The rhythmic sound of metal cutting into dry earth had been going on for hours. It wasn't just the noise. It was the relentlessness of it, the obsessiveness. Jim stood in a sweat-soaked shirt, shovel gripped with white-knuckled, sweat trailing down his back. Around him were six or seven freshly dug holes, each just wide and deep enough to plant something, or bury something.
The others began to gather. One by one, they stopped what they were doing: Lori, Dale, Morales, Jacqui, T-Dog, Andrea, Amy, and finally Shane, who stepped forward as the unofficial leader.
"Hey, Jim," Shane called, but he didn't listen. "Jim, why don't you hold up, all right?" He stepped closer, careful, "Just give me a second here, please."
Jim didn't stop, another thud of the shovel into the dirt. Another clink of hitting a rock.
"What do you want?" He finally spoke, still focused on digging.
"We're all just a little concerned, that's all," Shane said.
Morales stepped forward, "Dale says you've been at this for hours."
Jim stabbed the shovel into the ground, finally pausing. "So?"
"So, why are you digging?" Shane asked, tilting his head, sweat dripping from his temple. "You heading to China, man?" he chuckled.
Jim let out a dry scoff. "What does it matter? I'm not hurting anyone."
"You're hurting yourself, maybe," Shane replied, voice calm but firm. "It's a hundred degrees out here, you can't keep this up or you're gonna drop."
"Sure I can," Jim muttered, bending again, "Watch me."
Lori stepped forward now, her voice sharp with worry. "Jim, they're not gonna say it, so I will. You're scaring my son. You're scaring Sophia."
Jim looked at her, brow tight with frustration. "You've got nothing to be scared of. I'm not here by myself. Why don't you all just leave me the hell alone?"
"We think you need a break," Shane said firmly. "Why don't you sit in the shade for a while, maybe get some food? I'll tell you what…in a little bit, I'll come back and help you myself. How about that?"
Jim turned his face away, jaw tight.
"Just tell me what it's about," Shane pressed. "Just give me the shovel."
Jim's eyes narrowed. "Or what?"
"There is no 'or what'," Shane said, moving closer. "I'm not threatening you. I'm just asking."
Jim didn't move. "If I don't? You gonna beat my face in? Like Ed Peletier?"
Everyone tensed, remembering what happened by the lake, when the women were washing clothes.
"You all saw what he did to Ed, didn't you?" Jim continued, his voice rising. "That's what happened when someone crosses him. Is that what I get, too?"
Shane exhaled, "That was different."
"You weren't there." Amy stepped forward, only being stopped by her sister's hand around her wrist. "Ed was hurting Carol. He was out of control."
Jim turned to her, "That's their marriage," Jim snapped. "Not his. He is not judge and jury." Jim turned to Shane, "Who voted you king boss, huh?"
"I'm not here to argue," Shane replied, inching forward. "Just give me the shovel." he lunged forward, grabbing the shovel.
"No. No, no." Jim gripped it tighter, pulling it toward himself.
"Jim…" Shane pulled harder, "Give me the—"
With a sudden movement, Jim shoved Shane hard and swung the shove upward—a warning, not an attack. It was enough. Shane lunged again, but not for the shovel, he tackled Jim to the ground, pinning him to the dirt.
"Okay, okay," Shane said quickly, as T-Dog brought him rope, "Easy."
"You've got no right!" Jim trashed beneath him as he tied his hands behind his back, "You've got no right!"
"Stop it, man. Nobody's gonna hurt you, alright, calm down, Jim. Nobody's gonna hurt." Shane muttered.
"That's a lie!" Jim shouted his voice cracking, "That's the biggest lie there is!"
His body stopped fighting, but his voice didn't. "I told that to my wife. I told it to my boys. I said it a hundred times. 'Nobody's gonna hurt you,' And it didn't matter. It didn't matter at all."
Everyone stood still, silent, listening, but Shane didn't stop, nor did Jim.
"They came out of nowhere," Jim whispered, eyes distant. "Dozens of em. Just pulled my family right out of my hands."
His voice broke completely.
"You know how I got away?" he asked no one. "Because the dead were too busy eating them."
The only sound was the wind dancing in the trees, and Shane's shifting as he got up, finished tying him up.
—Atlanta
The fire escape churned faintly under Glenn's and Daryl's weight as they scrawled down the ladder into the alleyway, boots scraping metal. Rick split off, on Glenn's request, waiting for him at the adjacent route, his revolver drawn. Daryl quietly loaded his crossbow, checking the mechanism out of habit.
"You got some some balls for a Chinaman," he muttered, squinting toward Glenn.
"I'm Korean," Glen said, eyeing the path toward the tank.
"Whatever."
The street ahead was cracked and silent, save for the distant moans of the dead. Glenn darted into view, his small frame nimble as he moved for the bag. The one filled with guns, and Rick's sheriff hat still perched on top. A few walkers noticed the movement and began to shamble in his direction, their pace lazy but building.
Meanwhile, Daryl crouched behind a trash bin, every muscle taut, his eyes scanning. A figure rounded the corner behind, a young Hispanic man, tense and wary. The second Daryl noticed his footsteps, he rose, crossbow raised, aimed at the head.
"Whoa, don't shoot me!" The young man cried, throwing his hands up. "What do you want?"
"I'm looking for my brother," Daryl said, his voice low and dangerous. "Bout an inch shorter than me. You see him?"
The man took a half a step back, then screamed in Spanish— "Ayúdame!"
"Shut up," Daryl snapped. "You'll bring the geeks down on us!" The man shuts up until Daryl steps forward, "Now answer me!"
"Ayúdame! Ayúdame! Ayúdame!"
Glenn, who heard the frantic yelling, quickly runs and grabs the bag and the Sheriff's hat, running back to Daryl, and so does Rick.
Daryl's eyes widened. "I said shut up!"
From around the corner, two more figures appeared—both Latino. One of them, tall and heavy, lunged forward and struck Daryl with a metal pipe. The hit sent him sprawling to the ground with a grunt. The second man jumped in to help, and they both began pummeling him.
Glenn, running back, skidded to a halt when he saw the chaos unfold.
"That's it." One of the two men turned back, seeing the bag in Glenn's hands. "That's the bag, Vato! Take it!"
The man, Felipe, ran toward Glenn and grabbed the strap of the bag. Glenn struggled trying to pull it away, but he was quickly overpowered as both men turned to him. They wrestled him down, holding him fast.
"Get off me! Get off me!" Glenn shouted. "Daryl! Daryl!"
From the ground, Daryl raised his crossbow and fired. The bold whistled through the air and buried into Felipe's ass. He shrieked and stumbled, falling to the side.
A car screeched around the corner. But before Diego could run to the car with the bag, Rick appeared, tackling him to the ground, Miguel, the first man, and who had been at the back for a while, ran forward, grabbing the bag from the ground, and when he was about to reach the car, Glenn, still on the ground, grabbed Miguels leg, tripping him over. But not before the guns reached the car, except for one, which fell in the process.
A walker from the many that had gathered was crushed under the tire as the car peeled away, carrying all their guns with it.
Diego thrashed beneath Rick's knee. Beside them, Miguel was locked in a ground scuffle with Glenn, who had him pinned by the arms, panting through gritted teeth. Felipe lay moaning on the cracked pavement, one hand clutching the bolt embedded deep in his backside, his legs kicking weakly.
Daryl didn't waste time. He slammed the alley gate shut with a heavy clang just as the first walkers reached the gate. Their gnarled fingers scratched at the rusted bars, groans rising into a chorus of hunger.
"Move!" Daryl barked, snatching up one of the rifles that had fallen loose from the scuffle, then grabbing Miguel by the collar and yanking him up.
Rick hauled Diego to his feet with one hand and snatched the sheriff's hat off the ground with the other. Glenn grimaced as he hooked Felipe's arms over his shoulder, the man stumbling beside him, muttering curses between gasps of pain.
The walker reached the gate as the group fled. Bony hands slipped through the gaps between chain links, jaws chomping at empty air. All of them slammed against it, rattling the metal as the group disappeared down the street and back into the shadows of the building.
***
Inside the dim interior of the storefront, the sound of the street was muffled. Heavy breathing filled the room, thick with the stench of sweat and blood.
Daryl shoved Felipe down onto a metal chair, his crossbow slung over his shoulder. The bolt still portruded Felipe's ass at an awkward angle, the blood-soaked shaft twitching with every small movement.
Rick, Glenn, and Daryl stepped out of the room, whispering.
"What are we gonna do with them?" Glenn asked.
"We can just untie em and leave." Daryl shrugged his shoulders.
"No," Rick said, "We need those guns, we can't leave without them."
"Are you nuts?" Glenn blurted out, "They have the guns, we go after them, we'll end up dead."
Rick exhaled, thinking, "The kid's right," Daryl said.
"But—"
"Look, I understand those guns are worth more than gold, but gold won't bring back the dead."
Rick paused. He patted Daryl's shoulder, "Exactly."
They returned to the room, eyes on the three soon-to-be victims.
"You know," Daryl muttered, crouching in front of Felipe, "That thing's sitting pretty deep."
Felipe growled, face contorted in pain. "You're a crazy bastard."
"Yeah?" Daryl smirked. "Crazy's all that's left." He reached out, grabbed the bolt, and gave it a small twist.
Felipe screamed, nearly knocking the chair over. "Carajo! What the well, man!"
Daryl leaned closer, voice low, "Where did they take the guns?"
Felipe's lips trembled, defiance flickering behind pain-glazed eyes. Daryl twisted again—just slightly, and Felipe shrieked.
Rick and Glenn shared a look, guns pointed at Miguel and Diego. It was the best course of action; this way, they won't have to kill someone alive.
"Wait!" Miguel shouted from across the room as Glenn realigned his rifle's barrel at his head. "Stop! I'll tell you, okay? Just stop hurting him."
Daryl let go of the bolt and stood up, crossbow clacking softly as he rested it back on his shoulder. He turned to Miguel with a slow, dark smile.
"That's more like it."
"Miguel, don't—" Diego screamed, only to get punched by Daryl in the face.
Rick stepped toward Miguel, his voice hard. "Talk. Where the hell did they take our weapons?"
—Quarry
The Cicadas chirped lazily in the thick heat. Jim sat slumped against a tree, wrists bound loosely with rope for his own protection. His shirt was stained with dirt and sweat, his eyes rimmed with exhaustion and something else, grief and confusion, about his own actions. His chest rose and fell slowly as he stared out at the forest, as though waiting for something to come out of it.
Footsteps crunched over dry grass.
Shane and Dale approached him quietly, one carrying a small water bucket, the other just watching him, hand resting on his belt, brow drawn with quiet worry.
"Jim, take some water?" Shane said
Jim looked up, his eyes blinked sluggishly, before he exhaled in defeat.
"All right."
Shane bent down, filling the improvised ladle in the bucket and moving to his mouth. He gulped it down, spilling some on his shirt, "Aaah! Pour some on my head?"
Shane's eyes narrowed for a moment, "Yeah… sure."
Shane stood, taking half a step back so he wouldn't get wet, and carefully tipped the bucket, letting the stream of cool water cascade over Jim's matted hair and down his temple. Jim exhaled a long breath, eyes fluttering shut, the tension in his shoulders easing.
"Cooling you down, huh?" Shane muttered.
Jim scoffed, "Yeah… feels good. How long you gonna keep me like this?"
"Until I don't think you're a danger. To yourself… or anyone else."
There was no accusation in his voice, just concern. The rope wasn't tight; Jim could've struggled out if he really wanted to. But he didn't.
Shane left with the bucket in hand, Lori sat across from Jim, in the shade of another tree, "Sorry if I scared your boy. And you." Jim turned to look at Sophia sitting with Lori.
"You had sunstroke. Jim, nobody's blaming you."
Jim nodded, looking at Carl, "You're not scared now, are you?"
"No, sir." Carl quietly said.
Jim shifted as a smile cracked on his face, "Your mama's right. Sun cooked my head is all."
Dale took a step forward, crouching slightly to meet Jim's line of sight.
"Jim…" He paused, thinking the question was too personal, "Do you know why you were digging? Can you remember?" He still needed to know.
Jim shook his head, "I had a reason. Don't remember now. Something I dreamt last night…" His stare became distant, his mind wandering.
Dale nodded as Lori and Carl stepped forward to hear it, Jim's focus returned, and he looked at Carl, "Your dad was in it. You were, too."
"You were worried about him. I can't remember the rest."
Carl, standing in front of him, looked away, anxious.
"You worried about your dad?" Jim asked, but Carl didn't answer, not right away.
"They're not back yet," Carl muttered.
Lori patted his head, "We don't need to talk about that right now." She glanced at Jim.
"It's okay, Carl," Jim shifted his weight, "Your dad's a police officer, son. He helps people. That's who he is. Probably just came across some folks needing help, that's all."
"That man, he's tough as nails. I don't know him well, but I saw it clear as day," Jim looked at Shane as he returned. "Am I right?"
Shane shuffled Carl's hair, "Oh yeah."
"Ain't nothing gonna stop that man from getting back here to you and your mama. I promise you that."
Carl's eyes didn't brighten, but there was a flicker of belief in them. That was enough. Dale straightened, giving Jim's shoulder a pat before leaving toward his RV.
"All right. Who wants to help me clean some fish, huh?" Shane said as he was leaving.
"Sweet." Carl escaped Lori's grasp and grabbed Sophia's hand, dragging her behind Shane. "Come on, Sophia!"
Before Lori could leave, Jim's voice resounded, not just advice, but more like a warning. "You keep your boy close, Lori. You don't ever let him out of your sight!"
Lori didn't speak, just nodded, before going after Carl, her throat tightened slightly at the sudden seriousness in Jim's voice.
—Atlanta
The tension thickened as they walked toward the base. Glenn's grip on his rifle tightened as Felipe limped forward, muttering curses under his breath.
"G's gonna take this arrow out of my ass and shove it up yours. Just so you know," Felipe hissed, glaring at Daryl. He looked away as his eyes flicked to the revolver pointed at Miguel.
Rick arched an eyebrow. "G?"
"Guillermo," Miguel answered quickly, eyes flicking toward Diego with guilt as the older man shot him a withering look for spilling information so freely. "He's the man here."
Their little group moved steadily toward a crumbling structure across the street, near the edge of Atlanta, once an auto shop or maybe a warehouse, now hollowed and rust streaked, the windows boarded up, the walls tattooed with ash and soot. There were signs of an explosion, like every other place in Atlanta.
The front door creaked open.
Two men stepped out, both Latino, both armed. Their posture was tense, but their expression relaxed.
"You okay, man?"
"Do I look okay?" Felipe snapped, gesturing toward the bolt sticking out of his rear. "They were twistinng the damn arrow, bro."
From behind them, another man emerged, shorter than the two. Guillermo.
"Cops do that now?" he asked, his voice calm but edged with steel.
"Not him," Felipe spat, nodding at Daryl. "This redneck puto here. He was laughing too, man."
"Shut up," Daryl growled, shifting his weight with his crossbow still at Diego's head.
There was a long pause. Guillermo's gaze swept across the three strangers, lingering on the sheriff's badge pinned to Rick's chest. Rick stepped forward.
"We were hoping for a calm discussion," he said evenly.
Guillermo raised a brow. "After all this?"
"Heat of the moment," Rick replied. "Mistakes were made, on both sides."
A beat passed.
"You've got something of mine," Rick said. "I've got something of yours. Sounds like a fair trade,"
The group tensed. Then, slowly, Guillermo turned and stepped back inside the building. He motioned silently for them to follow.
They did, cautiously.
Inside, the dim light barely illuminated the auto shop. Rick's eyes adjusted quickly, industrial steel, dust-covered workbenches, a few collapsed tables now repurposed into barricades, broken down cars, their hoods open, engines out. Glenn counted heads. At least twenty men, all armed, all watching them.
"Now," Guillermo said, folding his arms, "What was that you said about fair?"
"I was pretty clear," Rick said, his finger twitching near the trigger guard.
"How about this?" Guillermo said, taking a step forward. "We'll spare one life for each one of my men."
"What do you say, huh?"
Rick's voice was steady. "You don't quite understand. The moment you pull the trigger, this place'll be overrun with walkers. That bag? It doesn't have enough bullets to get any of you out of Atlanta."
Guillermo shrugged. "Same goes for you."
"You want the guns," Rick continued. "But they weren't yours to begin with. And they won't bring back Felipe, or anyone else currently at gunpoint."
The room tensed, everyone removed their finger from the trigger, then—
Suddenly, a voice cracked the tension.
"Felipe!" a woman cried. "Felipe!"
An elderly woman emerged from the shadows, her steps hurried, eyes wide with concern. She pushed through the armed men as if they weren't there at all. She didn'tt flinch at the sight of Glenn's rifle or Daryl's crossbow. Her focus was on Felipe.
"What happened to you, mijo?" she gasped, eyes going wide at the bolt sticking out of him.
"Abuela," Felipe hissed, cheeks flushing red, "Go back with the others. It's not the place for you right now."
"Get that old lady out of the line of fire," Daryl said
"Abuela, listen to your mijo." Guillermo said, moving toward her.
She turned to him, "He needs medical attention, look at him," she insisted, her voice strained with fear. "And Mr. Gilbert is having trouble breathing again. Carlitos didn't find the inhaler. He needs his medicine, too."
Her eyes scanned the newcomers—her gaze paused at Rick's badge, his hat, the uniform.
She stopped closer.
"Are you here to arrest him?" she asked, voice rising slightly with worry. "You leave Guillermo alone. He's a good boy. He's had his troubles, but he takes care of us now. We need him here."
Rick blinked, unsure for a moment. His voice was low and calm.
"Ma'am," he said, "I'm not here to arrest anyone."
"Then why are you here?" she demanded, suspicious and worried all at once.
Rick hesitated—but only for a second.
"He's helping us," Rick said, picking up the thread. "We're looking for stolen goods. Guns. Things that can hurt people. We thought someone here might've found them."
She squinted at Rick again, uncertain, then a flash of memory hit her. Her expression softened, "The brown bag?" she asked.
"Yeah, have you seen it?" Rick said.
She reached out and took Rick's hand in both of hers. He followed after her, confused, and so did Daryl and Glenn, still holding Felipe and Diego.
The other men tensed, but Guillermo stopped them, "Let 'em pass."
Beyond the auto shop, she led them to another building past a green backyard, the door opened into a long-abandoned nursing home. Inside, the air smelled faintly of antiseptic and stale bedding. Makeshift beds lined the room. Elderly residents sat propped up on pillows. Some had IV bags hanging from the bent coat hangers. A boy—Carlitos—sat beside an old man with a wheezing breath and eyes half-closed.
Felipe quickly limped toward him, "Carlitos, did you find the inhaler?" he asked, his voice worried.
Rick looked around as the old lady led them to the bag sitting on one of the empty beds.
Daryl quickly moved toward them, as Rick looked at Guillermo, "Could I have a word with you?" he said, as he dragged Guillermo away from the crowd.
"You're the dumbest son of bitch I ever met." Rick gritted his teeth, "We walked in there ready to kill every one of you."
"Well, I'm glad it didn't go down that way."
"If it had, that blood would be on my hands."
"Mine too. We'd have fought back. Wouldn't be the first time we've had to. Protect the food, the medicine… What's left of it. These people, the old ones… the staff took off, just left 'em here to die. Me and Felipe were the only ones who stayed."
"What are you, doctors?"
"Felipe's a nurse. Me, I'm the custodian."
—Camp
The warm, amber glow of the sunset filtered through the dusty blind of the RV, casting long shadows inside the cramped interior. Andrea sat at the table, her fingers idly tracing the rim of an empty cup. Behind her, Dale rustled through a collection of old boxes stacked near the kitchenette, the sound of rummaging punctured by his occasional sigh.
"Nothing?" Andrea asked, not turning.
"Nothing," Dale said, echoing with quiet frustration. He shut the lid of the box and sat down across from her. "It's Amy's birthday in two days. I've been keeping track, marking days in my notebook, just to be sure." Andrea said, still staring at the cup, her expression unusually tense. "And now I have nothing to give her." She sighed and leaned back.
"You should've told me earlier. I could've asked Glenn or Rick to look for something while they are in the city." Dale said.
"It didn't cross my mind," Andrea exhaled, "They were fighting, and then suddenly took off."
Andrea straightened, "I did see something back in the department store. A necklace. Small, silver, it had a mermaid on it." Her voice lowered. "If Merle hadn't gone nuts, I could've grabbed it."
The two of them fell into a contemplative silence, each one thinking of Amy.
Dale scratched his white beard. "How about that gun I gave you?"
Andrea blinked, the thought hitting her like a jolt. "The Ladysmith?"
He nodded. "Not exactly sentimental, but… It's something. Especially in these times. Might not be the birthday gift she expected, but in this world, it would be meaningful."
"And you can have my rifle if Rick brings those guns back."
Andrea chuckled, stood, and crossed to a narrow cupboard, and pulled out a cloth-wrapped bundle from behind a stack of canned beans. She carefully placed it on the table and unwrapped it to reveal the Smith & Wesson 3913 'Ladysmith.'
"Why are you keeping it here?" Dale asked.
"I didn't want the kids to find it," Andrea said.
"Then what's the point of a gun if you don't have it on you?" Dale asked.
Andrea remained silent, nodding understanding of his concern, but the real reason was that Amy didn't get her hands on it, but now, maybe she can give it to her, she's old enough.
"I know, but…" She sank back on her chair, placing the gun gently on the table, "It doesn't work."
Dale picked it up, flicked the safety off with a familiar click, and held it up. "You need to take the safety off," he said.
"This red dot? That means it's ready to fire," he said, handing it back. Andrea's face flushed with embarrassment.
"You said you knew how to use a gun?" Dale questioned.
She shook her head, "I didn't, I just… I just wanted to do something for the group." Dale's eyes widened, but quickly softened. He sighed, If that Rick guy hadn't been there, I don't know how they could've gotten out of Atlanta
"I guess I should've asked."
"There's no shame in learning, but lying..." Dale shook his head, not in the mood to lecture her. "Tell you what—how about I show you how to take it apart, clean it, and reassemble it? Then you can teach Amy yourself?"
Andrea slimed. "I'd like that."
Together, they leaned over the weapon. Dale's hands were steady and precise as he unscrewed and slid pieces apart. Andrea watched with focused eyes, committing each motion to memory.
***
The campfire crackled at the center of the group, its orange flames licking the dark as twilight gave way to the night. Laughter and quiet conversation filled the air. A plate of grilled fish was passed around as the survivor tried—if only for a moment—to forget the world beyond treeline.
"Pass the fish, please," Miranda said to her husband.
"Here you go," Morales said, handing a plate across the circle, the flicker of the fire catching in his eyes.
Jim sat at the end, eating quietly as if the heat from the afternoon was never there.
Dale leaned back, winding his watch as usual. Morales glanced over, then shook his head.
"Man, I gotta ask," he said, pointing. "It's been driving me crazy?"
"What?" Dale raised an eyebrow.
"You wind that watch every day. Same time. Same way. Like you're the village priest ringing the bell for mass."
Jacqui laughed. "I've noticed that too. No offense, but unless I missed something, time kinda lost its job when the world ended."
"But there's you winding that stupid watch," Morales said.
Dale looked around at the group, his weathered hands still cradling the watch.
"Time…" he began, then paused. "Time's important to keep track, isn't it? The days at least. Don't you think, Andrea?" he turned to look at Andrea, who shrugged.
"Back me up here." Dale shook his head, "I like… I like what, um, a father said to his son when he gave him a watch that had been handed down through generations. He said, 'I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire, which will fit your individual needs no better than it did mine or my father's before me; I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you may forget it for a moment now and then and not spend all of your breath trying to conquer it'."
Everyone blinked in silence.
Amy smirked and said, "You are so weird."
Laughter erupted, cutting the heaviness. Dale grinned, a little sheepish, "It's not me. It's Faulkner. William Faulkner. Maybe my bad paraphrasing."
T-Dog and Amy stood at the same time. Dale looked at them, confused. "Hey, where are you two going? Was my Faulkner that bad?" Dale chuckled.
T-Dog shook his head, "I gotta take a leak," he said, chuckling as he headed toward the RV.
Andrea looked at Amy, "And where are you going?" Amy rolled her eyes. "Me too. Jeez, you try to be discreet around here…"
Laughter erupted again as T-Dog stopped and turned to her. Amy looked at him, shaking her head. "You can go first."
"Ladies first," he replied gallantly, gesturing toward the RV.
"If you say so," Amy said with a half-smile as she walked off.
T-Dog waited outside as she disappeared inside the vehicle.
The campfire continues to crackle behind them, for just a little while, it felt like something close to peace—
Then.
"We're out of toilet paper!" Amy called, her voice slicing through the calm as she opened the RV door.
T-Dog turned, thinking. "I think we brought som—"
Crunch!
A walker launched out of the shadows, tackling him with feral momentum. His words cut off in a strangled cry as the two figures slammed into the dirt. Its decayed hands gripped his shirt, yellow teeth gnashing toward his neck. He barrel got a hand up—
Too slow.
The walker sank its teeth into his throat. A wet rip. A burst of red spray painted the RV steps. His legs kicked, twitching violently.
"Mom!" Carl screamed.
Lori extended her arm, pulling him closer to her, "I've got you," she mumbled as she looked at the scene.
The groans multiplied.
Amy shrieked and slammed the RV door shut, locking it with shaking hands as more figures shambled out of the woods. Dozens.
"Lori! Get him down!" Shane shouted, shotgun already pumping, Boom! The first shot split a walker's head open. Boom! Another staggered backward, skull split in half.
The noise echoes across the quarry like thunder.
Nearby:
Rick's head snapped toward the sound. Sweat covered his face.
"Oh my god," Rick muttered, glancing at Daryl.
"Go! Go!" Glenn yelled, breaking into a sprint. Daryl was already running, crossbow bouncing on his back.
At the Camp
Chaos erupted.
Jim, wild-eyed, grabbed a baseball bat. He swung with all his strength. Crack! Bone split under aluminium—he didn't stop swinging until the walker's face was a ruin.
More came. From trees, from the dark. Twenty? Or Maybe Thirty? No one was counting.
"They're everywhere!" Jacqui screamed.
Morales gritted his teeth, ushering his kids behind him. "Stay close!" He swung his own bat, the wood connecting with a skull, Thunk! Thunk! The third hit broke the jaw off the thing before it collapsed.
Dale fired, with rifle in hand. "To you left!" he yelled to Shane, dropping a walker mid-charge.
In the middle, Andrea stood frozen.
Her eyes locked on the RV. Amy's inside. She's safe. She kept repeating it like a prayer, like a charm against death. She's safe. She's safe
Her hand moved to her back. The Ladysmith. She fumbled for it, hands shaking. She couldn't find the safety. Why can't I remember? She looked down.
Her hands were shaking, trembling, and her fear had made her forget everything.
On the ground near the RV, T-Dog coughed up blood. "H-help me," he choked, gurgling.
Jim stood above him, bat slick with blood. His face crumpled—there was no helping that. The wound was too deep. The gash in T-Dog's throat pumped blood like a broken faucet. The light was already fading from his eyes.
Jim whispered, "I'm sorry," then dashed to swing at another walker approaching from the side.
Morales fought like a man possessed. He crushed one walker's skull with a stone, then another with his bat, shoving it off his daughter. "Go!" he shouted. "To the RV! Move!"
They ran.
But when they reached the door. It was locked.
"Amy! Amy!" Miranda pounded on the metal. "Open the door! It's us! AMY!"
Inside the RV
Amy huddled on the floor, hands over her ears. The screams, the growls, the gunshots—Theodore's blood on her feet, the flashing images—it was all too much. Her breath hitched, chest heaving. Panic surged like a seizure. She rocked back on forth, frozen.
She didn't move. Not when they screamed, not when they begged. She couldn't.
Outside—
Morales stood, his back against his family, as they pulled at the door; he turned too late. A walker lunged from the side at his wife. He froze for a moment, and another Walker lunged at him, tackling him to the ground. His bat dropped from his hands with a hollow clatter.
"No!" Miranda screamed as the walker's hands wrapped around her neck, pulling her down.
Her scream echoed, and then choked.
Morales struggled to rise, his hands keeping the walker at bay, and he watched as his wife fell beside him; his hands lost strength suddenly.
"Miranda…" he mumbled before the walker's teeth sank into his neck.
His children ran.
But not far enough.
Two walkers caught them. One grabbed the boy by the arm—Munch—peeling of the skin like dried glue. The other caught the girl's ponytail, dragging her down, jaws snapping.
Then—
Gunshots, rapid, clean, and efficient.
Rick, Glenn, and Daryl burst onto the scene.
Rick raised his revolver—Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Five shots. Five corpses dropped.
Glenn took cover and fired twice with the shotgun, both shells turning the walker's faces into bouquets.
Daryl didn't bother aiming. He clubbed one walker in the jaw with the but of his rifle, then spun it into another. Crack! Crunch! Skulls split open under rage.
But the ground was already soaked in blood.
T-Dog lay still beside the barely alive Morales, who looked into his wife's glassy, lifeless eyes.
The kids were gone.
Carl runs to Rick as soon as he sees him. Rick tears up, falling to his knees as they hug. Jim returns from the woods, rejoining the group. Andrea runs toward the RV, trying to open the door, screaming for Amy to open it.
The group rounds up near the RV, as Jim looks at the dead bodies.
"I remember my dream now—" He scanned the blood-soaked ground, "—and why I dug those holes."
A/N[Sheesh, I really locked in with this one, +5k, that's a record]
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Read +3 or +7 chapters ahead on my Pat*eon
First_Endless