Shawn. We’re from Dad’s first marriage.”

“Who’s Shawn?” Amy asked, still observing the property as they walked.

Lacey let out a quiet sigh, not bitter, but heavy with history. “Shawn has always Daddy’s favourite. From the minute he was born, he could do no wrong.”

They moved past a row of budding crops, the sun warming their backs. Tyreese looked over at Lacey with a quiet, respectful tone. “Sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks,” she replied simply, not pausing her stride. The words didn’t seem to shake her—almost like the word ‘loss’ didn’t resonate with her.

“The fever took Shawn,” she continued flatly. “And Daddy’s third wife—Beth and Billy’s mom.”

She glanced at the group, her voice more distant now. “Shawn found a guy wounded in the woods. Figured he was doing the right thing. He Brought him home, Daddy patched him up his broken arm, but the fucker Didn’t tell us he had been bit.”

Lacey met their eyes, her voice steady. “I’m sure you know what happened next.”

A silence fell over the group as the weight settled as the tour continued.

Tyreese broke the silence, his voice calm but curious. “You guys have power… what about fresh water?”

Arnold came to a stop and turned to face him. He lifted his arm and pointed in four different directions around the property; each gesture aimed at a faintly visible well off in the distance. “We’ve got four of ’em. Old, but they’re deep and clean. It’s all tested—safe for drinkin’. Feel free to help yourselves.”

Amy perked up, holding up her half-empty bottle. “Mind if we head that way now? I’d love to fill this up, and I’m sure the kids would appreciate some too.”

“Sure,” Lacey replied with a small smile. “We’ll take you to well four. It’s the furthest one out, but you’ll get to see more of the land along the way.”

With that, the group shifted course, stepping off the dirt path and heading out toward the distant well, the golden fields stretching wide around them.

Maggie and Glenn were already at the fourth well when the others approached, working together beneath the beating sun. Glenn was hunched over the old pump, cranking its stiff handle with effort, while Maggie held steady a pair of metal canisters beneath the spout, cool water splashing steadily inside.

“I hear you’re fast on your feet and know your way in and out,” Maggie teased, giving him a cheeky smile from beneath her Stetson.

Glenn flustered instantly, blinking as he struggled for a reply. “Urm…”

Maggie laughed, clearly enjoying herself. “Supply runs,” she clarified, still smiling. “Rick told me and Daddy that’s kind of your role in the group?”

He snapped back to reality, still slightly pink in the face. “Yeah, I guess. But I’ve never really thought of us as having, like, roles or anything. I just do it because I’m the fastest. I mean… I don’t know if you’ve met everyone yet, but they’re not exactly subtle. Or quiet.”

Maggie laughed with a sharp, amused yeahhh, nodding in agreement. “I can tell. Daddy’s gettin’ all on edge with you folk still bein’ here, but... there’s good in his heart. Him keepin’ you here, that’s him tryin’.”

Glenn smiled faintly, still pumping. “Yeah. Hershel seems like a good man.”

Maggie’s expression softened a bit. “Sure. We’re close,” she said, though her tone shifted. “But… he’s got a hard time lettin’ go. I’m grown now, y’know? Sometimes he forgets that. Tries to keep me from the things I want.”

She gave Glenn a pointed look, playful and bold. He blinked again, visibly thrown.

“W-what kind of things… do you want?” he asked, face reddening again.

Maggie burst out laughing. “What I want,” she grinned, “is for you to put your back into it. We’ll be leaving at dusk at this rate.”

They both laughed, the tension breaking as Glenn resumed pumping, a little faster now. Just then, the rest of the tour group rounded the fence line, walking up toward the well. Amy waved her bottle as they approached.

“Looks like we found the right place,” Tyreese said, smiling as they joined the pair. Maggie didn’t look at Glenn, but her smile lingered.

“Something funny, Maggie?” Lacey asked, her tone sharp and her glare unwavering as she stared down her half-sister, clearly unamused.

“Nope,” Maggie replied smoothly, brushing it off with a smile. “We’re just getting acquainted before we head into town.”

Lacey scoffed, arms folding tightly across her chest. “You’re going into town… Need me to come hold your hand again?”

Maggie’s smile faltered slightly, a flicker of embarrassment crossing her face. She kept her voice calm. “No, I’m all good, Lacey. We’ll be fine.”

But Lacey wasn’t done. She stepped in a little closer, her voice edged with sarcasm. “’Fine’ like when you were in charge of leading the lost down the highway?”

Maggie’s expression hardened. She stood upright, squaring her shoulders and glaring directly at Lacey. Glenn had stopped pumping mid-crank, the air thick with tension.

“Okayyy,” Amy cut in with a sudden bright tone, forcing a cheerful smile. “I’m rather thirsty. Would you mind pouring me a drink, muscles?” she added, beaming at Arnold.

Arnold, grateful for the distraction, brushed past Lacey with a muttered “Sure,” and began filling Amy’s bottle at the pump.

Andrea, curious but cautious, turned back to Lacey. “You call them lost?”

Lacey, pulling her attention from Maggie, answered plainly. “Of course. That’s what they are after all. Lost souls.” Her tone carried a rehearsed certainty. “Daddy believes it was all God’s handiwork. A test of faith. He says if we hold on to our beliefs, one day… they can be saved.”

T-Dog, clearly disturbed, couldn’t hold it in. “You can’t be—”

But Tyreese quickly cut in, laying a firm hand on T-Dog’s shoulder. “I think that’s a beautiful idea,” he said diplomatically, shooting his friend a warning glance.

T-Dog rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath as he walked away toward the well. The wooden cover was cracked and splintered, a large hole busting out from the centre. He leaned over to peer inside the gap.

Lacey turned to Tyreese, eyes narrowing. “Well, what do you people believe they are?” she asked bluntly.

Tyreese paused, searching for a graceful answer, the word ‘undead freaks’ sitting unsaid at the back of his throat.

Across the well, Amy handed Andrea a freshly filled bottle. Amy raised her own to her mouth moments away from taking a long, much-needed drink.

Suddenly, almost like a blur T-Dog sprinted away from the well. He lunged across the group, smacking the bottle clean from Amy’s hand, sending it clattering to the ground and splashing water across her boots.

“What the fuck, T?!” Andrea snapped, instinctively stepping forward, fist already halfway clenched, her protective instincts flaring as she moved to defend her younger sister. Amy stumbled back, startled, wide-eyed.

T-Dog held up both hands, breathless, panic etched into his face. “I—I wouldn’t drink that if I were you,” he said quickly, his voice sharp and serious.

Everyone around the well froze. Glenn looked confused. Maggie stepped back from the canister she’d been filling. Even Lacey’s smug expression dropped as silence gripped the group.

Andrea glared at him, her voice tight. “You want to explain why you just came at my sister like that?”

T-Dog’s eyes darted toward the well cover—cracked, splintered, the wood warped as if something had forced its way out. “There’s something’s in the well.”

Chapter Text

The sun hung high, casting harsh light across the Greene family’s farmland. Dust floated gently in the air, disturbed only by the crunch of boots around the old stone well. The group stood in a tense semi-circle, their silhouettes casting long shadows over the rim of the now-uncovered well.

Glenn crouched closest to the edge, fingers gripping the rough lip of the stone. His brow furrowed, and his nose wrinkled.

“You hear that?” he asked, peering into the darkness below.

A sickly, guttural groan echoed upward—wet, sloshing, and inhuman. It didn’t sound like a walker in its prime. This one wheezed like it was drowning on its own rot.

“Jesus...” Maggie murmured, standing stiffly at Glenn’s side, her arms crossed tight over her chest. Her jaw tensed as the sound rose again, more distinct now, more desperate. “It’s been down there a while.”

Arnold leaned forward to get a better look, his voice low. “Ain’t movin’ much.”

“That’s cause it can’t,” Lacey said flatly, unimpressed. She tilted her head and squinted. “Look at it—bloated like a tick. Just standin’ there like a damn sponge. That ain’t normal.”

Tyreese stood with his arms crossed, silent but alert, eyes narrowed at the well. T-Dog moved beside him, holding a flashlight they’d rigged from the truck.

“I got it,” T-Dog muttered, angling the beam down into the pit. A grim ripple of disgust passed through the group as the light found the walker’s face.

Its skin was stretched tight in places, split open in others. Waterlogged. Sloughing off. Its eyes were milky, unfocused, and its mouth hung open like it had been groaning non-stop since it fell in. The thing was waist-deep in black water, its arms slack at its sides, like it had given up struggling.

Amy gagged and turned her head, hand to her mouth.

“That’s been in there a while.”

Andrea didn’t look away. She stood beside her sister, eyes wide with horrified fascination. “It hasn’t been eating,” she whispered, almost to herself. “It’s just... standing there.”

Maggie looked sick. Her mind ran the numbers—how many times they’d drawn water lately, how many meals... She looked to the group, catching eyes.

“We’ve been drinking from this,” Glenn said, voice low. “Cooking, cleaning...”

“Not this one,” Lacey cut in quickly, waving a hand dismissively. “Relax. This isn’t the main well we use. Hardly ever touch this one.”

A thick silence followed. The groans from the well pulsed again. It shifted slightly, sending gentle ripples out across the surface. The air smelled faintly of mold and old blood.

Amy took a careful step back, glancing around nervously. “So... what do we do with it?”

“Don’t think it’s about what,” Tyreese said. “It’s about how.”

No one answered immediately. But beneath the fog and the faint rustle of leaves, the walker groaned again, waiting.

Idle. Hungry. Rotting.

“We could just shoot it,” Andrea eventually added flatly, tilting her head toward the pit. “Put one between its eyes and be done with it.”

Tyreese immediately shook his head. “No. You shoot it down there, and if the water’s not already ruined, it sure as hell will be after you blow its brains out.”

Maggie pulled a face at the thought, a visible shudder running through her. Glenn turned to her, concern etched in his voice.
“You alright?”
She raised a hand without looking at him. “I’m fine. We just... don’t see stuff like this very often. I mean, look at it — it’s so water-logged its eyes are about to burst. That thing’s probably been in there for months...”

Lacey and Arnold exchanged a silent, concerned glance, but neither said a word.

T-Dog broke the tension with a hesitant suggestion. “We could try to lift it out?”

The group all turned to look at him. No one said anything at first, but their silence was agreement. As awful as the idea was, it was the only choice left.

About thirty minutes later, the group stood around the well again, now equipped with rope, makeshift hooks, and a growing sense of unease.

Tyreese was crouched at the rim, one boot braced carefully against the stone, the other dangling slightly into the void. Andrea stood behind him, both hands gripping the back of his belt to keep him from tipping in. Arnold and Lacey flanked the well, holding onto the thick rope tied around Tyreese’s waist—ready to pull hard if anything went wrong.

Dangling from Tyreese’s outstretched hand was a raw chicken breast, tied to a second loop of rope meant to slip around the walker’s neck once it took the bait.

But the walker didn’t bite.

It didn’t even react. It stood half-submerged, slack-jawed and blind, groaning softly as though oblivious to the offered meat.

T-Dog peered over the edge, squinting. “Suppose it prefers its food kickin’ and screamin’.”

Andrea’s face tightened with concern. She looked around at the others. “We need live bait.”

Silence dropped like a hammer. Then, slowly, heads turned.

Glenn, blinking, looked from one face to the next, his expression shifting from confusion to dread as he realized what they were implying.

“Wait... seriously?”

Maggie stepped forward, stunned. “You’re kidding right?” Her voice cracked with disbelief. “You're just gonna throw him in there?”

The others didn’t answer. Not directly. But no one denied it either.

Glenn’s eyes darted. His breath caught in his throat.

And Maggie—shocked not just at the plan, but at how quickly his so-called friends had come to it.

Glenn slowly removed his baseball cap and handed it to her.

Before anyone could second guess the decision, Arnold was already looping the rope around Glenn’s waist, tying it tight. He handed Glenn the second snare loop.

Lacey and Amy worked quickly to secure the rope around the pump while the rest of the group took up positions, each gripping the line. Tyreese stood at the front, muscles tense. Arnold took the rear, anchoring the line alongside him.

And slowly, with a quiet breath, Glenn began his descent into the well—toward the grotesque, bloated walker below.

His legs dangled above the dark water, knees trembling, palms slick with sweat. The sour stench of decay thickened as he lowered, eyes locked on the thing groaning below.

“You got this, man,” Tyreese called down, voice steady, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

The old pump securing the rope creaked louder the lower Glenn went, every groan of metal making the group tense. Suddenly—CRACK!—the pump snapped free, the aged metal buckling in a sharp collapse.

The rope whipped violently through their hands.

“Shit!” Tyreese barked as friction burns tore into palms and fingers. They all buckled, stumbling backwards, dirt flying as they struggled to hold on.

“What the fuck! PULL ME UP, PULL ME UP!” Glenn screamed, his body dropping fast—stopping just inches from the bloated walker’s snapping mouth. His boot kicked out in panic, striking its jaw as it surged upward, suddenly ravenous.

The walker groaned, louder now, swiping blindly.

The group shouted over one another as they scrambled, muscles burning, pain shooting up their arms as they refused to let go.

Dust clouded the well’s edge as they dragged the rope across the ground, inch by inch, united in one desperate attempt to save him.

The walker’s decayed teeth snapped at Glenn’s feet, its gums peeling back in strips as it lunged.

Glenn rose slowly, just out of reach.

The group, now back on their feet, heaved with every ounce of strength they had left. Their clothes were caked in sweat and dirt, hands blistered and raw.

“PULL!” Tyreese shouted from the front, setting the rhythm, trying to get them all moving in unison.

Glenn’s fingers finally appeared over the well’s edge, his arms shaking as he clung to the rim. The rope grew lighter, the load easing.

With a final coordinated effort, they hauled him up and over the stone lip. Glenn collapsed onto the ground, rolling and scurrying away from the well like he was on fire.

He didn’t stop until he reached Maggie, settling beside her, his chest heaving. Her hand went instinctively to his back, but her face was frozen in horror—still processing how close he’d come to dying.

T-Dog panted, hands on his knees. “Back to the drawing board.”

Glenn smirked between ragged breaths. “Says you,” he shot back, passing the second looped rope to T-Dog before stumbling away to catch his breath.

The rope suddenly went taut in T-Dog’s grip.

Amy and Andrea leaned over the edge. Their eyes widened.

“Holy shit… you got it,” Amy breathed, stunned.

Andrea blinked, still watching the rope twitch.

“What now?” Lacey asked the group.

Tyreese didn’t hesitate. “We pull it out.”

Still sore from their previous lift, the group worked as a unit to heave the lumpy creature out from its pit, everybody groaning as they pulled with maximum effort. Even Glenn, still catching his breath, jumped in to help.

“Almost there!” Tyreese called out, voice strained. “Just a bit further.”

The top of the walker's head emerged over the edge, its decaying skin slick and stretched. The rope had slipped beneath its arms, pulling tight as its bloated body was hauled up. Its legs, heavy and saturated, dragged against the stone. The weight was unbearable.

Then the skin under its arms began to tear.
With each pull, the rope sank deeper into the flesh, splitting it open. Black, syrupy blood oozed out, trailing down into the well.

One final tug—and the body split in half.

The upper half spilled out over the well’s edge with a grotesque splash of guts and bile. The lower half dropped, organs and blood plummeting into the water below, turning it dark.

The group stumbled back, caught off guard by the sudden shift in weight.

The walker’s torso still moved—its arms twitching, mouth snapping blindly.

Maggie, Lacey, and Arnold stood frozen in shock, all visibly sick. None of them had seen anything so gruesome.

The half-corpse writhed toward Lacey.

Tyreese stepped forward, raising his hammer.

One heavy swing cracked its skull—but not enough.

It kept wriggling.

Tyreese snarled, brought the hammer down again. And again.

Until the head finally burst, skull caving in with a dark, wet explosion onto the dirt.

Maggie gagged, backing away. Lacey covered her mouth. Arnold turned pale.

“I think we should carry on the tour another day,” he muttered.

Maggie nodded, swallowing hard. “We should seal off the well… tell the others to stay away from this one.”

“We need to go tell our dad.” Lacey coldly added.

As the group dispersed, Tyreese and T-Dog lifted the splintered lid back onto the well. With one final huff, they dropped it into place, sealing the darkness beneath. No one said much as they turned to walk. Bruised, burned, and shaken, the group began to make their way back to camp.

Chapter Text

The early afternoon light filtered through the branches overhead. The haze from the morning had lifted, leaving behind a thin veil of warmth that settled across the fields. Crickets chirped in rhythmic pulses, and a distant breeze whispered through the tall grass near the fence posts.

Allen stood outside the RV with his arms loosely crossed, his worn flannel shirt unbuttoned halfway, revealing the sweat-stained tank beneath. He watched as Lizzie and Mika approached, hand in hand, offering their father a couple of cheeky grins.

“Can we go play?” Lizzie asked, eyes bright despite the wear of sleeping in the RV. Mika looked up at him expectantly, already glancing toward the swing they’d seen the day before.

Allen straightened slightly, scanning the tree line with habitual caution. “Don’t go far, you hear me? Stay where Julie and Chris can see you. If I look up and you’re gone, I’ll come find you myself.”

Lizzie grinned, a small hop of excitement in her step. “We will! Promise.”

“Yeah, promise!” Mika added quickly before both girls turned and took off toward the far end of the clearing, where the woods encroached just enough to offer shade and adventure. The tire swing dangled from a half-dead oak, creaking faintly in the wind, a remnant of childhood shared by the Grenne family.

Julie and Chris were already headed in the same direction, dragging their feet but following all the same, Julie with her arms folded and Chris with his hands deep in his hoodie pockets, their silhouettes slouching with teen apathy.

Allen watched them until the four figures merged with the soft green shadows near the woods.

Turning slightly, he caught sight of Carol perched on the wooden steps of the farmhouse, brushing Sophia’s thin hair with the ends of her fingers. The little girl sat still, shoulders hunched, her chin tucked toward her chest as if keeping herself small.

Allen approached slowly, offering a gentle smile. “Would Sophia like to join the girls? They’re headed to that old swing out by the trees.”

Carol glanced down at her daughter before answering. Sophia shook her head, barely perceptibly, a tiny motion that might’ve gone unnoticed to anyone who didn’t know her.

“She’s okay here,” Carol replied with a soft smile, her voice low and warm, brushing another lock of hair behind Sophia’s ear. “But thank you.”

Allen nodded, not pressing. “Alright, just figured I’d ask.” He stepped back, casting another cautious glance toward the woods before retreating toward the RV.

Carol let out a quiet breath, barely audible over the cicadas. Sophia leaned back into her side and Carol wrapped her arm around her gently, her fingers brushing the child’s shoulder in slow, reassuring circles.

Inside, Carl sat propped up against a mound of pillows, still bandaged across his shoulder, but far more alert than he'd been the day before. His cheeks had regained a hint of colour, and his energy, though limited, buzzed with curiosity.

“So there’s cows? And chickens too?” Carl asked, eyes wide as he looked between his parents.

Lori smiled and nodded, her hand resting lightly on his arm. “Mm-hmm. And horses too. Maggie’s said she’ll give us lessons on how to ride.”

Rick leaned in closer, a grin tugging at his lips. “And there’s this big red barn at the back of the field. If you’re up for it, I could take you out there tomorrow. Just a short walk.”

“Can I climb it?” Carl asked, his excitement growing.

Rick laughed. “Let’s stick to walking first, champ.”

Lori gave a warm laugh too, her fingers gently brushing back the sweat-damp hairs from Carl’s forehead. The room was still, peaceful — until a soft knock interrupted the moment.

There was a pause.

The door creaked open and Shane stepped inside, hovering awkwardly in the doorway. His eyes flicked briefly to Rick, then Lori — who, despite smiling just seconds before, now wore a guarded, cool expression.

“Shane!” Carl lit up, his voice full of enthusiasm.

“Hey, sport,” Shane said, his voice warmer now as he stepped inside, hands on his hips. “How you feelin’?”

“Hershel told me I’m gonna have a pretty cool scar,” Carl said proudly, almost bragging. “I can’t wait to see it.”

Shane smirked, crouching a little as he replied, “Yeah bud, chicks love scars.”

Rick chuckled under his breath, amused.

But Lori’s smile had vanished entirely. Her tone sliced through the air, sharp and uninviting. “You need something, Shane?”

The shift in atmosphere was immediate. Shane straightened up slowly, rubbing the back of his stubbled head.

“Actually, yeah,” he said, the friendliness fading from his voice. “Just came to warn you both — some of the others came across a walker stuck in one of the wells this morning.”

Rick sat up straighter. “You serious?”

Shane nodded. “Hershel’s people had a little meeting after they found out. Just wanted to let you know some of us are helpin’ them go around, secure the rest of the wells and check ’em out.”

“That all?” Lori asked, voice tight.

Shane’s jaw flexed faintly. He gave a single nod. “Yeah. Guess I’ll get goin’ then. Just be careful.”

He cast one last glance toward Carl — who looked confused by the sudden tension — then stepped out, the door clicking shut behind him.

Rick looked over at Lori, brow furrowed. “You mad at him or something?”

Lori didn't answer right away. Her eyes remained on the closed door a moment longer, her fingers slowly smoothing over the edge of Carl’s blanket.

“Let’s just… not get into it right now,” she said finally, her voice quiet but clipped.

Rick exhaled through his nose, glancing down at Carl, who was now distracted again, idly picking at a frayed thread on his blanket.

After a few moments of silence, Rick spoke — not angry, but low, disappointed.

“He saved Carl’s life,” he said softly. “Whatever you’re so mad about, I think you can move past it.”

Lori didn’t respond. She just kept her hand on their son, her eyes distant as the quiet settled back over the room like dust.

Julie stood near the tire swing, absently rocking it with one hand while her eyes drifted across the clearing. In the distance, Allen let out a deep yawn and stretched, back arching slightly before he scratched the back of his head and wandered toward the RV. She watched him disappear inside, the door clicking shut.

Now that his gaze was off them, she turned and shot Chris a look — a wordless signal they’d clearly rehearsed before.

“Lizzie, Mika — come here for a minute,” Julie called out, her voice soft and sweet as she crouched a little to appear more inviting.

Lizzie stopped pushing her sister and helped Mika down from the swing. The two girls padded across the grass, slightly wary, especially Lizzie, whose brow furrowed with suspicion.

Julie crouched fully now, lowering herself to their level. “Chris and I have something we need to take care of. Just for a little while. Can you watch Mika while we’re gone?”

Lizzie squinted at her. “Where are you going?”

Julie exchanged a brief glance with Chris and smiled, clearly trying not to laugh. “We can’t tell you that.”

Lizzie’s suspicion deepened. “Well, what are you doing then?”

Julie pressed her lips together, suppressing a grin. “Grown-up stuff. We’ll be back soon, okay?”

Lizzie folded her arms. “Maybe I should go and ask my dad what you’re doing. I’m eleven, I’m not stupid.”

Chris stepped in quickly, pulling something from the large pocket of his hoodie. “How about if we give you both one of these?” he said, holding up two full-sized chocolate bars, the wrappers catching the sunlight like gold.

Lizzie’s stance wavered. Mika’s eyes lit up.

“By the time you finish eating these,” Chris added, “we’ll be back. Promise.”

Reluctantly, Lizzie took the bar, handing the other to her sister as Julie and Chris quietly made their way toward the woods. The two kids plopped themselves onto the grass and tore into the treats.

“You know how fast they eat that shit, right?” Julie murmured as the trees began to thicken around them.

“Yeah, I know what I said,” Chris grinned, his voice picking up with anticipation as he unbuckled his jeans, pulling them to the ground. “It’s been a while.”

Julie got on her knees, hair pulled back as she removed his boxer shorts, revealing a light trail of hair pointing her lower. Seductive looks, plastered on the teenagers faces, as they had finally found an opportunity to be alone.

Meanwhile, Amy and Andrea were walking side by side along the dirt path that curved behind the barn. The sun had risen high, casting a gentle warmth over the farm now cleared of morning fog. Their clothes were clean, slightly oversized, borrowed from one of Hershel’s storage bins — but at least they no longer smelled of sweat and grime. The silence between them wasn’t heavy, just the kind that lingered after an intense morning. They were tired but intact.

Amy kicked at a stone with the side of her boot, her fingers toying with a loose thread on her shirt. After a moment, she broke the quiet.

“Do you ever wonder if Mum and Dad survived?” she asked softly, eyes still on the ground ahead.

Andrea glanced at her, then slowly turned her gaze toward the horizon. The question hung in the air between them as they drifted to a stop beside the barn’s faded wooden siding. Without a word, they stepped off the path and found a spot on the grassy slope, sitting side by side.

Andrea’s hair was still damp from the cold shower she’d taken not long before, the ends curling as she absently twisted a lock around her finger.

“From what Jenner told us…” Andrea finally said, her voice low, “sounds like the rest of the world fell apart too.”

Amy stayed quiet a moment, then offered a hopeful smile. “Well, maybe Bermuda wasn’t hit so bad.”

Andrea huffed out a dry laugh, not cruel, just tired. “Amy…”

Amy’s smile faded.

“I think it’s best to just assume they’re gone,” Andrea said, softer now. “I promised them I’d watch out for you. Though at the time, I figured that implied picking you up when you got too drunk and shit... not all this.”

Amy nodded, her expression bittersweet. “Yeah. We should’ve listened to Dad. He knew this was coming and we called him crazy.”

Andrea looked off toward the trees, eyes narrowed at some distant thought. “Yeah… Mum finally drags him on a vacation… and look what happens.”

Amy laughed gently, brushing a hand through the grass beside her. “If they are still alive… I just know he’s giving her the biggest ‘I told you so’ lecture.”

Andrea laughed, for real this time, the sound a little rusty but genuine. “Yeah… he was still a good dad though, right?”

“Yeah,” Amy said, nodding slowly. “He was.”

Andrea’s smile deepened. “I mean… every girl gets given a handgun for her sweet sixteen, right?”

Amy rolled her eyes and smirked. “Oh please, we all saw how excited you were.”

Andrea chuckled again but glanced sideways at Amy, noting the thin silver bracelet on her sister’s wrist.

“You were pretty damn happy too, remember? That bracelet — he had it engraved just for you. You wore it every day after that.”

Amy looked down, brushing her fingers along the underside of the band. The inscription had faded slightly, but it was still there. “He knew we were so different.”

Andrea raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking.

Amy’s gaze stayed on the bracelet. “You — strong, sharp, stubborn as hell. And me, always daydreaming, always with my head somewhere else. But he got us. He didn’t try to change either of us.”

Andrea’s expression softened as she leaned back on her elbows, soaking in the warmth of the sun. “No. He didn’t.”

A small silence passed between them.

“He just made sure we could take care of ourselves,” Amy added, her voice quieter now.

Andrea reached out, briefly resting her hand over Amy’s. “And here we are.”

Suddenly, a high-pitched scream pierced the stillness.

Amy and Andrea shot to their feet.

"That was Mika," Amy said, heart thudding. They both turned toward the source — the forest.

Without a word, they sprinted.

As they rounded the trees near the far field, two half-clothed figures burst from the underbrush — Julie and Chris, faces flushed, clothes tangled, panic plain on both their faces.

"What the fu— Where are Lizzie and Mika?!" Andrea shouted, eyes wild.

Julie stumbled forward, breath catching. "We—uh—we don't know!"

Amy spotted movement by the waterline and pointed sharply. “Over there!” she cried.

“Get dressed and stay there!” Andrea barked at Julie and Chris without even glancing back. “God damn teenagers,” she muttered under her breath.

Amy and Andrea reached the riverbank, breathless, evaluating the danger.

A fast-flowing river cut through the forest edge, and across it, stranded on the far bank, were Lizzie and Mika. A long, thin log spanned the rushing water. Mika was entangled in vines, struggling beside a walker that was half-submerged and snarling, caught in the same tangle but slowly gaining ground. Lizzie stood opposite her sister, backing away.

“Lizzie, use this! Quickly!” Andrea called, hurling her knife across the gap.

It clattered beside Lizzie’s feet.

“No!” Lizzie cried out, backing up another step, shaking her head in fear, her eyes locked on the snarling walker only inches from her trapped sister.

“We don’t have time for this. Move,” Amy said, brushing past her sister with urgency.

“What are you doing?” Andrea called, her voice tight with alarm.

Amy didn’t answer. She inhaled deeply and stepped onto the log, arms instinctively spreading for balance. One foot in front of the other. Controlled, precise. Her muscles remembered — years spent training on balance beams came to her in the heat of the moment. But never with this kind of consequence. Never over the roar of a river that threatened to swallow anything that fell.

Water splashed up in bursts beneath her, and the wind tugged at her damp shirt, but she didn’t waver.

Reaching the far side, Amy dismounted in a low crouch, her eyes never leaving the walker that lunged for Mika with a wet snarl. In a flash, she unsheathed her knife and drove it down hard, burying it in the base of the walker’s skull just as it reared toward Mika’s neck.

The thing stilled, breathless and twitching. Amy let it fall.

Blood trickled down the blade, onto her wrist, and then onto Mika’s tiny, trembling frame.

Lizzie stood frozen nearby, her hands at her sides. Her face didn’t change. She wasn’t crying. Wasn’t relieved.

Just cold.

A rustling crash broke from behind them. Allen came barrelling through the trees, breathless, eyes wide.

“What the fuck happened?!” he shouted, spotting both of his daughters across the river — Mika stained with blood and dirt, Lizzie standing eerily calm.

“One at a time!” Amy called, turning back toward the log.

She crouched and offered her back to Mika first, hoisting the girl onto her shoulders with care. Arms steady, feet precise, she walked the narrow log again and brought Mika safely across, setting her down into Allen’s waiting arms. He clutched the girl to his chest tightly.

Then Amy went back.

Lizzie climbed on, still silent. No questions, no emotion. Just a firm grip around Amy’s neck as they crossed.

When they returned, Lizzie stepped down without a word. Allen dropped to a knee and pulled both his girls in for a hug, overwhelmed.

Julie and Chris emerged again from the woods, now fully clothed, heads hung in shame.

Andrea approached Allen, keeping her voice even but firm as she explained what had happened — omitting the details of Julie and Chris’s whereabouts.

“Where the hell were you to make sure this didn’t happen?” Allen asked, looking between them.

“I’m taking the kids back to the RV,” Andrea said, not waiting for a reply as she began walking, the girls trailing behind her.

“We…” Julie began, but Amy cut in smoothly.

“They thought they heard walkers nearby,” Amy said. “Went to go make sure the kids were safe. By the time they got back… Lizzie and Mika were already gone.”

Julie blinked, surprised — but she said nothing.

Allen wiped sweat from his forehead and let out a slow breath. “Shit. I’m sorry for shouting, thank you,” he muttered, glancing at Amy. Then he followed Andrea down the path.

Chris hesitated before speaking, his voice sheepish. “Why did you cover for us?”

Amy sighed and shrugged, brushing dirt from her arms. “I was a teenager once. I know what it’s like… but if you’re gonna do something like that, come and get me or Andrea next time. You can’t be putting someone else in danger like that again.”

“We will, Sorry,” they both said in unison.

The three of them turned and made their way back through the trees, the wind whispering through the canopy.

Chapter Text

The early morning sun cast long shadows between the hollow buildings of the small town, its golden light bouncing off old shopfronts and cracked windows. The streets were quiet, littered with fallen signs and leaves that had begun to pile at the edges of the sidewalks. Time hadn’t yet ravaged this place. A few months into the fall of the world, and most of the town still looked eerily intact.

The steady clop of hooves against the broken asphalt echoed in the silence as Glenn and Maggie approached what had once been a neighbourhood pharmacy. Perched together on the back of a sturdy brown-and-white horse, Glenn rode behind Maggie, his arms awkwardly encircling her waist. He kept a hesitant grip, unsure if he was holding on too tightly or not enough, but the occasional bounce of the saddle forced a closeness that made his nerves itch.

As the horse slowed near the storefront, the pharmacy came into full view. Its once-white walls were dirtied with grime, but the windows were mostly intact. A hand-written sign had been taped to the glass door, the ink faded but still legible:

"Take what you need. God bless."

Maggie brought the horse to a halt and glanced at the message. Glenn slid off the saddle first, landing with a thud and a small puff of dust from the pavement.

“I’m surprised there’s anything left,” he said as he straightened up, brushing off the front of his shirt. His eyes scanned the store from a distance, brow furrowing in caution.

Maggie followed suit, swinging her leg over and hopping down beside him. She took the reins and tied them off to a rusted lamp post, the paint chipped and flaking away in long curls. The horse let out a soft grunt, adjusting its stance as it began to settle.

Glenn stepped closer to the pharmacy’s glass door, peering inside. A few shelves were toppled, medicine bottles scattered, but it wasn’t the kind of devastation they’d seen in Atlanta or other towns. It felt like people had left in
“You think whoever left that sign is still around?” Glenn asked, his voice low, uncertain. He didn’t take his eyes off the dim interior beyond the glass.

Maggie gave a small shake of her head. “I’ve been here before,” she said, voice steady. “Couple weeks back. Quiet then, too. I never had any trouble. We can just go in, take what we need, as the sign says.”

She stepped forward, giving the door a gentle push. The bell overhead gave a dull jingle as it opened, the kind of sound that used to welcome customers — now it just made their shoulders tighten. Glenn slipped his knife from its sheath, holding it down by his thigh as he followed her inside.

The pharmacy still smelled faintly medicinal — plastic and paper, a ghost of cleaning product in the air. Shelves leaned tiredly under the weight of forgotten stock. The silence was thick but not unnatural. No flies. No rot. Just emptiness.

They moved cautiously, then slowly began to split — Maggie turning left down an aisle lined with dusty supplements and cold medicines, Glenn drifting toward the back where stronger medications were likely kept under lock and key. He moved quickly, slipping blister packs and bottles into his bag, scanning for anything on Hershel’s list.

“So,” Maggie’s voice called softly across the quiet store, “about what happened at the well yesterday…”

Glenn paused mid-reach, eyes flicking toward her aisle before continuing. “Yeah... that was fun.”

“They made you bait.”

Glenn gave a dry chuckle, crouching to check a lower cabinet. “I volunteered.”

“That’s not what happened, and you know it” Maggie replied, her voice a little sharper now. “They nominated you like you were the only expendable option.”

He straightened up, turning the bottle over in his hand. “Look,” he said, not unkindly, “if I didn’t do it, someone else might’ve died trying. I’m the safe bet.”

Maggie stepped around the end of her aisle and leaned against the counter near him, arms crossed. “That’s not exactly comforting, Glenn. I couldn’t send any of my family down there like that.”

He shrugged. “It’s weird, yeah. But this... sneaking into places, grabbing what we need, getting out without a scratch — it’s what I’m good at.”

“You’re not a pack mule or a decoy,” she said, almost under her breath. “They shouldn’t treat you like one.”

Glenn offered a lopsided smile. “They don’t. Not really. I think... they just see I can do it and trust that I will. That counts for something, right?”

Maggie looked at him for a beat longer than he expected, then said flatly, “If you say so,” before turning back down the aisle with a quiet huff and disappearing between shelves of gauze and ointment.

Glenn blinked, a little stunned at the brush-off, but shrugged to himself. Maybe she didn’t get it. Or maybe she did and didn’t like it.

He moved quietly past the cracked linoleum flooring, heading into the back corner of the store — the feminine hygiene aisle. He scanned the shelves quickly, eyes darting for what Rick and Lori had requested. Tampons, prenatal vitamins, pregnancy tests. He spotted a couple boxes half-crushed but still sealed. Jackpot.

As he reached up, something else caught his eye — a half-empty cardboard box that had tipped over from the top shelf. Scattered across the floor were silver-wrapped condoms. He crouched to pick one up, flipping it in his fingers. Thin feel, the label boasted in faded red font.

He smirked a little. The apocalypse really did make the smallest things feel weirdly significant.

Then— “What-cha got there?”

Glenn jolted.

He looked up, wide-eyed, and there was Maggie — standing at the end of the aisle with her arms crossed and one brow arched in silent judgment. She’d clearly caught him red-handed. Or, rather, ‘latex fingered’.

“I—uh—I was just—” Glenn fumbled, trying to tuck the condom packet back into the box, the colour flooding his ears. “It was on the floor. I wasn’t—”

Maggie stepped forward slowly, removing her Stetson with one hand and letting it hang at her side. A small smile played at the corners of her mouth, but her eyes stayed steady on his.

“I’ll have sex with you,” she said simply. No fanfare. Just a quiet confidence wrapped in a sly edge.

Glenn blinked. “Oh—uh—okay,” he said, voice cracking somewhere between a question and disbelief.

Maggie’s smile curved just a bit more as she stepped past him toward the first-aid supplies, leaving him stunned in place, the packet still clutched awkwardly in his hand.

She seductively vanished around the corner, undoing her blouse.

Glenn stood there a moment longer before letting out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, staring down at the wrapper in his hand.

“Thin feel, huh,” he mumbled, and followed her around the corner, lifting his grey shirt over his head, getting caught up in the excitement.

Back on the farm, the day was warming gently. Carol stood beneath the old oak near the barn, one hand wrapped around the thick rope of the tire swing, gently pushing Sophia back and forth. The swing creaked rhythmically with each pass, her daughter’s legs limp, dragging the tips of her shoes through the dust.

Ed sat nearby on a sawed-off log, hunched over with a cigarette burning between his fingers — one of the last traded for a pack of Oreos. Patricia had offered him the smoke earlier that morning in exchange.

"You promised you’d let Sophia have some of those Oreos remember." Carol said quietly, her voice soft but clear as she kept her eyes on her daughter. “You didn’t have to give them all away.”

Ed scoffed, sucking down a drag and blowing the smoke toward the ground. “If she wants some, she can fucking ask for them. Rather than just sitting there like a damn mute.”

“Ed… don’t,” Carol murmured, the words barely above a whisper, but the plea was there. A plea for a pause in the constant tension that seemed to trail behind him like the smoke from his mouth.

He stood abruptly, tossing the cigarette butt to the ground and grinding it out beneath his boot with too much force. “You think I don’t see what’s goin’ on?” he barked, stepping forward. “She don’t talk. Don’t even look at me no more. And now everyone thinks I’m some kinda monster ‘cause my kid’s a little freak who won’t open her damn mouth.”

Sophia immediately shrank into herself, clutching the rope of the swing tighter, her gaze pinned to the ground.

“I ain’t a bad father,” Ed snapped, moving closer, his voice hot and bitter. “Am I? Huh?” He leaned in, eyes locked on his daughter’s frozen face. “Is that why you won’t fucking talk?”

Sophia recoiled, her body pulling back instinctively as a tear slipped down her cheek.

“Ed, stop it — leave her alone,” Carol pleaded, stepping toward them, panic starting to fray the edges of her voice.

But Ed ignored her completely. “No,” he growled, grabbing Sophia’s arm and yanking her off the swing. She let out a startled cry, stumbling as he dragged her to her feet. “We’re sortin’ this out right now.”

Carol’s voice broke as she cried, “Please, Ed! She’s just a child!”

Sophia whimpered, struggling in his grip, her face red and streaked with fear, but still she said nothing. Just the sound of the swing slowly spinning behind her, and the wind rattling the rope.

Ed’s rage boiled over. “Just fucking talk!” he roared, his hand striking across her cheek with a sharp crack.

“Speak!” he bellowed.

Sophia fell silent, crumpling slightly in his hold, a second tear slipping out to join the first.

Carol rushed to them now, sobbing, reaching out with trembling hands. “Please—Ed—stop it! She’s scared!”

But no one was around. The camp was empty. No Dale on the RV. No Tyreese by the firepit. No Shane walking around the perimeter. Just the birds overhead, scattering from the branches as Ed's shouting filled the space.

And Sophia — small, terrified, silent — still refusing to say a word.

Carol lunged forward, her hands wrapping around Ed’s thick forearm in a desperate attempt to free her daughter from his grip. Her fingers clawed at his wrist, her breath trembling as she begged, “Let her go, Ed, please, please!”

But she was no match for him.

He wrenched his arm free with barely any effort and turned; his face twisted in fury. Without hesitation, he lashed out again — this time the back of his hand striking Carol hard across the face.

She crumpled, landing on one knee in the dirt, a choked gasp escaping her lips as her cheek stung and swelled almost instantly.

“Weak.” Ed spat the word like venom, standing over them. “That’s all you are. The end of the damn world and I’m stuck with two weak bitches like you.”

His words hit harder than the slap, but he didn’t wait for an answer.

He marched off without another word, boots crunching over dry earth as he headed toward the barn, shoulders tense with that same simmering rage, like violence itself kept him upright.

Carol barely noticed him leave. She was already pulling Sophia to her chest, holding her close, cradling her trembling frame against her own bruised body. The little girl sobbed silently into her mother’s collarbone, her small hands clinging to Carol’s shirt like it was the only thing tethering her to the world.

Carol whispered promises she couldn’t make, rocking back and forth in the dirt, her own tears falling into her daughter’s hair.

And still, the farm lay quiet. Peaceful on the surface.

Empty.

No one had seen.

No one had stopped it.

Back at the pharmacy, soft beams of sunlight filtered in through the cracked blinds. Amid the faded labels and sterile scent of antiseptics, a different kind of warmth lingered — one born from the tangled pile of clothes and breathless laughter between the shelves.

Glenn pulled his shirt back over his head, still catching his breath, cheeks flushed with something more than just exertion. Maggie was already lacing up her boots, her hair a little messier than before, a crooked grin playing on her lips.

“That was…” Glenn began, trailing off as he tried to find the right word while buttoning his jeans.

Maggie glanced up, standing now as she ran a hand through her hair, amused by his fluster.

“Unexpected?” she finished for him with a teasing glint in her eyes.

He let out a laugh, still half-dazed, and nodded. “Yeah. That.”

She stepped closer, brushing a bit of dust off his shoulder. “You gonna survive the ride home?” Clearly hinting at the obvious innuendo.

“After that? No guarantee,” he said, voice still a little breathless, but the smile on his face made it clear he wasn’t complaining.

Maggie chuckled, grabbing the now considerably fuller duffel bag of supplies and slinging it over her shoulder. “Well, we got what we came for,” she said, throwing him a look.

“Actually—” Glenn said suddenly, pivoting back toward one of the shelves, “there’s one more thing I need.”

He reached down and picked up a small pink box from the bottom row. Maggie leaned in to see the label and her amused smile slowly slipped into something far more curious.

A pregnancy test.

Her brow arched sharply. “Easy now, bait-boy,” she said, taking a step closer. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Glenn blinked, confused for half a second—until realization slammed into his face. His eyes widened, mouth opening to explain.

“Oh—no! No, no, this isn’t for me, or, I mean, us—someone asked me to grab it for them!”

Maggie narrowed her eyes, arms crossing. “Who?”

He hesitated, clutching the box like it might explode. “I can’t say… not yet.”

“Oh, come on, Glenn,” Maggie pressed, voice lowering but not losing its edge. “We’ve got a right to know which one of you is potentially knocked up. It’s one thing y’all living in our backyard, but I think you’re getting a little too settled.”

Glenn looked baffled. “What do you mean?”

Maggie sighed, walking behind the counter to grab her own pack of supplies. She didn’t look at him as she spoke, but her tone had shifted — less playful now, more guarded.

“This arrangement isn’t permanent,” she said. “Daddy wants you all to move on in a couple of weeks. Didn’t Rick tell you?”

Glenn stood frozen, the box still in his hand, the weight of her words sinking in like a stone dropped into still water.

“No,” he said slowly. “He didn’t.”

Then there was a creak, subtle at first — a strained, metallic groan from somewhere to Maggie’s left. Her head barely turned before the slightly toppled shelf of overdue prescription packages shuddered violently, moths of dust cascading from its top.

Then, like a curtain dropping in slow motion, it began to tip.

“Maggie—!” Glenn shouted, but too late.

A pale, rotted arm slithered through the gap behind the shelf, fingers clawing the air with blind instinct. The structure crashed down with a thunderous clatter, metal screeching as it twisted. Maggie disappeared in the collapse, buried beneath the mangled shelving, a cry of shock bursting from her throat.

Glenn’s pack hit the floor with a heavy thump as he vaulted the counter in two quick strides. “Maggie!”

She was pinned, her lower half crushed under the weight of the shelving unit, prescription bottles rolling like spilled dice across the linoleum. Panic laced her screams now — not from the impact, but from what was crawling toward her.

The half-crushed walker, flattened from the waist down by the shelf but still animated, dragged itself forward with ghastly persistence. Its jaw was torn, crooked and lurching, but its milky eyes were fixed on her leg like a predator tracking prey. The fingers clawed the tile with a sickening scrape as it inched closer, groaning with hunger.

The uniform it wore — tattered, faded blue — still bore a stitched name tag: Tom – Pharmacy Technician.

Maggie kicked wildly, heels slamming against the floor. “Get it off me!” she shrieked. “Glenn, get it off me!”

“I got you, I got you!” he barked, dropping to his knees beside her. Without hesitation, he plunged his knife straight through the walker’s open jaw, the blade slicing into the soft tissue beneath.

But it kept coming.

Its head twisted unnaturally, the blade sticking through one cheek as it gnashed uselessly at the air. Glenn yanked the knife free and struck again, this time at the base of its neck. Bone resisted the blow — a crunch, but still no stop.

With a guttural roar, Glenn raised the knife one final time and buried it into the walker’s temple with a wet crack through. The creature spasmed — then went still.

Everything fell silent except Maggie’s ragged breathing and Glenn’s heaving gasps.

He dropped the knife, shaking, and crawled closer to her, pulling broken pieces of shelving away from her body. “Are you okay? Maggie—are you hurt?”

Maggie’s breathing began to steady, though she was still visibly shaken. Glenn carefully pulled the last of the metal shelf off her leg, checking for any signs of injury. There was bruising, a scrape along her shin, but no bites — no broken skin. He helped her sit up slowly, letting her lean on him for balance.

They both glanced toward the now-motionless corpse — the walker that had nearly killed her. It lay twisted on the tile, one arm mangled beneath the collapsed shelf, the blue pharmacy uniform still faintly clinging to its chest.

Maggie stared at it for a moment, then spoke softly. “Where the fuck did it come from?”

Glenn wiped sweat from his brow, turning back toward the crumpled shelving. He crouched and peered into the narrow, dark space behind where the shelf had stood.

“Looks like…” he trailed off, shifting aside a fallen bin to get a better look. “…his body was wedged back there. Probably collapsed on him. No one came looking. No one knew. Poor guy must’ve died trapped in his own store.”

Maggie frowned, her eyes lingering on the name tag.

“He probably heard us come in, just started clawing. The whole time we were fooling around…”

They both stood in silence for a beat, sobered now by the reality of how close they’d come — and how quietly death had been waiting behind a single shelf.

Glenn extended a hand and helped her the rest of the way up. She limped slightly but nodded that she could walk.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Maggie said.

“Yeah,” Glenn agreed, grabbing the supplies.

Chapter Text

The sun had long begun its descent, casting amber hues across the Greene farm. Glenn and Dale sat shoulder to shoulder on the old farmhouse porch bench, their boots resting on the worn timber planks, the air filled with the scent of dry hay and distant manure. Glenn rocked gently, a smug little smile playing at his lips.

Dale squinted at him through the low light, brow furrowed. “What’s that look for?”

Glenn leaned closer, lowering his voice to a gleeful whisper. “Me and Maggie had sex.”

Dale nearly choked on the sip of water he'd just taken from his canteen. He coughed, twisted toward the house, eyes wide, and hissed, “Jesus Christ, Glenn, keep your damn voice down!”

“What?” Glenn said, trying to stifle a grin. “She’s twenty-one, she can sleep with whoever she likes.”

“That’s not the point,” Dale snapped in a half-whisper, peering toward the kitchen window like Hershel might be lurking behind the lace curtain with a shotgun and a rosary. “Hershel is a devout Catholic. His whole family is. That’s dangerous territory Glenn.”

Glenn chuckled but Dale didn’t join in.

“I’m serious,” the older man continued, turning to face him squarely now. “These folks come from a different cloth. Hershel may be kind, but he’s also old school. Traditional. And proud. You hurt her, even by accident, even just by being careless… something tells me he won’t just ask you to leave. He’ll make of it.”

Glenn looked away, his fingers tugging absentmindedly at a loose thread on his jeans. “I didn’t mean for it to be disrespectful. I just… I don’t know what it was.”

Dale gave him a long, thoughtful look. “Well son… what do you want it to be?”

Glenn didn’t answer. The question hung there, unanswered, suspended in the quiet between them.

Glenn sat forward, his elbows on his knees, hands wringing nervously as he glanced sideways at Dale.

“Actually… there’s something else I need to talk to you about,” he murmured, his voice suddenly missing the swagger it held minutes before. “It’s about Hershel… and what Maggie told me earlier.”

Dale turned his head slightly, giving Glenn a curious but knowing look. “Go on.”

Glenn hesitated, struggling to find the right words, clearly unsettled.

But just as the words started to gather, a sharp clang cut through the quiet evening air. The dinner bell.

Both men looked toward the source of the sound—round the side of the farmhouse, where Beth was swinging the old iron bell from its wooden post, its echo rolling across the fields and pulling everyone out of their evening rest.

Dale groaned lightly as he pushed himself up from the bench, joints cracking with age. “We should go eat before there’s nothing left. You’ve had a long day.”

Glenn stayed seated for a second longer, the words he'd meant to say caught in his throat, fading beneath the clatter of cutlery and footsteps beginning to stir around the house. He gave a small, tight nod and followed silently.

Despite Hershel’s desire for the group to move on in the coming weeks, he remained every bit the Southern gentleman. No one went hungry under his roof—not tonight. His hospitality held strong.

Inside, the long walnut table stretched across the farmhouse dining room, fourteen seats carefully arranged. Hershel sat at the head, calm and composed, a silent authority at the table. Lacey and Arnold whispered at his right; Beth sat near Maggie with Billy squirming in his seat beside her. Two chairs remained empty—Jimmy and Patricia would be along soon.

Maggie took her seat, glancing only briefly at Glenn before beginning to serve herself. Glenn slid into the chair beside her, the conversation with Dale still heavy on his mind. Across from him, Dale settled in, his eyes catching Glenn’s for a second—but no words were exchanged.

Further down the table, Lori tended to Carl, who was propped up with cushions and smiling weakly at Rick, who was carving up something onto his son’s plate. Shane sat close, more distant than usual, eyes flickering between Lori and the table with a distracted focus.

Off in the adjacent sitting room, another table had been arranged for Tyreese’s group and the Harrison sisters. Sasha and Julie took the ends while Chris, Tyreese, Andrea and Amy filled in the middle, their chatter a low hum of relieved laughter.

Outside, under the porch lights, another table accommodated Carol and Sophia, Allen and his daughters Lizzie and Mika, with T-Dog taking the spot nearest the edge. One seat remained empty—Ed’s, untouched and unspoken for. Carol’s eyes flicked toward it now and then, but she said nothing.

It wasn’t family, not really. But for a fleeting moment—amid the clatter of forks, the soft murmur of voices, and the distant chirp of crickets—it felt close.

Across the dimming farm, away from the laughter and clatter of dinner, Jimmy followed his mother with uneasy steps. The grass was thick underfoot, the air humid with the scent of livestock and evening dew. In his hands, he clutched an open burlap sack, its coarse weave brushing against his knuckles as they reached the chicken coop.

Patricia stepped inside first, lantern in hand, its flickering glow dancing across the walls of wire mesh and wooden beams. Chickens rustled uneasily in their nests, clucking low and wary. Patricia moved with quiet efficiency, lifting one bird after another, feeling their weight.

Jimmy shifted his grip on the sack. “Why these ones?” he asked, glancing at the startled hens in her arms.

“They stopped laying eggs a few weeks ago,” Patricia replied, her tone flat, almost mechanical. “They’re no good to us now.”

Before Jimmy could react, she snapped the first chicken’s leg with a quick, practiced twist. The bird let out a shrill cry, wings flapping wildly for a brief, helpless moment before she shoved it into the sack. Jimmy’s face twisted with discomfort, eyes darting away as she did the same to the next one. And the next.

Each cry pierced the coop, sharp and pitiful, but Patricia was unmoved—her eyes distant, jaw clenched, like she was somewhere else entirely. Jimmy, on the other hand, visibly flinched with every sound. His hands trembled slightly around the sack’s rim.

“Ma…” he muttered, voice tight, but she didn’t respond. She was already scooping up the fourth.

They exited the coop without another word, Jimmy trailing behind, his boots scraping against the dirt path. They approached the big red barn, the old structure looming darker than usual in the deep blue twilight. Patricia climbed the ladder first, motioning for Jimmy to follow. At the top, she reached into her pocket, drew out a rusted key, and unlocked the loft door.

The moment it creaked open, low groans and wet snarls echoed from within the shadows. The sound sent a chill skittering up Jimmy’s spine.

He paused, breath caught. “Ma… I don’t know if this is right anymore. Not after dad, this just feels wrong.”

Patricia didn’t answer him directly. “Open the sack,” she instructed.

Reluctantly, Jimmy obeyed, holding it wide as his mother reached in and retrieved the first injured chicken. She stepped toward the edge of the loft, and without a word, tossed it into the darkness below.

There was a frenzy of movement. The chicken's frantic clucks were cut short by a sudden, visceral crunch followed by muffled growls.

Jimmy’s face went pale.

Patricia retrieved another bird. Tossed it.

Another wave of noises erupted from below—guttural, inhuman. One of the groans turned into a choking snarl, sending a jolt through the floorboards beneath Jimmy’s feet.

He staggered back from the edge, heart pounding, nausea rising fast. “I—I can’t—” he stammered, and turned, bolting down the ladder.

Patricia blinked, startled by his sudden retreat. “Jimmy!” she called after him, tossing the last chicken aside and dropping the now-empty sack. She moved quickly to follow, climbing down with haste—her focus entirely on catching up to her panicked son.

Behind her, the loft door hung ajar, the key still dangling in the lock… forgotten.

The soft clinking of dishes and quiet rustle of chairs being pulled in filled the farmhouse, the glow of oil lanterns casting a golden warmth across every face. The food was spread out in generous portions—roast chicken, boiled potatoes, string beans, cornbread, and thick ladles of gravy—steam rising from platters, filling the farmhouse with the rich aroma of a home-cooked feast.

Conversation began to taper as Hershel rose slowly from the head of the long table, the scrape of his chair drawing everyone's attention. He didn’t speak right away, simply rested his hands on the edge of the table and glanced along the row of faces—his own family and the weary travellers they had taken in.

“If I may,” he said gently, his voice deep but not forceful, “before we eat… I’d like to say grace.”

There were nods around the table. Forks were set down. Heads bowed. Maggie reached instinctively for Glenn’s hand beneath the table, and though he hesitated, he took it. Across from them, Dale bowed respectfully, hands clasped together in a way that felt familiar from his childhood.

Lori gently nudged Carl, who followed suit, folding his arms on the table and closing his eyes, his little face still pale from the days in bed. Rick bowed too, quietly and without show.

But Shane…

Shane sat back in his chair, arms crossed. His head stayed high. His eyes trailed the spread of food, unimpressed by the ritual unfolding around him. He rolled his eyes subtly, just enough to make his feelings clear without making a scene. The murmured prayer, the bowed heads—it all struck him as an unnecessary performance.

Jimmy stepped inside, his breath a little uneven, and his boots heavy on the floorboards. His cheeks were flushed, eyes rimmed red—not crying, but clearly shaken. He slipped into one of the empty chairs beside Beth, trying not to draw attention, though his sudden arrival naturally caused a few to glance up from prayer.

Patricia entered a few seconds later, her face stiff and unreadable. She said nothing as she took her seat across from her son, brushing a wisp of hair behind her ear, her fingers pale from how tightly she clenched her napkin.

Hershel didn’t react. If he noticed, he gave no indication. His words flowed steady, with practiced grace.

“Lord,” Hershel said, his tone slow, deliberate, and sincere, “we thank You for the abundance You’ve provided for us in these times of scarcity.”

Shane caught a smirk tugging at his own lip but held it back. ‘Abundance of bullshit,’ he thought to himself.

“We thank You,” Hershel continued, “for the healing of our sick. For Your mercy in saving those who would’ve died, and the wisdom You grant us to do what is necessary to protect the ones we love.”

There was a shift across the table. Most assumed it was about Carl—what other sick people was he referring to?

But Shane, sharp-eyed even now, noticed Maggie’s lids lift ever so slightly, her glance flicking toward her father, then toward Jimmy.

Jimmy wasn’t bowing anymore. His head was down, but his eyes were open, darting toward Maggie. He looked pale, disturbed. The boy’s knuckles were tight around the napkin in his lap; jaw clenched just a bit too hard for someone about to enjoy supper.

Shane locked eyes with them both across the flickering table.

Maggie’s gaze jerked away.

Jimmy looked down fast.

“And for those who still suffer,” Hershel went on, not missing a beat, “may You continue to give us strength, courage, and clarity in the days ahead. Amen.”

A few quiet “Amens” followed from around the table, soft-spoken and respectful.

Shane didn’t join in. He leaned back just slightly, arms crossing, eyes still on Maggie and Jimmy. Something about that prayer didn’t sit right. Something about their reaction even less.

The meal had thinned to a lull, the noise softened to the occasional clink of forks on plates, or Carl’s tired laugh at something his father said.

Glasses of water sat half-drunk, bread baskets nearly empty, and a few were already leaning back in their chairs with the quiet satisfaction of a full stomach.

Glenn sat upright, his plate was mostly cleared, a lone bean stubbornly clinging to the edge. He pushed it idly with his fork.

Then, as the conversation around them began to drift again, Maggie slid something beneath the table.

A small fold of paper, passed deftly from her hand to his lap, followed by the briefest of glances.

He blinked, then carefully unfolded it beneath the tablecloth.

"Tonight — where? x"

He looked up instinctively.

Maggie winked.

The blood surged to his cheeks. His ears went red before the rest of his face even caught up. He quickly folded the note and palmed it, stuffing it into his pocket like it might explode in front of everyone.

Dale, seated directly across from him, watched the entire display with narrowed eyes.

The note. The blush. The fumble. The look on Glenn’s face.

Dale slowly shook his head, subtle but stern, the same way a disappointed father might when catching his son reaching for trouble. Glenn tried to look away, busying himself with a sip of lukewarm water.
Before Glenn could say anything—before he could write an answer—Beth walked over, brushing a few crumbs from her apron. “Maggie, can you help us clear the table?” she asked sweetly.

Maggie didn’t hesitate. She stood with a slight stretch, her chair scraping softly against the wooden floor.

Dale offered her a gentle smile as she reached across and gathered a few plates, his voice warm. “That was a fine meal, Maggie.”

She smiled back without stopping, already lifting a tray of cutlery with practiced ease, heading out of the room.

The moment she was gone, the smile dropped from Dale’s face.

He leaned forward slightly, tone low, sharp like flint behind the scrim of his beard.

“Whatever it is you’re considering,” he whispered, “I beg you to stop.”

Glenn’s eyes flicked to his, caught between guilt and defiance.

But Dale wasn’t asking. His look was clear.

The dinner crowd had begun to disperse, chairs scraping back, voices lifting into casual conversation again. A few of the other Greene kids were already in the kitchen with Beth, rinsing dishes and bickering over who’s turn it was tonight.

Glenn stayed seated a moment longer, fingers twitching against the paper in his pocket, his heart hammering a little faster with each second that passed.

He stood up, a quiet resolve setting into his posture as he crossed the room.

“Hey, Lacey,” Glenn said lightly, offering her a boyish smile as she leaned tiredly over the kitchen counter. “You got a pen at all?”

She turned slowly, brow raised. “Uh… sure?” she muttered, the question obvious in her voice but her curiosity dulled by exhaustion. She reached down into a cluttered wooden box tucked beside the bread bin, shifting old receipts and pens long since run dry until she plucked one out and held it out toward him.

“Thanks,” Glenn said cheerfully, snatching it with a wink.

Lacey blinked at him, clearly still confused, but shrugged and turned back to drying a plate.

Glenn leaned against the wall, scribbling onto the same small note Maggie had given him. The pen scratched quietly. When he was done, he folded it twice and slipped it into his palm.

He looked across the room—Dale still sat there, nursing what little was left in his glass, eyes following every move with a steady, quiet judgment.

Glenn didn’t flinch this time.

He walked past him slowly, pausing just enough to murmur, “I appreciate you looking out for me, Dale…”

Dale didn’t respond, his brow furrowed.

“…but this is what I want.”

And then he was moving again.

Maggie stood near the hallway with her back to him, sorting plates from one tray to another, sleeves rolled up, shoulders relaxed.

Glenn passed just behind her, subtle as a breath, and slipped the folded paper deep into the pocket of her jacket draped over the back of a chair.

She didn’t notice—not yet.

Prior to heading to bed, the Greene family said their goodnights to Hershel, all while the other survivors headed back into the camp, calling it a night also.

“Goodnight, Daddy,” Beth called sweetly over her shoulder as she made her way up the stairs, her voice light and melodic in the stillness of the evening.

“’Night, Pa,” Billy echoed, bounding after her, the soft thumps of their feet fading as they climbed toward their shared room.

The house grew quiet in their absence, especially Billy’s.

No one noticed Maggie slip out the side door. She moved fast and quiet, her boots barely making a sound on the porch steps. The air outside was cool against her cheeks, the stars crisp and brilliant in the open Georgia sky.

She shoved her hands into her jacket pockets to brace against the breeze, fingers brushing something crumpled. Her heart jumped a little as she pulled it out and slowly uncurled the note.

Her smile was instinctive—soft, warm—but it vanished in an instant as she read the words:

"Ever done it in a barn?"

Her breath caught in her throat.

Her eyes widened in horror. The barn.

She didn’t hesitate. The note fluttered to the dirt as she bolted across the farm, the wind snatching at her hair and jacket. Tents had been pitched around the edge of the property, flickering with lanterns and muffled with the soft rustle of sleeping forms—but no one saw her. They were all tucked away, heads down, resting easy.

Maggie tore across the gravel path, past the pens, the coop, and straight to the large barn that loomed like a dark monolith against the starlit sky.

She didn’t call out. She didn’t slow down.

The ladder scraped as she climbed, rungs rattling beneath her boots.

When she reached the top, her worst fears came true.

The loft door was wide open.

The key—still in the lock.

And Glenn… Glenn stood inside.

Frozen.

He was bathed in the soft blue moonlight that spilled through the slats in the wooden walls, motionless as a statue, staring down into the pit below the loft. His knuckles were white against the railing, breath shallow.

Maggie stepped closer, her own legs threatening to give way beneath her. She followed his gaze and felt her stomach twist violently.

Below them, a cluster of walkers—at least a dozen, maybe more—shuffled and writhed in the shadows. Their groans were guttural, hungry, the sound like broken windpipes and wet throats. Most were still dressed in tattered farm clothes. Overalls. Work boots. Familiar patterns.

Glenn didn’t move. Didn’t even turn to look at her.

“Maggie…” he whispered, voice hoarse.

She swallowed hard. Her voice came quiet. Cold.

“Glenn… I- you weren’t supposed to see this.”

Chapter Text

The sky was a deep navy blue, tinged faintly with the blush of coming dawn. Morning fog rolled in low and quiet across the pastures, licking around fence posts. The farmhouse and makeshift camp remained still, its occupants deep in slumber. But Glenn hadn’t slept—not even for a second.

He stood just beyond the barn, rooted like a post in the grass, arms limp at his sides. His breath plumed visibly in the cool morning air, chest rising and falling in shallow rhythm. His eyes were locked on the boarded-up structure a few feet ahead.

The wood was worn but solid, a little patchy in places, but no worse than any of the other buildings. Just a barn—innocent at a glance. But not to him. Not anymore.

The groans inside were low and irregular, almost rhythmic in their staggered chorus. Every few seconds, a dull thud or a sickly scrape broke through the quiet. Something heavy brushing the inside of the wall.

Glenn’s jaw tightened. He could still see it perfectly in his mind—the moment last night when Maggie opened the loft door, her face turning pale in the moonlight as she realized what he’d seen. Dozens of walkers, shoulder to shoulder, penned inside like livestock. Some had once worn flannel shirts, boots, even denim overalls. He hadn’t counted, but there must’ve been over a dozen. Maybe more.

He felt sick. And cold.

Not just from what was in the barn. But because now he was keeping three secrets—each one like a stone sinking deeper in his gut. Lori's pregnancy still fresh on his conscience, a ticking time bomb they hadn’t told the others about. Hershel’s quiet but stern insistence that the group move on, that the farm wasn’t a permanent refuge. And now this.

Walkers.

On the property, tucked away like livestock.

Twenty feet from where they'd been sleeping.

He rubbed at his face with both hands, dragging his fingers down as though that might ground him back in reality. But it didn’t help. The same dread hung thick in his lungs like smoke.

The door to the loft was now locked shut. Just one peek had undone everything. He hadn’t meant to see it, but now the image was burned into him. How the dead swayed in place, waiting. But for what?

What scared Glenn most was that he didn’t understand why they were being kept. Why Hershel—the man patching up Carl, the man who fed them, gave them shelter—why he’d keep monsters in his barn.

Were they people he knew? Family? Friends? Was this part of some twisted belief?

Glenn stepped forward once, stopping just shy of the barn door, head tilted, listening closely. The sounds inside had quieted. For now.

He needed to tell someone.

But who?

He swore to Maggie last night that he’d keep this to himself, but now… the guilt was taking over. Not the guilt of knowing their secret, but the guilt he’d feel if one or more of the group was attacked - all because he was too chicken shit to warn them about what lurks inside.

He swallowed hard, backing away slowly from the barn, never taking his eyes off it, as though it might explode at any second.

"You're up early," Dale’s voice came gently from behind, a soft rasp layered in his usual calm, with just a hint of curiosity. Glenn turned slightly, startled more by his presence than the words. Dale was adjusting his bucket hat, settling it comfortably on his head.

"Hey, Dale," Glenn said quietly, his voice low, uncertain, almost apologetic. His eyes drifted back toward the barn like iron drawn to a magnet, as if he couldn’t bear to fully turn his back to it.

Dale came up beside him, following his gaze. The two stood in silence for a moment, breath fogging in the cool air. The barn loomed ahead, an ordinary structure with an extraordinary secret inside.

"You finding sleep hard to come by too?" Dale asked gently, hands slipping into his pockets. But Glenn didn’t answer.

He just stood there.

Dale turned to look at the young man, watching his face instead of the barn. The furrow in Glenn’s brow was deep, and his eyes—those usually bright, clever eyes—were dull with unease. Dale had seen that look of total fear before, though not usually from Glenn. He also saw it last night too, when Glenn came back from wherever Maggie had taken him, paler than usual, twitchy, silent.

Dale’s expression shifted—less inquisitive now, more knowing. He waited, patient. Glenn had always come to him when something was bothering him. He had a good head and a good heart.

"I should’ve listened to you," Glenn finally muttered, not quite looking at him.

Dale tilted his head. "About what?"

There was a longer pause. Glenn sighed, tugging his jacket closer, like he was trying to find some courage wrapped inside the fabric.

“I saw something last night,” he said finally. “Something in the barn.”

Dale’s brows lifted slightly but he didn’t speak. He let Glenn keep going.

“They’re keeping walkers in there,” Glenn continued, barely above a whisper. “Not just one or two, there’s dozens in there. Locked up like… animals. They’re dressed like they were locals. Farmers. Families. One of ‘em was in a nightgown.”

Dale exhaled, but still didn’t speak.

“I don’t know why,” Glenn said, shaking his head. “I don’t know what the hell they’re thinking, but I can’t—I can't keep this one to myself.”

Silence settled again, thicker now. Dale turned to face the barn for a long moment, rubbing his jaw beneath the grey whiskers of his beard.

Glenn’s head turned slowly, noticing Dale’s lack of shock. “You knew?”

“No,” Dale answered calmly, “but his prayer last night had me curious.”

“I didn’t tell anyone yet. Not Rick, not even Shane.” Glenn went on, not even realizing how much he was about to say. “It’s just… there’s already so much going on. Lori’s pregnant… and Hershel wanting us to leave the farm—”

He froze, lips still parted, the breath catching in his throat. He’d gone too far.

Dale slowly turned his head toward him, one brow raised, his face unreadable.

“…Lori’s what?” he asked, gently but clearly.

Glenn closed his eyes for a second, grimacing. “Shit.”

“And Hershel… wants us gone?” Dale echoed, the surprise subtle but undeniable in his tone.

Glenn nodded reluctantly, voice shrinking to a breath. “Lori didn’t want anybody other than Rick to know. And Hershel wanting us to leave— Maggie told me whilst we were on the supply trip getting the pregnancy test for Lori. All these secrets keep snowballing into bigger ones, it’s getting out of hand.”

Dale looked out toward the tree line, his mouth drawn into a thin, quiet line. He wasn’t angry. Not even shocked, really. Just… disappointed. Not in Glenn—but in the situation.

“That’s a hell of a load to be carrying, Glenn,” he said after a long moment, voice steady. “Especially alone.”

“I didn’t mean to dump it all on you,” Glenn murmured, rubbing the side of his face. “I just… I thought I could handle it. But now with the barn too, I—” He looked like he wanted to disappear into the fog.

Dale gave a slight shake of his head. “No. I’m glad you did. I’d rather know what we’re dealing with than walk around oblivious.”

Glenn breathed out, his chest finally relaxing, if only a little. “So, what do we do?”

Dale’s eyes locked back on the barn.

“You said you got Lori a test, we let them figure that out for now,” he said. “But this situation in the barn cannot wait. When the others wake up, we’ll tell them and figure this out as a group.”

Glenn nodded, and for the first time all morning, he felt a little less alone.

An hour had passed, the sun was up now, though its warmth had yet to cut through the chill that clung to the earth. Dale spotted him from across the yard—Hershel, hunched slightly at the shoulders, hammer in hand, bracing a fresh wooden plank against the barn door frame.

He was working with quiet urgency, the kind of effort that suggested preparation more than maintenance. Reinforcement, not repair.

Dale approached slowly, hands relaxed by his sides, watching as Hershel paused, measured the next board, and raised his hammer again.

“Need a hand?” Dale asked casually but warmly, his voice carrying easily across the short distance.

Hershel glanced up, caught mid-swing, then turned his head fully. There was a moment—just a flicker—where something passed behind his eyes. Not surprise exactly. More like inevitability.

Maggie must’ve told him, Dale thought. Or at least warned him.

Hershel gave a small, resigned nod, motioning toward the loose board leaning nearby. “You can hold this one steady,” he said, voice low and gravelly.

Dale moved into place beside him, kneeling to press the board against the barn’s exterior. The wood was damp with morning dew, rough beneath his fingers.

There was no more point in playing coy. No small talk would soften the truth. Dale cleared his throat as the first hammer strike landed.

“Who are they?” he asked plainly, but his tone remained respectful—not confrontational. Just a man wanting to understand.

Hershel didn’t answer immediately. He kept working, pounding in the nail with practiced rhythm, as though finishing the task might buy him a little more time to find the words.

When he did speak, his voice was steady but weathered with grief.

“Beth and Billy’s mother. My eldest son, Shawn,” he said. “Couple of the neighbours too.”

Dale glanced up at him, his hands still holding the plank in place. Hershel wasn’t looking at him. His gaze was distant, fixed somewhere inside the barn.

“This is a plague,” Hershel continued, driving in another nail with a final, stubborn blow. “A test. A punishment maybe. The way I see it… once we’ve atoned for our sins, the Lord will lift it. He’ll bring them back to me.”

Dale’s brow furrowed ever so slightly. “You believe they’re still in there? The people they were?”

“They’re sick,” Hershel said sharply, as though the word alone explained everything. “That’s all. Sick and suffering. But we don’t shoot sick people. You wouldn’t shoot someone with the flu, would you?”

He stood upright again, wiping a line of sweat from his brow despite the morning chill. “This isn’t any different.”

Dale looked at him for a long, quiet beat, reading the lines in his face, the hollowness behind his conviction. Not madness, but pain. Faith knotted with denial.

“You really believe that?” Dale asked softly. Not judgmental. Just… searching.

Hershel met his eyes for the first time. And in that moment, Dale saw a man not stupid, not ignorant—but desperate.

“I do,” Hershel replied, barely above a whisper. “Otherwise, this is all just a cruel joke with no purpose. I assure you Dale, my faith has never been stronger.”

Dale remained crouched for a moment longer, pressing the final board as Hershel gave it one last, forceful drive with the hammer. The wood groaned softly into place, sealing the edge a little tighter.

Behind it, the occasional scrape and moan still echoed from within—low, wet sounds that churned Dale’s stomach. He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t meet Hershel’s eye again, either.

The old man straightened up, dusting his hands off on his thighs, though his palms were already streaked with the dark dust of the barn wall. He stood beside Dale in silence, the two men staring at the now-sealed door like it was a tombstone.

Dale could feel the questions pressing against the back of his teeth, urgent and righteous. He wanted to say it plainly—that what Hershel believed, however well-meaning, was dangerous. That those things weren’t sick, they were gone. That faith wasn’t going to bring back a wife or a son or a neighbour. That the only thing keeping this barn from becoming a massacre was a few inches of rotting wood.

But he didn’t say any of that.

Instead, Dale slowly stood, brushing his hands against his shirt, and gave a small nod. Not of agreement—but of understanding.

He got it now.

Hershel already wanted them gone. Pushing harder—forcing the truth onto him like a battering ram—wouldn’t wake him up. It’d just make him throw them out even faster.

Meanwhile, Lori stood beneath the half-dead branches of an old apple tree, far from the bustle of the farm, wrapped in the quiet that only early morning could offer. The grass around her boots was heavy with dew, brushing against her jeans as she shifted her weight. Her fingers trembled as they clutched the pregnancy test, the thin plastic nearly slick in her palm from the sweat of her grip.

She had wandered out here on instinct, needing distance from the others—from him.

Rick’s voice occasionally carried from across the field, where he worked alongside Shane and Sasha chopping firewood, each heavy thud of the axe matching the beat of her racing heart. Rick already knew.

That helped—should have helped. But it didn’t stop the unease twisting in her gut.

Her eyes flicked toward Shane. He was laughing at something Sasha said, trying to play normal. But Lori saw through it now. She felt it.

She tried not to think about that night in the CDC—how Shane had cornered her, how his hands pinned her down. It hadn’t been violent, not in the physical sense, but it had rattled her to her bones. She had done her best to pretend it hadn’t happened. To tuck it away, deep down inside.

And before that? All those times in the woods, in the back of Dale’s RV, under the false banner of grief. Shane swearing that Rick was gone, swearing he was the only one left for her. It felt like poison now, all of it—bitter and clinging.

Her hand dropped slightly, the test now hidden behind her thigh. She hadn’t used it yet. Couldn’t bring herself to.

The wind shifted, rustling the long grass around her. Then a soft, familiar voice broke through it.

“Lori?”

She turned, heart jumping, startled by the gentle interruption.

“Carol… hi,” she replied quickly, her voice a little too high, too quick, as she tucked the test behind her back like a guilty child.

Carol stood a few feet away, her arms wrapped loosely around herself, her eyes soft and cautious. There was a kindness in her face that Lori had always appreciated—quiet, unobtrusive, but strong in its own way. Her presence didn’t judge. It just waited.

“I didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” Carol said, offering a faint, understanding smile. “You looked like you needed some company.”

Lori turned slightly, managing a weak smile. “Yeah… I think I do.”

Carol stepped up beside her, arms crossed lightly over her chest, not invading Lori’s space, just sharing it. They stood there together in silence for a few breaths, the sound of firewood splitting in the far distance echoing faintly.

“Something bothering you?” Carol asked after a beat, her voice gentle, but direct. She’d noticed Lori’s posture—stiff, guarded, like someone holding something in.

Lori hesitated, glancing down before slowly easing her hand out from behind her back. The pregnancy test, still unused, sat in her palm like a loaded weapon.

“Feels like everything changes so fast these days,” she murmured, her voice cracking just enough to betray her.

Carol looked at the test and didn’t say anything at first. She just nodded softly, a quiet understanding settling in her gaze.

Then, after a pause, she asked quietly, “Shane?”

Lori’s head snapped up, eyes wide. The name struck like a slap.

“You knew?” she asked, her voice thin with surprise and something like shame.

Carol offered a faint, sad smile. “Oh honey… we all knew.”

Lori lowered her gaze again, swallowing hard. “I see.”

“Donna judged you for it,” Carol continued, her tone matter of fact but never harsh. “But not me. Not Jacqui, either. We understood. The world was ending. You thought Rick was gone. Shane was there.”

Lori's breath caught in her throat. Her eyes shimmered, but she didn’t cry. “I don’t even know if this test is going to say what I think it will,” she said. “But if it does…”

She couldn’t finish the thought. Carol reached over, laying a gentle hand on her forearm.

Her lip trembled as she tried to speak again, but the words clung stubbornly to the back of her throat.

“It’s just… it’s not just the baby,” she whispered, voice tight. “Something happened. At the CDC. Shane, he—”

Her words hitched, faltering. She blinked rapidly, mouth opening again, but nothing came out. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, breath catching as if her own body was working against her.

Carol stepped forward instinctively, gently taking the pregnancy test from Lori’s trembling hand and setting it aside in the grass.

“Hey… hey, it’s okay,” she said softly, reaching up to cradle Lori’s cheek. But Lori shook her head, stepping back a little, arms wrapping tightly around herself.

“No, you don’t understand. He—he grabbed me, and I didn’t want it, but I didn’t stop him, and I hate myself for not—” Her voice cracked fully now, the words dissolving into short, panicked breaths.

Carol didn’t let her go further.

She stepped in close and wrapped her arms around Lori, grounding her, holding her. “Shhh,” she whispered, her voice trembling now too, “It’s okay. It’s alright, you don’t have to say it all.”

“I want to hate him… I want to scream at him, but… If it wasn’t for him, Carl would be dead,” she said, her voice breaking.

Lori clung to her tightly, fists curling into the back of Carol’s shirt, her body finally letting go of everything it had been holding in—silent sobs shaking through her chest, guilt pouring from her like poison drawn from a wound.

Carol stroked the back of her hair, holding her steady, letting her cry. Then, slowly, she eased back just enough to look her in the eye, her own face glistening now.

Lori looked at her, barely holding herself together.

“You think I don’t know what it’s like?” Carol said, her voice breaking. “To be touched when you don’t want it? To be told you don’t have a choice? I’ve lived that. For years.”

Lori’s eyes widened, her breath still ragged, but Carol’s hands held her face now, gently keeping her grounded.

“I didn’t know,” she said softly. “About Ed. Not like that. We all knew he was a piece of shit, yeah, but… I didn’t know he hurt you.”

Lori tightened her grip on Carol’s hand. “We won’t let that happen again. Not to you. Not to Sophia. You both deserve to feel safe. We’ll figure out a way to make that true. I promise.”

Carol blinked slowly, the emotion swelling just beneath the surface. But she shook her head gently, letting go of Lori’s hands and kneeling to pick the test up from where it had fallen in the grass, brushing it clean with a thumb.

“Don’t worry about us right now,” she said, rising back up. “We’ll manage. We always do.”

Carol held the test out to her, soft in gesture but firm in meaning.

“Whatever the outcome,” she said gently, “you’ll figure it out. And if you can’t… you’ve got people who’ll help you.”

Lori took the test back with trembling fingers, nodding slowly, holding Carol’s gaze.

For the first time that day, she felt something close to steadiness.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

The fire crackled in the centre of camp, its warmth doing little to soothe the tension that hung in the air. Most of the group was seated in a wide ring—Rick, T-Dog, Dale, Andrea, Carl curled up beside the fire, and a few others with dented cans of food resting on their knees. Conversation was light, tired. Mid-morning murmurs, the occasional laugh, forks scraping against tin.

Glenn wasn’t sitting.

He was pacing near the shadows at the edge of the firelight, arms crossed tight over his chest, every few seconds running a hand through his hair or wiping his palms down the sides of his jeans. His eyes kept flicking toward the barn—toward Maggie and Hershel, who stood just outside its doors, unmoving. Watching him.

They knew.

He could feel it in the weight of their gaze. Hershel’s jaw clenched tight, Maggie’s eyes pleading but silent.

They were daring him not to say it.

But the pressure had finally grown too loud to ignore. Three secrets, three ticking time bombs—he had already told Dale, and it wasn’t enough. They all needed to know now.

Glenn stepped closer to the fire, swallowed hard.

“Urm… guys?” he said, loud enough to draw a few heads. Rick looked up. Andrea paused mid-chew. Dale straightened slightly, already knowing what was about to follow.

But only a few glanced his way. The rest kept talking, too tired to give it much weight.

Glenn’s heart thundered. “Guys,” he said again, louder now. “I need to say something.”

More attention this time. Faces turned. Tyreese stood a little straighter. Sasha looked over, concern tugging her brow.

Glenn licked his lips, then pointed toward the barn with a shaky hand.

“Hershel…” he started, his voice catching—but then the words spilled out before he could stop them.

“He’s keeping walkers in the barn.”

Silence.

The effect was immediate and all the conversation died. Cans were lowered. Forks stilled in mid-air. One by one, every face turned toward the barn, eyes wide with disbelief.

“What?” Andrea said sharply, blinking.

Rick stepped forward, frowning. “Walkers? Inside the barn?”

Glenn nodded, slowly, the air thick around him now.

“Dozens,” he said. “They’re locked up. I found them last night.”

A few gasps broke out. T-Dog stood up, staring at the barn like it might explode open.

Amy drew Carl in closer on instinct, her free hand gripping his shoulder protectively.

All eyes now shifted from Glenn to the distant silhouettes by the barn. Hershel stood firm, arms crossed, unmoving. Maggie had gone pale, her hands clutching her coat sleeves. They weren’t denying it. They weren’t retreating. They were just waiting.

Watching what would come next.

Back beneath the old apple tree, the branches swayed gently above them, leaves whispering in the breeze. The shadows danced across Lori’s face as she stared down at the stick in her hand, motionless.

Carol stood nearby, watching her with quiet patience, her arms folded, gaze soft.

“Well?” she asked gently, the word barely louder than the wind.

Lori didn’t answer right away.

Her eyes stayed locked on the test. Her thumb brushed over the result window once… twice…

Then finally, with a faint exhale, she whispered, “It’s positive.”

Chapter Text

The silence that followed Glenn’s revelation was heavier than any of them could bear. The word “walkers” hit the group like a brick wall. Everyone at the camp—Shane, Andrea, Allen, Tyreese, Sasha, T-Dog, and most others, except for Carol and Lori—stood frozen by the news.

“What do we do?” came a sacred voice, a whisper really, from Amy. It wasn’t just a question—it was an appeal for guidance.

The question hung in the air.

"Nothing," Rick announced, his tone calm but resolute as he stepped into the centre of the group, arms partially raised to keep tempers down. "This isn't our home. I think we all need to relax… talk to Hershel. Show him a bit of respect."

The murmur of the crowd simmered at those words, but it didn’t stay quiet for long.

Shane let out a bitter scoff, shaking his head as he slung his shotgun up from where it rested against a stack of chopped firewood. "To hell with that," he spat, venom heavy in his voice. He grabbed the last of his remaining shells and jammed them hastily into his trouser pocket.

“Shane, what are you doing?” Rick called out sharply, his voice cutting through the camp. A few heads turned. The sun was beating down hot, but the sudden shift in atmosphere dropped the air to ice.

Shane didn’t slow his stride.

He moved like a man possessed, stomping across the centre of the camp with long, angry steps, shotgun slung in his left hand. His face was drawn tight with fury.

“Shane!” Rick barked louder now, following after him, urgency heavy in his tone.

Shane stops in the middle of the camp, raising his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. Faces turn toward him—some confused, others already knowing where this is going.

“Listen up!” he calls out, gesturing with one hand while the other grips the shotgun tight. “We all remember what happened at the quarry don’t we? What happened to Donna…”

Allen stiffens at the mention of her name. His jaw tightens and his eyes drop to the dirt, the image of her screams and the blood still too fresh in his mind.

Shane presses on, sweeping his eyes over the group. “We let our guard down. People died and we got separated because we weren’t prepared. Now, no offence, Rick,” he says, voice sharp and uncompromising, “but this call isn’t up to you, brother. I’m not letting something like that happen again.”

He turns toward the few standing closer.

“Allen. Andrea. Tyreese,” he says, voice rising with command. “Get your guns and come with me.”

“Shane, will you just stop for a moment, and think?” Rick pleads, stepping directly in front of him.

Shane’s momentum halts as Rick plants a firm hand on his chest, blocking his path.

“There’s more to consider here,” Rick says, voice lowered but urgent. “You do this, and Hershel will kick us out for good. All of us.”

Shane stares down at the hand, his jaw clenched, nostrils flaring. The rest of the camp watches in tense silence.

Glenn, lingering just behind the others, speaks up quietly, his voice barely above a murmur but enough to cut through the silence. “He’s going to do that already though… isn’t he, Rick?”

Rick turns toward him, brow furrowing. “What?”

Glenn shifts uncomfortably under the sudden weight of everyone’s attention. “At the pharmacy… Maggie told me. Hershel wants us gone. Said we’d be off this farm in a matter of weeks.”

The group looks to Rick.

“She said he spoke to you about it, so you knew that already” Glenn adds softly. “Didn’t you?”

Rick doesn’t answer right away. The hesitation says more than words could.

A ripple of worry begins to spread through the camp—murmurs, sideways glances, the kind of silence that speaks louder than shouting.

“That true, Rick?” Tyreese asks, stepping forward, his rifle in hand and his eyes full of concern.

Rick lowers his hand from Shane’s chest but doesn’t back down. His shoulders are tight, the truth pressing heavy on him now that it’s out in the open.

“Yes,” he admits, steady but reluctant. “It is. But I’m working on it,” Rick continues. “I can convince Hershel to change his mind. I really believe that. But not if you do this, Shane.”

Dale finally stepped forward from where he'd been standing near the RV, his sun-faded bucket hat casting a shadow over his worried brow.

“This isn’t just about what’s in that barn. It’s about what Hershel believes,” he said, voice calm but steady, projecting enough to carry across the tense group.

Shane glanced over, jaw clenched, still seething.

Dale raised a hand gently, not to accuse, but to plead. “He doesn’t see them as walkers. Not like we do. To him… they’re not dead. They’re sick. He really, truly believes that. His wife, his friends, neighbours—people he knew his whole life.”

He looked toward the barn, then back to Shane. “You go over there with a gun; you’ll be putting bullets into his family right in front of him.”

The silence grew heavier.

“He’s not going to forgive that,” Dale added. “And he sure as hell won’t let us stay after.”

Lori and Carol began approaching from the far side of camp, drawn by the voices, the tension, the stillness in the air. Lori moved a little slower, her eyes still red-rimmed, glassy, shoulders tense beneath her loose flannel shirt.

Carol stayed close, her hand gently brushing the small of Lori’s back, guiding her.

Rick saw her face.

He saw the truth written all over it.

Her eyes locked with his for only a second, and that was all it took. Her lip trembled. No words. Just a silent confirmation.

Rick’s heart thundered. He turned sharply back toward Shane, who had begun to march away again, eyes blazing, shotgun at his side, not listening anymore.

“For Christ’s sake, Shane!” Rick shouted after him, voice cracking under the weight of it all. “Lori’s pregnant!”

The camp went still.

Utterly still.

Shane froze mid-step.

Every head turned.

Lori’s breath hitched, the eyes of the entire camp suddenly drilling into her with invisible weight—questions, assumptions, shame. It was all there. Nobody said a word, but their faces asked plenty.

Lori’s eyes welled, her hand rising to her stomach almost instinctively before she realized what she was doing. Her chest rose and fell quicker, overwhelmed, exposed.

Carol didn’t miss a beat. She stepped between Lori and the staring faces, tucking an arm protectively around her shoulders.

“Come on, sweetie,” she said softly, but firmly, her eyes sweeping the group with quiet disapproval. “Let’s get you inside.”

Lori let herself be guided, head low, tears finally starting to fall as Carol led her toward the RV.

No one moved.

Not even Shane.

“Are you prepared to deal with that out on the road?” Rick asked, voice low but shaking with emotion.

Shane didn’t answer. His chest rose and fell in rapid bursts, jaw clenched so tight it trembled. His fingers twitched around the shotgun's grip, one hand flexing restlessly by his side. For a second, he looked like he might explode.

But before any answer could come, a distant rustling pulled everyone’s attention toward the tree line.

Emerging slowly from the woods were Arnold and Billy, both hunched, cautiously, each gripping a long metal pole. Caught in the looped ends—two walkers. Their rotting bodies swayed with each struggling step, jaws snapping at the air, clouded eyes wild with hunger. One of them still wore what looked like a mail carrier’s uniform, torn open down the side. The other had once been a teenager, her scalp patchy, her lips long since peeled away to bare bloodied gums.

Billy’s knuckles were white around the pole, arms stiff as he guided the walker forward, its neck firmly caught in the curved restraint. Arnold moved beside him, face red with effort, keeping the second walker at bay, leading them slowly, toward the barn.

The already strained camp held its collective breath.

Shane’s eyes locked on the scene with disbelief. Rick took a slow step forward.

“Are they—?” Andrea started to say.

“Yeah,” T-Dog muttered. “They’re bringing more of them in.”

Back at the farmhouse, Lacey stood on the porch with her arms crossed, lips pressed in a hard line. Patricia, Jimmy, and Beth stood behind her, gripping Jimmy’s hand tightly, eyes wide.

“Shit,” Lacey muttered under her breath. “Not now.”

She knew it—this was the worst possible time. With tensions already spiralling, emotions frayed to the brink, and the outsiders standing on the edge of collapse—this was how they’d see how it’s done.

How the Greene family handled the dead.

Shane’s voice rang out, raw and rising. “What the hell is that?! What is that?!”

He broke into a jog, shotgun gripped tightly in both hands, boots pounding across the dry dirt as he rushed toward the barn. His eyes were locked on the grotesque procession—Arnold and Billy dragging those snarling corpses by the neck like wild animals on leashes.

A few others followed him, drawn by instinct and fear—Andrea had her pistol halfway drawn, Tyreese kept close behind with Sasha shadowing him. Dale, sour faced, moved more slowly, muttering a curse under his breath.

Some followed with weapons, some without, all pulled into the vortex of whatever was about to happen.

Rick turned sharply, scanning for the youngest among them.

“Julie, Chris!” he shouted toward the tents. The teenagers snapped to attention from where they’d been idling near the fire pit. “Stay with the children—please, keep them inside the RV!”

Julie nodded at once, tugging Chris by the sleeve as they moved quickly toward the others. Carl, Sophia, Lizzie, and Mika were all ushered inside without a second thought.

The tension snapped like a live wire. Everyone was in motion.

Hershel stood at the barn doors, calm but visibly strained, fingers working the padlock. The chain clinked as he unwound it, his weathered face remained focused.

Arnold and Billy approached from behind him, walkers still snarling in their snares, dragging their feet and letting out low, guttural moans.

Then—

“What the hell are you doing?!” Shane’s voice thundered down the path, sharp and furious, cutting through the rising moans like a blade.

He came barrelling toward the barn, gravel scattering under his boots, shotgun bouncing in his grip.

Hershel turned just as the final loop of chain slipped from the latch.

Rick was close behind, breath ragged as he caught up, hand shooting out. “Shane, just back off!” he yelled, trying to grab his shoulder, slow him down, anything to de-escalate.

But Shane wasn’t listening.

Not anymore.

Hershel straightened up, his hand still on the loosened chain as the group came storming toward him. His eyes scanned them—Shane with the shotgun clenched, Andrea with her pistol unholstered, Tyreese gripping the his rifle. Even Rick’s hand hovered near his holster, breathless from the sprint.

Hershel looked over each face, then said flatly, “What did I tell your people about carrying guns?”

His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried. Measured. Stern. Like a father scolding children for crossing a line they knew damn well not to.

The barn creaked behind him, as if the walkers inside had sensed the rising storm outside.

By now, the barn had drawn almost everyone. Patricia hovered protectively near Beth, who clung nervously to Jimmy’s arm, her wide eyes darting between the snarling walkers and the heated confrontation.

Lacey stood a few paces behind them, arms folded tightly, jaw locked, like she was bracing for a storm.

The air was tense and charged—like the seconds before a lightning strike.

Shane turned abruptly, gesturing wildly to the grisly scene before them. The walkers snapped and flailed at the ends of their poles, their decaying limbs twitching with unnatural energy.

“You see what they’re holdin’ onto?!” he shouted, pointing straight at Arnold’s walker, a guttural snarl twisting up from its throat.

Billy, struggling beside his older brother, fought to keep his grip steady, his skinny arms trembling as the walker thrashed violently against the pole. His boots slipped slightly in the dirt, face red, panicked.

“I see who we’re holding onto,” he said calmly, never raising his voice, though the pain in it was evident.

Shane’s laugh was short and full of disbelief.

“Nah, man,” he barked, voice cracking from sheer frustration. “You don’t. You really don’t.”

“Shane, will you stop this?!” Rick’s voice rose, strained, desperate. He stepped between Shane and Hershel, both arms slightly outstretched, trying to hold the peace together with sheer will.

“We can talk,” Rick urged.

“The fuck you wanna talk about, Rick?!” Shane exploded, turning on him now, red-faced and trembling. “Huh?!”

He paced in a small, furious circle, arms wide, the shotgun swaying in his grip as he gestured to the walkers, to the people around them, to the look of dread on every face.

“These things ain’t sick! They’re not people!” he shouted, voice cracking with raw emotion. “They’re dead!”

“They don’t think. They don’t feel! You know what they do?!” He pointed abruptly toward Jimmy, whose hands had gone clammy and pale around Beth’s. The boy looked like he wanted to disappear.

Shane jabbed a finger toward the walker struggling in Arnold’s grip, mouth gnashing wildly, inches from freedom.

“They kill.”

His voice dropped into something darker, bitter.

“These are the things that killed Otis. Remember?!” he bellowed, his eyes blazing. “You wanna talk about them still being human,” he pointed again, “this what tore him apart?!”

Patricia’s hand flew to her mouth, eyes glassy with sudden grief. Jimmy blinked hard, his bottom lip quivering as the mention of Otis settled over him. The boy swayed where he stood, Beth clutching at his arm tighter now, not fully understanding—but understanding enough.

Shane’s breathing slowed. The rage was still there—but it wasn’t wild anymore. It was focused. Controlled. His voice dropped low as he turned back to Hershel.

“Hershel, let me ask you something,” he said, voice nearly even now, almost lecturing in tone.

He tossed his shotgun to the dirt with a metallic thud, before reaching behind him and pulling the Glock from the waistband of his trousers.

The Greene family tensed, eyes wide, frozen.

He turned toward the walker Arnold was holding steady, its neck straining in the pole’s grip, teeth snapping in Shane’s direction.

“Could a living, breathing person walk away from this?” he asked.

Then—BLAM. BLAM. BLAM.

Three shots straight into the walker’s chest, the reports echoing across the open field.

Gasps rang out from the Greene family. Beth flinched violently. Even Lacey looked visibly rattled, her mouth parted in stunned horror.

Hershel stood there, pale, lips parted but no words came.

“Stop it!” Rick shouted, pushing forward.

But Shane wasn’t done.

He pointed at the walker, which was still flailing, snarling, rearing back in its snare like nothing had happened.

“That’s three rounds in the chest,” Shane barked. “Could somebody who’s alive take that?!”

He fired again. BLAM. BLAM.

Two clean shots—one to the left lung, one dead centre over the heart.

“That’s its heart. Its lungs. Why is it still coming?!” His voice rose again, fierce and undeniable, slicing through the stillness.

“Shane, that’s ENOUGH!” Rick bellowed, striding forward now, furious.

But Shane didn’t flinch.

He didn’t even look at him.

Instead, calm, cold, and methodical, he muttered—“You’re right, Rick. That is enough.”

He walked straight toward the walker.

Then—BLAM.

One final shot. A clean bullet right through the skull. The walker’s body slackened instantly, collapsing against the snare pole.

It was silent again—except for the dull thud of its body hitting the earth.

The crack of Shane’s final shot didn’t just kill the walker—it ripped through the Greene family like a gut punch. Patricia recoiled, Beth buried her face in Jimmy’s chest with a choked sob. Hershel looked as though the breath had been knocked clean from his lungs, eyes fixed on the slumped corpse with a glassy, hollow stare.

The walker Billy held jerked violently at the end of the snare pole, the sudden surge of gunfire and shouting pushing it into a frenzy. The boy dug in his heels, arms shaking, but the creature bucked and thrashed uncontrollably. Behind them, the barn door rattled with alarming force, wooden boards bending and groaning under the weight of clawing, ravenous bodies pressing against them from within.

The makeshift wooden latch—nailed in place by Dale and Hershel, trembled on the edge of collapse.

“You all wanna survive?!” Shane roared, spinning to face the rest of the group. “The world ain’t like it used to be!”

He grabbed a rusted pickaxe leaning against the side of the barn, his voice rising over the chaos as he marched straight toward the chained doors.

“You gotta fight for your survival—this ends right here, right now!”

CRACK!

The pickaxe splintered the board in one heavy swing—then another—and another.

“Shane! Don’t!” Rick shouted, but it was too late.

The board snapped loose.

The barn doors exploded open with a deafening creak and a roar of inhuman snarls as the walkers poured out—limbs flailing, mouths open wide, eyes milky and blind with hunger. The ground shook under the force of their stampede.

Shane drew his Glock once more and opened fire, reckless and wild.

Allen joined in beside him, gripping his rifle with trembling hands, squeezing off untrained, panicked shots. Ed followed behind, firing with a crooked snarl like he was enjoying the release.

The first few walkers dropped, twitching in the dirt—but more took their place immediately, groaning louder as they stumbled into the light.

The Greene family stood frozen in horror.

Patricia let out a broken cry, Beth trembling beside her. Lacey backed away instinctively, her hands clamped over her mouth. Hershel remained rooted in place, unable to move, the destruction of everything he believed unravelling right before his eyes.

Billy screamed.

His grip finally gave out, the pole ripped clean from his hands as the walker lunged and tackled him to the ground. He struggled beneath its weight, arms flailing, trying to keep its snapping jaws from his throat.

Tyreese raised his rifle—lined up the shot—but his hands trembled. Billy kept shifting. He couldn’t get a clean angle.

“Billy!” Arnold yelled, charging forward. He yanked the walker off his brother, slammed it into the ground, and drove his fist again and again into its head, blood spraying up his forearm.

But behind him, another walker broke free from the herd—its fingers hooked like claws—and sank its teeth into Arnold’s shoulder with a sickening crunch.

“Arnold!!” Lacey cried, starting forward, only to be grabbed and held back by Patricia. “Let go of me!”

Andrea lifted ger pistol, steady and sure, and with a clean squeeze of the trigger, she put the walker down before it could finish its feast.

Arnold staggered, blood gushing from the wound, but he clung to Billy, dragging his younger brother up and out of the dirt, shoving him toward safety even as more walkers spilled out.

“Maggie?” Glenn asked softly, standing just off her shoulder.

She turned to him, face streaked with tears, eyes wide with helpless pain. Her hand gripped Hershel’s sleeve tightly—he hadn’t moved, still staring, silent.

Glenn didn’t need more than a look.

In tears, Maggie gave a tiny nod, her grip tightening on her father, anchoring him in place as the world around them fell apart.

Glenn ran.

Joined by Andrea, Tyreese, even T-Dog—guns blazing now, every last walker was met with lead and fury. The air rang with gunshots, cries, and the sickening sound of skulls bursting from the gunfire.

And slowly—agonizingly slowly—it stopped.

The last shot echoed out.

Then stillness.

Dozens of walkers now littered the dirt outside the barn—bullet-riddled, bloodied, finally motionless.

Arnold sat slumped beside the barn wall, pale, gasping, already sweating through his shirt.

And the Greene family stood shattered… watching the smouldering ruin of everything they thought they were holding onto.

Chapter Text

Silence took hold — not peaceful silence, but the kind that came only after chaos, when even the birds dared not sing. Smoke curled from the barrel of Shane’s handgun, its echo still clinging faintly to the warm air.

Bodies littered the open yard before the barn, tangled masses of limbs and decaying flesh. The ground was painted in gore — walkers in torn Sunday dresses and farmhand overalls lay face-down in the dirt, skulls split open, torsos shredded by panic-driven gunfire. The barn doors still creaked, swaying ever so slightly, one hinge loose from the force Shane had used to crack it open. A streak of bloody handprints ran down the side of the rotting wood.

Arnold lay slumped against the frame of the barn, his breathing shallow, a deep gash visible beneath the torn fabric of his shirt. Lacey and Maggie were already there, knees scraping in the dirt as she collapsed beside him, her cries ragged and broken. Maggie clutched his shoulders, trying to prop him up, pressing her trembling hands over his wound as if she could keep his life from slipping through her fingers.

“You’re okay, you’re okay, I’ve got you…” she whispered through sobs.

Arnold groaned faintly, his head rolling toward her voice. His face was pale, lips trembling, the corners of his mouth stained with red.

Just a few feet away, Hershel stood frozen, hands slack by his sides. His eyes darted from one walker to the next.

“They were sick,” he mumbled, breathless, like a prayer to himself. “They were sick... they weren’t supposed to die like this…”

No one answered.

Beth’s sobs cut through the silence like shattered glass. She ran, stumbling over the dirt, toward the slumped body of her mother. Her knees hit the ground hard, sending dust rising as she rolled the body over with shaking hands. Her breath hitched the moment she saw the face—eyes glassed over, mouth slack, and a single bullet wound clean through the forehead.

A scream caught in her throat, choked by grief.

Billy approached, silent but broken, dropping beside his sister. He didn’t speak. He just placed a hand on her shoulder as the two huddled over the body, joined in helpless mourning.

It was a moment of pain, raw and pure—but it didn’t last.

From the barn came a sound.

A faint gargling breath.

All heads turned.

And slowly, staggeringly, a figure emerged from the dark barn interior. A young man. His once-handsome face now pale and gaunt, lips cracked, eyes lifeless and clouded. His denim overalls hung loose on his wiry frame, dark hair wild and matted. He dragged his foot as he walked, arms twitching toward life, toward sound, toward smell.

“Shawn…” Hershel whispered, his voice caught between recognition and dread. He took a trembling step forward; eyes fixed on the figure.

His eldest son.

Billy and Beth both stood, unsure now, the blood on their hands not yet dry, their eyes darting from their father to the shape that was once their brother. They took slow, backward steps, fear and confusion frozen in their faces.

Shane raised his gun again, levelling it toward the figure, but Rick moved in fast, placing a firm hand over the barrel.

Hershel stepped forward instead, his arms slightly raised, his eyes locked on the staggering walker.

Patricia stepped forward, wrapping one arm around Beth, the girl collapsing into her chest. Jimmy placed a hand on Billy’s back, holding him tight as the boy wept into his shoulder.

Lacey stared across the chaos, her voice faint, wavering. “Daddy?”

Hershel didn’t answer her. His world had narrowed.

He stood inches from Shawn now, face to face. The walker twitched, then jerked, lips peeling back into a hungry snarl. Hershel raised an arm, pressing it against his son’s chest, holding him back with more strength than anyone expected from him. His eyes searched the clouded ones in front of him, looking, hoping, for something familiar.

“…My boy,” he whispered.

But there was nothing human left in Shawn.

He growled, pushing forward, jaw clenching, fingers clawing at his father's clothes.

Hershel’s arm shook. He was strong—but his son’s hunger was stronger.

BLAM!

A single gunshot cracked through the moment.

Shawn’s body went limp in Hershel’s arms; a clean hole drilled through his temple. Blood sprayed lightly across his father’s shirt as the body sagged, head slumping onto Hershel’s shoulder.

A tear slipped down Hershel’s cheek as he turned his head slowly, dazed, toward the source of the shot.

Maggie.

She stood off to the side, hand trembling, mouth parted in horror at what she had just done. The handgun still smoked faintly in her grip. Glenn stood just behind her, eyes wide.

Wordlessly, she walked over, placing the weapon back into Glenn’s hand, then turned and dropped to her knees beside Arnold and Lacey.

And Hershel… crumpled to the ground, knees sinking into the dirt.

He cradled what was left of his son in silence, arms wrapped tightly around him, the blood soaking deeper into his shirt, and the world he had clung to for so long… was gone.

“Finally,” Shane muttered coldly, voice flat and callous as he stared at Hershel still kneeling in the blood-soaked dirt. “At least one of them has some common sense.”

Maggie’s head snapped toward him.

The glare she shot could’ve burned through steel. Her face was streaked with rage-induced tears.

She ducked beneath Arnold’s arm, helping support his weight with Lacey at his other side. They began lifting him slowly, the injured man groaning as blood still seeped from his shoulder.

“Go fuck yourself, Shane,” Maggie spat, each word laced with venom.

Shane didn’t reply—just watched with that same distant stare, unreadable and void of remorse.

Together, they helped Arnold toward the farmhouse, his feet dragging with every step. Lacey never let go of him, whispering his name like it could keep him grounded.

Patricia followed closely, one arm wrapped protectively around Billy’s trembling shoulders. Jimmy walked behind them, keeping pace with Beth, who had gone quiet now—too quiet—her small hand still clutching a piece of her mother’s shirt.

No one looked back.

Andrea stood near the edge of the barn. Her hands moved automatically, ejecting the spent magazine from her pistol and staring at the empty clip in disbelief—she’d burned through every last round.

As she slid the pistol back into its holster, she noticed Tyreese standing a few feet away, his broad shoulders slumped, arms heavy at his sides, his rifle limp in one hand. He stared at the ground, at the bodies, at the blood soaking into the soil. His face looked hollow—like something inside him had just caved in.

“I couldn’t do it,” he said quietly, eyes not leaving the carnage.

Andrea turned toward him, puzzled. “What are you talking about? We got them all.”

He shook his head slowly. “No.”

His voice cracked a little.

“It’s my fault Arnold got bit,” he admitted, still not looking at her. “I saw Billy struggling with that walker and I just… I froze.”

Andrea stepped closer, her brow tightening.

“I had a clear shot,” he continued. “I could’ve taken it, but… I was worried I’d hit the kid. Just one slip… one twitch and I’d have hit Billy instead.” His jaw clenched. “So I waited. And I waited too long. And now Arnold’s been bit. It’s all my fault.”

Andrea stepped beside him, her tone softer now, more grounded as she looked out over the blood-stained earth.

“Hey,” she said gently, giving his arm the slightest nudge. “Shit happens, right? Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

Tyreese let out a shaky breath, still staring down, but he didn’t pull away from her.

“I didn’t even see Billy get taken down at first,” she admitted. “I was too focused on the barn. The sound, the movement, the panic—it’s a lot. And we’re not… we’re not exactly military snipers.”

She gave a dry chuckle, trying to lighten the crushing weight on his shoulders.

“I was an accountant,” she said. “Spreadsheets and coffee breaks. Not... this.”

He glanced at her, faintly, and Andrea nodded toward the aftermath.

“We’ll train. We’ll get better. So next time…” Her voice trailed off as she looked toward the farmhouse where Arnold had been taken. “Next time, we’ll be more prepared.”

Tyreese gave a small, tired nod. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

“She’s right,” came Sasha’s voice, calm but firm as she approached from Tyreese’s other side.

He turned slightly, eyes meeting hers just as she gave him a small nudge with her shoulder.

“You did your best, bro,” she said simply, no judgment, no pity—just truth.

She reached out and gently took the rifle from his hand. He didn’t resist. Sasha slung it over her shoulder with practiced ease, sparing one last glance at the barn.

“Hershel?”

The voice was soft, barely above a whisper—Amy’s.

She stood a few paces away, her hands nervously clasped in front of her, Dale beside her with his hat in his hands, his face long and solemn. The two of them approached with slow, cautious steps, like they were walking into a room full of broken glass.

“Hershel, why don’t you head inside with your family,” Dale said gently, voice low and respectful. “Please… let us take care of this. We’ll prepare Shawn and your wife for a burial.”

Hershel didn’t look up. He didn’t speak.

He just kept one hand on Shawn’s chest, his other trembling slightly as it hovered near the bloodied fabric of his son’s shirt.

Then, finally, his voice came, hoarse and bitter.

“Haven’t you people done enough…?” he muttered.

His eyes slowly lifted to meet Dale’s, then Amy’s, and they saw nothing but quiet devastation behind them.

“I want you all gone,” Hershel said, voice steady now. “Just leave my family in peace.”

He leaned down and gently laid Shawn’s head to the earth, smoothing his hand over the boy’s matted hair before carefully pressing down his eyelids, closing them.

Then, without another word, he dusted the dirt off his knees, rose to his feet, and turned toward the farmhouse.

He walked alone.

Not a single person dared to follow.

“You caused this mess,” Rick said coldly, not even looking in Shane’s direction as he stooped down beside T-Dog and Glenn, helping drag one of the mangled bodies toward the growing pile. “You can damn well help us clean it up… brother.”

Shane stood nearby, arms crossed, face twitching with restrained irritation. He looked at the scattered corpses, then down at the blood on his boots. After a beat, he muttered flatly, “Just burn ’em.”

That did it.

Rick stood, jaw tight, eyes narrowed.

“You just don’t get it, do you.”

Shane’s head snapped toward him. “No, Rick. I do get it. Apparently, I’m the only person here who does. I’m getting real tired of you always tryin’ to play the good cop, man.”

“Well then stop being the asshole cop,” Rick snapped back, the words sharp and immediate, no hesitation left.

Shane’s nostrils flared. “Oh, now I’m a fucking asshole? For keeping everybody safe?”

“Safe?!” Rick stepped closer, hands clenched at his sides. “Who are you keeping safe, huh? Let’s break it down, Shane. Since I joined this group: you pulverised Merle, Otis died under your watch—” (Dale, stacking limbs nearby, froze, his eyes flicking to Shane’s face, noting the twitch in his jaw.) “—Arnold’s been bitten, and now you’ve gotten us thrown out of the best shelter we’ve had so far!”

Carol and Lori came quickly from the RV, having heard the shouting from afar. Lori walked ahead of Carol, her expression unreadable but her steps full of purpose, like she already knew what was coming.
Shane turned, fire in his eyes as he barked back at Rick, his voice louder than before.

“Are you for real, man?! Merle was a piece of shit—he stole near enough all our guns!” he shouted, jabbing a finger toward the woods.

“And Otis? He died because he was a goddamn idiot, and I had one priority, which was to save your son!” he pointed straight at Rick, every word a dagger.

“I stopped that barn from killing all of us in our fucking sleep.”

His voice cracked slightly now, the rage trembling in his throat.

“But no, you can’t see past that can you Rick?” he sneered, eyes sweeping the quiet crowd gathered around the argument. “You’re just too much of a pussy to do what needs to be done for this weak-ass group.”

The words hit hard.

Every face seemed to falter—Glenn, T-Dog, Andrea, Allen, Dale, Tyreese, even Amy and Sasha standing nearby. His words cut deep into the ones who had survived, bled, and fought beside him. The ones who had trusted him.

No one defended him.

Rick just stared.

He didn’t need to respond. Shane had already dug his own grave, and he knew it.

Then came Lori’s voice.

Cold. Steady. Unshaken.

“You really wanna keep this group safe, Shane…” she said, loud enough for all to hear, “then you shouldn’t be a part of it.”

Shane turned slowly, like he hadn’t heard her right. But her face said everything.

The silence afterward was brutal.

Shane’s eyes swept across the faces now staring back at him—Rick, Lori, Glenn, Allen, Andrea, Tyreese, T-Dog, Sasha, ED, Dale, even Carol and Amy. The group he had killed for, protected through it all.
None of them moved.

None of them defended him.

He let out a bitter, breathless laugh, somewhere between disbelief and insult.

“If that’s really what you all want…” he said, his voice quieter now but full of venom. “Then fine.”

He looked to Rick one last time, face hardened like stone.

“You won’t last two days without me.”

No one said a word.

And for the first time, Shane looked truly alone.

Chapter Text

Beth stood by the upstairs window, her fingers lightly brushing against the yellowed lace curtain as she peered down at the gravel drive. She wasn’t blinking much. Her soft eyes, so often filled with youthful naivety, now bore a weary haze, like something inside her had dulled.

Behind her, Arnold’s groans rang out again. Muffled, but ragged and real. Agonized. Each one struck a chord of helplessness in her chest. She could hear her father, murmuring calm instructions to Maggie as they worked feverishly in the bedroom just behind her. There was the metallic clatter of tools, the hiss of disinfectant, the shudder of pain every time they tried to clean around the bite.

But Beth stayed where she was.

Her eyes followed Shane as he marched out of the RV, his face clenched into something unreadable. He carried a large duffle bag, dark and overstuffed, and with a final heave, he hurled it into the backseat of the blue SUV. The force of the throw made the whole vehicle rock slightly on its suspension.

A small crowd had gathered by the RV—Dale, Amy, Glenn, Allen, even Chris and Julie stood farther back, watching with crossed arms and sunken expressions. No one said anything. It was like the moment was too volatile to interact with.

Beth’s eyes locked on Shane’s silhouette as he swung open the car door, hesitated only a second, then ducked in and started the engine. Dust kicked up behind the SUV's wheels as it roared down the dirt road, the sound trailing long after he disappeared behind the tree line.

From her perch, she noticed Rick step closer to Lori, his hand gently brushing her cheek. He pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead, as though to both apologize and promise he’d fix everything. She tilted her head forward to meet his touch, but her eyes were glassy and red, her body visibly trembling.

Then he turned. Tyreese, T-Dog, Sasha, and Andrea followed him without a word, each bearing the look of people with work to do—hard, bitter work. They climbed into the beat-up pickup truck, its tailgate still speckled with dried mud and flecks of something darker. The engine started with a groan, and they slowly rolled away toward the barn.

Lori stood motionless for a few seconds. Then her shoulders began to heave. Her face crumpled. Beth couldn’t hear the sobs from this distance, but the sight alone made her eyes water. Carol was at her side quickly, arms around her, guiding her gently as though she might collapse. Together they made their way toward Carl and Sophia, who were crouched near the porch with a pile of chalk, unaware of what had just happened.

Beth imagined what Lori would say, or if she’d be able to say anything at all.

The farmhouse felt colder suddenly.

Beth's hand dropped from the curtain, slowly curling against the wooden windowsill.

Her legs moved with a hollow stiffness, each footstep muffled against the wooden floorboards that creaked beneath her slight frame. She exited her room and moved into the narrow hallway, drawn by the sound that had been haunting her for what felt like hours—Arnold’s groans.

As she passed the bedroom door, it was wide open, and she couldn’t help but glance inside.

Arnold was thrashing on the blood-soaked bed, his sweat-drenched shirt clinging to his chest as he fought against the stitching needle in his father’s trembling hands. Hershel was hunched over him, trying to close the oozing wound on his son’s shoulder.

Maggie sat by Arnold’s head, holding his arms down, whispering calming words that were lost under his pained wails. A wet rag had been tossed aside, pink with blood.

Beth’s breath hitched at the sight. The colour drained from her cheeks.

The noise—the grotesque groaning, the laboured breaths, she’d seen this twice before… Shawn… her mother… And now Arnold.

She stumbled back from the doorway, her hand shooting to her mouth. Then she ran.

The hallway stretched endlessly as she rushed toward the far end of the upstairs floor, shoving the bathroom door open and slamming it shut behind her. She fumbled with the lock—click.

But the door could only silence his groans so much.

She leaned heavily over the sink, gripping the cold porcelain edges with trembling fingers. Her breath came out in ragged bursts as she stared into the mirror above.

There she was.

Pale, eyes puffy and rimmed red, her blonde hair falling in limp strands around her face. She looked smaller. Afraid. Fragile.

A sob ripped through her chest before she could stop it.

Her legs buckled slightly, and she slumped over the sink, crying into the basin, the tears hot and fast. Her shoulders quaked, her breaths grew shallow, and the sound that came from her mouth was raw and cracked—like something breaking apart from the inside out.

She hated that noise.

She just wanted it to stop. All of it.

Hershel leaned over Arnold’s battered form. The final stitch was taut between his fingers, as he tied it off with slow precision. The needle clinked into the metal tray, and the sound cut through the thick silence.

Maggie pressed a damp cloth to Arnold’s forehead, gently brushing aside his flyaway hairs that had escaped his tight manbun. His skin was a sickly grey, and clammy. He flinched even at her soft touch.

“You shouldn’t have wasted that stuff on me, Dad,” Arnold muttered, voice dry like sandpaper. “You know that now… you must know where this leaves me.”

Hershel didn’t answer.

He just stood there, shoulders locked, his jaw tight with conflict. His right hand gripped the edge of the surgical tray so tightly it rattled under the strain. His eyes didn’t meet his son’s.

Arnold exhaled through his nose. A slow, bitter sound.

From the hallway, Lacey stepped into the room. She wasn’t crying anymore, though her cheeks were blotched and her eyes still glassy. She came up beside their father, placed a hand gently on his back. Her voice was soft, but steady.

“Come on, Dad,” she said. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

At first, he didn’t move.

Then his breath trembled through his nose, and he let her guide him. Slowly, one heavy foot in front of the other, Hershel allowed himself to be led out of the room.

As they passed through the door, his free hand brushed lightly against the edge of the wall, almost as if grounding himself, making sure the floor still existed beneath him.

Maggie remained seated at Arnold’s side. She dabbed his brow once more, her own face an unreadable mix of guilt, frustration, and love too big to fit in her chest.

The minutes passed in uneasy quiet.

The farmhouse creaked with the settling heat of the afternoon sun, shafts of light angling through the cracks in the old shutters. Arnold lay still now, his chest rising and falling with longer pauses in between. The pain had dulled—not because it had lessened, but because his body no longer had the strength to scream about it.

He blinked slowly, turning his head to the side, catching sight of a small sparrow that had landed on the ledge just outside the window. It cocked its head once, twice, and fluttered its wings softly as it peered inside.

The moment felt surreal—so ordinary. He stared at the bird as sweat clung to his chest and his limbs trembled under the weight of a fever setting in. His breath rattled, shallow and hoarse.

Then came a voice.

“…Why?”

It was faint, hesitant, and cracked in the middle like something barely holding itself together.

Arnold blinked again, slowly shifting his eyes toward the doorway.

Billy stood there. Alone. His hands balled into fists at his sides, trembling, the black patterned headband pulling his thick curls back from his tear-streaked face. His chin quivered as he tried to hold himself upright, to stay composed, but it wasn’t working.

“Why did you do that?” Billy asked, his voice barely more than a breath, but thick with hurt. “You… you don’t even like me.”

Arnold blinked once more, struggling to move. His head shifted only slightly, enough to look at his brother fully. His jaw tensed as though trying to speak, but for a few seconds, only silence answered.

His voice came low and rasping, broken like glass in his throat.

“That’s not… that’s not true.”

Billy took a step forward but stopped himself. His lip trembled.

“You always pushed me,” he whispered. “You made fun of me for everything. Said I was an idiot. Said I was a screw-up... and then when Shawn died, you started being even more of a jackass.”

Arnold's eyes fluttered, pained in more ways than one now. He coughed, a weak wet sound.

Billy shook his head and looked down, his teenage voice breaking once more. “Then I go and screw up as usual and you sacrifice your own life for mine… you should’ve just let it happen.”

A long pause.

Arnold’s gaze was glassy but clear, even as sweat continued to bead across his brow and his breath caught in shallow gulps.

“I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself,” he spoke honestly.

“There wasn’t anything I could do to save Shawn, but in that moment, I knew I could save my little brother. And I’d do it all over again without a second thought. you hear me Billy?” Arnold’s eyes searched for Billy’s acceptance.

Billy’s shoulders crumpled, and for a moment. He bit his lip hard, trying not to sob, but the tears came anyway. He slowly stepped forward, unsure, hesitant like he was approaching something already fading away.

Arnold tried to smile, but it barely made it halfway across his face. “Look after our family Billy. You’re tougher than I ever gave you credit for.”

Billy stood beside the bed now, reaching over to give his brother a long overdue hug.

“I never hated you,” Arnold breathed.

Silence fell again.

Arnold closed his eyes to rest.

Billy sniffed and wiped the back of his wrist under his nose. He pulled an old wooden chair closer and sat down beside the bed, knees pulled up and arms resting on them.

The bird outside the window took flight, its wings brushing against the glass with a soft flutter before it vanished into the trees beyond.

Jimmy strolled into Beth’s room with a nervous energy, his fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt as his eyes darted around. The room was quiet, the bed untouched. Curtains swayed gently in the breeze from the open window, but there was no sign of her.

“Beth?” he called out, but nothing came back.

Then—

Crash.

The sharp, unmistakable sound of shattering glass.

It came from the bathroom.

He bolted over, nearly tripping as he reached the door. “Beth?” he called again, panic now raw in his voice.

He rattled the handle, finding it locked tight. From inside, he could hear her soft sniffles through the door.

“What’s wrong?” a voice came behind him.

Lacey, now in a clean pair of jeans and a pale green shirt, peered out from another bedroom, her damp hair sticking to her neck. She furrowed her brow when she saw Jimmy’s expression.

“Beth’s locked herself in the bathroom,” Jimmy said quickly. “I heard something smash—like glass—she’s not answering me.”

Lacey’s face twisted with immediate alarm. “Move out of the way,” she snapped.

Jimmy stepped back as she stormed forward, planting her shoulder against the door. The first impact echoed through the hallway.

Thud.

Nothing.

“Beth, open the fucking door!” Lacey shouted.

Thud.

Still locked.

The third time her shoulder cracked against it, the door swung inward with a sharp, splintering creak.

What they saw stopped them both cold.

Blood.

So much of it.

Smeared across the sink. Pooled on the tile. Streaming down her forearm. Beth was curled against the base of the counter, back pressed to the side of the tub, her pale legs trembling beneath her dress.

A jagged shard of mirror glistened red beside her, discarded. The mirror above the sink had a starburst hole through the centre.

Jimmy saw the blood first and staggered forward. “Beth…”

Lacey’s voice erupted before he could say more. “What the fuck have you done?” she shouted, not with concern, but sharp accusation.

She stormed in, grabbing the nearby towels and pressing them furiously to Beth’s wrist. “Are you fucking kidding me?!”

Beth sobbed harder, head down, ashamed and too weak to move.

“DAD!” Lacey bellowed over her shoulder. “DAD.”

Footsteps thundered. Hershel appeared at the end of the hall, Maggie behind him.

“Oh, fuck,” Maggie gasped when she saw the mess. “Oh....”

“I’m sorry,” Beth wept, crumbling under her father’s arms as he gently took over, lifting her like he had when she was small, arms bloody and limp in his grip. “I didn’t mean to— I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

Hershel didn’t speak. His eyes were focused, haunted. His clothes were still speckled with Arnold’s blood as he carried his youngest daughter down the hall, toward yet another room, yet another bed.

Maggie went to follow—until she heard Lacey scoff behind her.

“What a selfish bitch,” Lacey muttered bitterly under her breath, dabbing blood from her palms.

Maggie stopped dead.

“What is wrong with you?” she snapped, rounding on her.

Lacey threw up her arms, flushed and furious. “What?! Arnold is dying in the next room! And she pulls this? What the fuck was she thinking?! What, now we’re all supposed to shed a tear for her too.”

“She’s your sister,” Maggie spat. “She's hurtin’. Just like the rest of us.”

“Fine, then you can go sit with the little miss attention seeker,” Lacey sneered, her voice sharp.

Maggie’s nostrils flared. She stepped forward, close enough to make Lacey flinch—not from fear, but from the sudden realization that she may have gone too far.

“She’s just scared Lacey,” Maggie shot back.

“Last week we all truly believed those things could be saved. We were fucking feeding them! We believed that both Shawn and her mother would be able to be cured… And today she watched them both have a bullet put through their heads. She’s seventeen, Lacey. Seventeen."

Hershel appeared in the doorway like a shadow, one hand braced on the doorframe for support, the other wiping a dark smear from his palm with a balled-up rag. His brow was furrowed deep, his mouth a straight, exhausted line, eyes rimmed in red. Blood stained the cuff of his sleeve, unable to tell from which of his children it belonged to.

He took one look at Lacey, then Maggie, his eyes moving slowly, deliberately. The air was thick with tension, but it was his silence that stilled it. The kind of silence that made your stomach knot.

“I don’t wanna to hear another damn word,” he said finally, voice low, hoarse, and terrifying in its calm.

The sisters froze.

No one dared to interrupt.

“I’m done listenin’ to which one of you thinks you’ve got it all figured out, because clearly none of us do.” Hershel said, his voice gathering weight, rising just slightly, like thunder in the distance. “I will not sit and watch this family fall apart.”

Maggie looked away, lips trembling, but stayed silent. Lacey’s jaw clenched, defensive for a breath—then it faltered. She dropped her gaze to the floor.

His voice cracked slightly at the end, and he paused, steadying himself with the wall.

“I’ve got Arnold slippin’ away from me in one room and Beth in the other. I won’t lose either of them tonight.”

There was a beat.

“You want to help either of them?” he asked, barely above a whisper. “Then shut up… and start acting like family.”

He turned without another word and walked back down the hall.

Chapter Text

Carol’s hand trembled faintly as she rested the damp cloth on Arnold’s forehead, the fever behind his eyes worsening, making his cheeks flush with a sickly red. His breathing had grown shallower overnight, each inhale rattling in his chest like pebbles in a tin can.

Then came the familiar scrape of boots on the wooden floorboards outside the door.

Ed.

He didn’t knock, didn’t even pause before appearing around the frame. His narrowed eyes ignored Arnold completely, locking instead on Carol with a dark curiosity, like a man counting each breath she took.

“Where’s the girl?” he asked, voice cold, clipped. “Thought she was with you.”

Carol didn’t look up, didn’t stop wiping Arnold’s brow, just kept moving as if Ed were no more significant than a draft from the window.

“She’s with Sasha and Tyreese,” she said quietly, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “They asked if she wanted to help them collect some eggs this morning.”

He scoffed—just a single, mocking sound—and turned away without a word, his heavy footsteps retreating down the hall.

Carol let out a long breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her shoulders sagged slightly as she leaned back, as though his absence granted her permission to exist again.

Arnold had been watching her the whole time, his eyes bloodshot but sharp enough to see what mattered.

“He always talk to you that way, ma’am?”

Her eyes flicked down toward him, startled by the sudden question. She searched for a neutral smile, something practiced, something dismissive.

“He’s just protective of her, that’s all.”

Arnold’s gaze didn’t waver. “No. I don’t think that’s it. You folks been here a fair while now, and from what I’ve seen... your daughter can’t even look at him. She’s got that same look me and Lacey had when we were little. The look kids get when they grow up terrified of a man who couldn’t handle his drink.”

Her hands paused mid-motion. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said too fast, her voice strained.

Arnold coughed wetly, then exhaled, voice rasping as he said, “Is he the reason she needed that cold pack the other day?”

Carol froze.

The image slammed into her — Ed standing over Sophia, voice raised, demanding she speak and when Carol tried to step between them, his hand didn’t hesitate.

“I told you,” she said softly, “she fell off the swing.”

Arnold didn’t argue. He just sighed, coughed again, then slowly lifted his shaking hand and pointed to the drawer of the bedside table.

“Open it,” he murmured.

Carol looked at him hesitantly, then reached out and slid the drawer open. Nestled inside was a clean hunting knife, its dark wood handle smooth and carved with the initials AG.

Her brow furrowed. “Arnold…”

“Take it,” he said gently.

She stared at it, the cold metal glinting dully in the light.

“I really don’t think—”

“Carol,” he interrupted, his voice quiet but firm, “please.”

She looked into his eyes, saw no trace of judgment. Only concern. And understanding.

After a long pause, she reached in and closed her fingers around the handle.

"Thank you," she said, barely above a whisper.

Arnold gave her a small nod, sinking back into the bed. Neither of them said another word for a while. The only sound left in the room was the slow ticking of the old clock on the wall and the shallow, uneven breaths of a man whose time was running out.

Outside, the air felt still, not from peace, but from the suffocating weight of grief.

A simple patch of grass near the treeline served as the gravesite. No headstones, no crosses — just two freshly dug plots, the earth disturbed and raw.

Hershel led the service; his hat held against his chest and weathered face drawn tight as he offered words of comfort as he last did with Otis’ funeral.

Maggie stood closest to the graves, her hands trembling.

Jimmy had his arm around his mother who stood slightly behind the group, wringing her hands.

Lacey lingered near the back, eyes rimmed red but face unreadable, jaw set tight as she refused to let the tears fall. There was pain there, but no tears.

Shawn's body had been wrapped in a thick wool blanket from the house. Anette’s was the same — her golden hair stained and matted, only barely visible through the shroud. Hershel couldn’t bring himself to cover her face at first, not until Maggie gently reached out and did it for him.

A few yards beyond the gravesite, far enough not to intrude, Rick and T-Dog stood in silence.

“He’ll never forgive us for this,” Rick muttered, his voice low, his face heavy with dirt and regret.

T-Dog nodded, watching the stillness of the family. “This was all on Shane man, Hershel will see that.”

Rick didn’t answer. Instead, he grabbed the legs of the bloated corpse at his feet, lifting it with a grunt. The man was unrecognizable — another turned neighbour, from the barn, jaw slack, limbs stiff with rigor mortis and dried blood caked around his neck. T-Dog grabbed the arms and together they hefted the thing off the flatbed and dragged it across the grass.

The fire was already roaring — a grotesque pillar of flame eating away at the bodies of the barn. Rick didn’t flinch as they heaved this one into the pyre. The stench rose with the heat, and both men instinctively turned their faces to the side.

Further down the property, Andrea and Glenn worked in near silence, shifting the remaining corpses from the second wagon. Glenn gagged under his breath, pausing only to tie a cloth around his nose.

Andrea didn’t bother — she just clenched her teeth and kept moving.

“They must’ve had like thirty of them in there,” Glenn said hoarsely, rolling the latest body off the back with a dull thud.

“Don’t bother counting them,” Andrea said, her voice brittle. “Just move them. It’s over now.”

Near the barn, Dale sat behind the wheel of the RV. He was meant to reposition it to keep watch over the rear of the property, but he hadn’t moved for minutes now. His grip on the wheel was tight, his face pale, twitching every time the wind carried the scent of burning flesh toward him.

He muttered to himself, “He’s still out there. Fucking sociopath.”

His eyes shifted to the silent funeral in the distance, then to the smoke rising above the trees. He looked away quickly, pressing his lips tight to keep from vomiting.

“Who?” Julie’s voice cut through the low hum of silence, more curious than accusing.

Dale startled slightly, twisting in his seat as if he’d forgotten anyone else was even in the vehicle.

“Huh?” he asked, trying to recover his composure, though the hollowness in his eyes betrayed it. “What did you—?”

“Who’s a sociopath?” Julie crossed her arms loosely, standing just past the kitchenette, Chris leaning half-slouched against the booth behind her, arms folded as well.

Dale gave a humourless huff, running a hand down his worn-out face. His fingers trembled slightly before he dropped them into his lap and looked at them both.

“Shane,” he said at last. “I meant Shane.”

Julie blinked, her expression tightening just slightly.

Dale shook his head. “He’s dangerous. This world is dragging him to a dark place. I can’t prove it… but.”

Chris glanced at Julie but said nothing.

“I’ve been watching people my whole life,” Dale continued, voice quieter now, as if saying it too loud might summon Shane himself to the door. “Whenever anybody mentioned Otis around him, he would react physically, like he was exposed… I think- he might’ve murdered Otis…”

His eyes now meeting the frightened teenagers and expressed further concern. “I just can’t prove it. But, if I’m right… then we’ve let a killer go free.”

Julie didn’t respond at first, but her jaw clenched, and her eyes drifted toward the window — toward the woods.

The silence thickened.

Then Chris broke it, his voice casual, almost too casual. “You want proof? We go find his body right.”

Dale’s head turned fully now, eyes narrowing. “We?”

Julie stepped in before he could object. “Come on, Dale. All we get to do around here is babysit and sort canned beans.”

Chris nodded. “We wanna help. And we’re bored shitless.”
Dale blinked, glancing between the two of them — their young faces marked with equal parts defiance and eagerness.

“If Otis really was eaten, there won’t even be a body to find,” Dale said, firmer this time, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly warning. “It’s hardly worth the risk.”

Chris shrugged, as if the danger hadn’t even registered. “Alright then… I guess you’ll never know, then.”

Dale stared at him, trying to gauge whether it was just teenage bravado or something darker — the kind of thrill-seeking itch that came from living in a world with no rules, no boundaries. Chris held his gaze, unbothered, arms folded lazily across his chest like he was daring Dale to argue.

Julie smirked faintly, like she was already halfway out the door.

Dale leaned back against the seat, his chest tightening. These weren’t just kids anymore — not really. The world had made sure of that.

“I’m not saying no,” he muttered finally. “I’m saying… you better be damn sure you know what you’re walking into.”

Julie grinned. “That’s practically a yes.”

Dale shut his eyes for a second, then sighed through his nose.

“This stays between us until we get back and you do exactly as I say,” he said firmly, levelling a stern gaze at them both. “Your dad would have my head.”

Julie lifted a hand to her chest, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips. “Scout’s honour.”

Chris gave a mock salute. “He doesn’t even need to know we came with you.”

Dale didn’t smile. He couldn’t. He just looked out the windshield again, toward the smoke still rising over the trees, and muttered under his breath— “Goddamn kids are gonna get me killed.”

Meanwhile, Lori sat gently on the edge of Beth’s bed, her fingers delicately combing through Beth’s long, golden hair, careful not to tug or rush. The room was quiet, but not silent — the softest melody, barely louder than a breath escaped the weakened girls’ lips.

She sang under her breath, fragile and slow — something old and Southern, full of longing. Lori didn’t recognize the tune, but the aching in it was clear as glass.

“You’ve got a beautiful voice,” Lori said softly, her voice warm but cautious, like she was stepping into sacred ground.

Beth paused, her mouth still parted, the song fading into a whisper. A small, tired smile tugged at the corner of her lips. Her eyes, red-rimmed and glossy, remained locked on the scene outside the window — the funeral just far enough away to be out of earshot but close enough to see the outlines of her family burying her mother.

“My mom…” Beth said, her voice thin, “she used to sing to me and Billy most nights. Even when she was tired. Even when she’d been working all day.”

Lori’s hand slowed as it moved through her hair, resting lightly atop her head. “You must miss her a lot.”

Beth gave the smallest nod. Her voice cracked as she whispered, “Yeah.”

A single tear spilled from the corner of her eye and slid down into the curve of her cheek, but she didn’t wipe it away. She just stayed there, curled beneath the blanket, stitched wrists tucked beneath her chest, watching her mother be buried from a window.

Lori stayed with her in the silence, gently combing her hair. No more words were needed.