The room was dimly lit by the fading daylight bleeding through the lace curtains. Hershel stood near a vintage cabinet, arms crossed, his eyes locked on his daughter. Maggie stood across from him, her posture tense but resolute. Shawn leaned quietly in the corner, watching the exchange unfold, a shadow of conflict on his face.
Hershel's voice was low but firm, laced with doubt and paternal edge. "Are you sure about this?" he asked, his brows drawn tight, eyes narrowed in concern.
Maggie didn't hesitate, at least not visibly. "Y-yeah," she said with a sharp nod, her voice steady despite the catch in her throat.
Shawn shifted where he stood, arms folded. He glanced between them before exhaling. "I can go with her," he offered, his tone calm.
Maggie turned sharply, meeting his eyes. "No. You go with Shane, you already told them," she said, "I'll go to Wesker."
Hershel's frown deepened, the lines on his face growing sharp. "Do we even know where he is? Or where he lives?" he asked slowly, searching her face for an answer.
"I-I do," Maggie stuttered for a moment, "St. Johns."
Hershel's expression changed in an instant, his worry turned into anger and disbelief. "Maggie," he said, stepping forward. "That's miles from here. You don't even know the way, and I don't care if you think you do—It's not safe. I can't allow you to go there alone."
Now it was Maggie's turn to stiffen, her voice sharpening like the snap of a twig. "I'm not a kid anymore, Dad."
Hershel's tone rose just a notch, but it was enough to fill the room. "And this isn't the world you grew up in."
Her eyes faltered for a moment, but never left her father, staring at him with unwavering conviction, and so did Hershel.
—Forest
The trees stretched above, wide and high, leaves whispering in the breeze like cicadas—the fading light filtered through the canopy, casting long shadows across the underbush. Daryl stood at the edge of a dry streambed, staring into the thick woods ahead. Behind him, Lori, Glenn, Andrea, and Carol lingered in the uneven clearing, all of them worn down by hours of searching.
Daryl's shoulders slumped slightly as he exhaled through his nose. "We'll lose light before too long," he said, scanning the tree line one last time. "I think we should call it."
The group didn't respond immediately—too tired to argue, too ashamed to agree.
Lori looked around at the others. Their clothes were wet with sweat, their movements slow, like those of snails. She sighed. "Let's head back."
Carol hesitated a moment before stepping forward. Her voice was thin, almost childlike. "We'll pick it up again tomorrow?" she asked, her eyes pleading.
Lori glanced at Daryl, and their eyes met for a moment.
"Yeah," Lori said softly, turning back to Carol, "We'll find her tomorrow."
Without another word, the group began making their way back through the woods, the sun setting behind them, the forest quiet for the steady crunch of their boots on dry leaves.
***
—St. John's Dairy
We sat in a rough circle around the fire pit, the last of the day's sunlight fading into gold in the distance. The flames cracked softly, small sparks flicking upward, dancing like restless fireflies before disappearing into the darkening sky.
Alicia knelt by the pit, stacking the last of the dry firewood. Her movements were steady, holding a small axe in her right hand, splitting wood for the fire.
Lilly and Carley sat on either side of me, like always, their shoulders relaxed, the rifles resting close by. In the past month, the weapons had become limbs; they couldn't walk anywhere without one. Madison sat directly across, her elbows on her knees, her eyes wandering the edge of the treeline past the fence.
Clementine was still inside, doing whatever Clementine did when she needed a moment alone. Drawing, maybe, or… I shook my head.
Carley leaned slightly toward me, her fingers brushing mine on the armrest of the folding chair. The wood beneath us creaked occasionally.
"Why did you go to that school?" Carley asked suddenly, breaking the quiet. Her voice was soft, but curious.
I turned to her, the firelight casting her features in a warm, orange glow. Her hair had grown longer, curling a little at the ends like Lilly's now. The brightness in her eyes had returned, ever after everything. After Macon, after Nick, and even after Lilly.
I paused for a moment.
"Yeah," Lilly added, glancing at me from the other side, her voice carrying more edge than Carley's. "We had plenty of medicine and equipment from that drug store in Macon. If anything, we had more than enough."
I sighed and leaned back in the chair, letting my head tilt up to the darkening sky. The first stars were appearing, peeking through the purple veil of twilight.
"I just wanted some fresh air," I said finally. "That's all."
Lilly snorted, shaking her head as she turned her attention back to the fire. "What was I expecting?" she said, half-laughing, half-frustrated.
Carley leaned her head on my shoulder, her voice dropping to a near whisper, "Are you that bored of us already?"
I chuckled softly, and she smiled.
And then—
"Wesker!"
Clementine's voice rang from inside the house, sharp with urgency. Everyone's head turned toward the building.
Carley looked up at me, chuckling. "Go, she's got another drawing to show you."
I stood, sighing under my breath, and walked toward the porch. Madison and Alicia shared a glance as I passed, before shrugging.
Inside, the air was cooler. Clementine stood outside my room, fidgeting with her hands. Her eyes were worried, and a trail of sweat on her forehead.
Why is she sweating? I wondered as I inched closer, It's cold tonight
"What is it?" I asked, stepping closer.
"That thing is beeping," she said, pointing inside my room.
I quickly stepped inside.
The crude radio set-up I'd cobbled together, salvaged from the military camp, sat on the desk, blinking, letting out a soft, rhythmic beep.
I took a seat at the table in front of the desk, before picking it up, and then a familiar voice crackled through the static.
"Wesker."
—The Woods
The forest stretched on like an endless tunnel of green, shadows growing deeper with every step. The canopy overhead blocked most of the fading light, and the occasional rustle of birds or insects filled the silence. Each step felt heavier than the last. Sweat clung to their skin, soaking into the already-damp clothes.
Daryl led the group, eyes scanning ahead, crossbow lowered but loaded. Glenn followed close behind, head low, boots dragging slightly. Carol and Lori walked further back.
And Andrea trailed last, her shoulders slouched, every motion slowed by fatigue.
"How much further?" Lori finally asked, her voice rough and breathless.
Daryl didn't look back. "Not much…" he muttered, "Maybe a hundred yards as the crow flies."
Andrea scoffed behind them, brushing a loose strand of hair from her damp face. "Too bad we're not crows." Her boot caught something hard, and she stumbled. "Oh—goddamn—"
She glanced down. A thick, crooked root had snared her foot. She yanked it loose and muttered under her breath, "As the crow flies, my ass…"
Then—
She felt a cold, wet sensation on her shoulder.
Andrea's breath caught in her throat. She turned her head slightly.
A hand, with its skin ashen, the flesh rotting off of its bones, clamped down on her shoulder.
She stumbled back, her foot got snared in another root, and she fell back with a scream.
"Andrea?" Lori spun around as she heard her scream.
But Andrea was already gone from view, having tumbled down a gradual embankment.
The walker followed, tumbling after her with a sickening crunch.
She hit the bottom with a thud and rolled, gasping. Dirt coated her palms as she scrambled back, her back against the slope. Her hand trembled as she drew her pistol, but the walker was on her before she could aim.
It crashed down, knocking the gun from her grip.
Its face was inches from hers, jaw snapping, rotting teeth gnashing. She screamed, her forearms barely holding the thing back. Its breath was foul, its face rotting. Her muscles shook with strain. Her knees kicked frantically, trying to push it off, as an image of Amy flashed in her mind.
"No, no, no!"
And then—
A thunder of hooves sounded in the distance, followed by a blur of motion that slipped past her.
A wooden bat came down on the walker's skull with a sickening crack. The walker's head jerked sideways, then collapsed.
Andrea crawled back, her body trembling.
She looked up, panting, heart racing in her chest. Shane on horseback, the wooden bat in hand, blood dripping from its edge.
In front of him was another man. Holding the reins with his right arm, his left, hung on the side. Daryl and Lori were just in time to witness it, running down the slope toward them.
Shane dismounted before the dust could settle.
"Lori!" he barked, urgency raw in his voice. His eyes scanned her face. "Go with him."
"What?" She looked startled, confused, glancing between him and Andrea.
He didn't answer immediately; instead, he grabbed her by the shoulder, grounding her, "Carl's been shot," he finally said.
Lori's breath caught.
"He's alive," Shane added quickly, "But you gotta hurry, you've got to go, now!"
Her legs locked in place. "What—what do you mean shot? By whom?"
"There's not enough time for that!" he said, already pulling her toward the horse. "He'll get you to Rick."
Lori mounted the horse, half dazed, "Rick needs you." Shane muttered as Shawn flicked the reins, vanishing from the place.
The group watched her go, before turning to Andrea, "You alright?" Daryl asked.
Andrea gave a slow nod, still catching her breath. Her fingers were shaking at her sides.
—Highway
The rows of abandoned cars stretched in both directions, their rusting shells baking under the orange sky. A faint breeze stirred across the pavement, rustling the open windows and doors.
Shane stood near the front of the group, his hands on his hips, eyes distant. Dale approached.
"Shot?" Dale asked, voice tight. 'What do you mean, shot?"
Shane exhaled through his nose, nodding grimly. "Yes, Dale, shot. A man was hunting… he thought he saw a deer, when Sophia ran behind him, startling him. His finger slipped."
He said flatly, but his eyes flicked toward Carol.
Carol stood frozen for a moment, her hand on her mouth. Then her knees buckled, and she dropped into a crouch, sobbing into her hands. "She's alive?" she managed between choked gasps.
Shane bent slightly, offering a comforting hand on her shoulder, "She's safe, she's at the farm right now with Rick and Carl."
The entire group exhaled as if they'd been holding their breath since the search began. A hush fell over the group.
When Dale turned to Andrea, who stood stiffly beside Amy, their shoulders pressed together. "I heard screams," Dale said cautiously. "Was that you?"
Andrea didn't answer, her jaw clenched, and her eyes stayed locked on the faraway point.
Amy frowned, having not heard anything since she locked herself inside the car, her eyes flicked between Dale and her sister, worry creeping in. "Andrea?"
"She got attacked by a walker," Glenn said from the side, "It was a close call."
Amy's brows trembled. She knew what it felt like, the smell, the noise, all of it. "A-are you okay?"
Andrea gave a faint nod, but said nothing. Her eyes still hadn't moved.
—Greene's Farm
The golden fields swayed gently in the evening breeze. Crops glistening in the low sun like a rippling ocean of gold, bordered by a distant treeline around the farm. The porch creaked as Rick leaned on the railing, his eyes slightly sunken, but fixed on the landscape as if it were a dream or hallucination.
Rick spoke quietly. "This place is beautiful."
Hershel glanced at the land, its vastness, "Been in my family for a hundred and sixty years." He said with quiet pride.
Ric nodded slowly. "I can't believe how untouched it all looks." A short, dry laugh escaped his lips. "You're lucky.
Hershel's expression dimmed. "We weren't completely unscathed." He spoke softly. "The epidemic took our friends, neighbours. My oldest daughter, Patricia, and her husband." His voice caught briefly, but he pushed through it.
"I'm sorry," Rick said, his voice sincere.
"My other two daughters were spared. I'm grateful to God for that." Hershel spoke, his low voice, "And my son… If it weren't for Wesker…" he sighed.
"I'd have lost him, too."
Silence settled between the two.
Rick looked down, then hesitated, chewing the inside of his cheek. "What's he like? Wesker, I mean. What kind of man is he?" He finally got it out.
Hershel gave a quiet chuckle. "That's a hard question," he admitted. "I've only met him three times in the last two months. But each time, it felt like I was meeting a different person."
Rick raised a brow.
"The first time," Hershel continued, "he was quiet and a little cold. Blunt, really. But he brought a girl with him—a teenager. Saved her from a neighbourhood up the highway."
"They stayed the night, and the next morning…" Hershel's face twitched slightly. "Shawn got bit."
Rick's head snapped to him, "Bit?" his brows knitted in confusion, "But, he's okay. He's not—"
"Not sick?" Hershel finished. "No. The teeth only grazed him. It was a nick on the back of his hand. But Wesker, he knew what to do. He cut off his arm right then and there."
Rick blinked, stunned. "He just… knew?"
Hershel nodded, "He showed no hesitation in cutting Shawn's hand, as if all of that was just part of an average day. But he saved my boy's life, I'm grateful for that."
Rick's voice lowered, still in shock, that you can be saved from a bite of a walker, "Did-did he tell you, what he did… before all this?"
Hershel took a breath, as if trying to recall. "A virologist. I think," he said, his memory was slightly foggy.
Rick looked back over the field, mind racing. The puzzle pieces didn't quite fit, but they painted a clearer picture now. This Wesker, whoever he was, knew something others didn't. And he needed to see him, and ask him, of what he knew.
A few moments passed as they stood at the porch in silence, when something came into the field of view, the sound of hooves thundering in the distance.
Rick straightened, eyes scanning the path. From the edges of the land, a horse broke from the trees. Shawn sat at the front, guiding the reins, and behind him—
"Lori," Rick uttered.
He was already off the porch, walking with weak legs, before the horse even stopped.
Lori slid down from the saddle, her feet barely touching the earth before she launched herself into Rick's arms. Her fingers clenched his back with desperation and trembling.
Rick caught her tightly, his strength faltering, but he clung to her just the same.
Then Lori pushed past him, gently but firmly, her eyes already scanning the porch and the house.
Rick stepped aside and turned with her as they hurried into the farmhouse. Their steps echoed down the wooden hallway with a soft rhythmic urgency. Rick opened the door and let her in first.
Lori paused at the door, her eyes trailing Carl's limp body, the wound on his stomach patched, for now.
She inched forward, climbing onto the bed. She touched her cheek; his skin was pale, cold, and sweaty at the same time. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she nestled beside him, brushing a damp strand of hair aside.
"My baby boy," she whispered, her voice hitching. "Oh, sweetie, Mama's here. It's okay. I'm here now." Rick kneeled on the floor behind, resting his head on her shoulder. "You're gonna be okay. Mama's here, you're safe."
***
Rick sat in the chair beside Carl's bed, slumped forward, the pale tubing of the IV attached to his arm. Blood slowly trickled down into the clear bag before feeding his son's arms. Hershel crouched at his side, carefully taping a cotton ball over the needle mark in Rick's inner elbow.
By the time the white cotton had turned red.
Hershel nodded before moving to Carl. Rick tried to stand, but his knees gave. He barely rose before collapsing into the chair with a quiet grunt. His skin had gone paper white, sweat forming at his brow, and his breath came in shallow bursts.
Lori, sitting in front of him, wrapped her arms around his. "How many transfusions?" she asked, scanning his pale face.
Rick's head lolled slightly as he tried to focus. "Two. Only two…" His voice trailed off.
She nodded, brushing her hair behind her ear as she looked down at Carl again, lying still. "You know," she said, a soft smile tugging at her lips, "He wanted to do the same for you when you were in the hospital." She chuckled slightly, "I had to talk him out of it. He's so stubborn sometimes."
Rick's lips curved into a weak smile. "Thank you," he muttered.
She helped him rise, one arm around his waist as he leaned heavily on her, and together they made their way out of the room. In the hallway, Hershel offered Rick a glass of orange juice. The cup trembled slightly in Rick's hand, but he took a sip, color slowly returning to his lips.
Hershel motioned them toward the dinner table. Rick followed gingerly, still holding the half-full glass.
"Okay," Lori said, "So when she comes back with this other guy—"
"Maggie," Hershel corrected gently.
"Maggie," Lori repeated, but with a faint edge. "The idiot who caused all of this."
Shawn shifted nearby, visibly uncomfortable. "Ma'am," he said, his tone quiet but firm, "It was an accident."
Lori cut him a look. "They're doing everything they can to make it right," Rick said from the side, before things soured further.
Lori sighed, glancing toward the doorway, where Sophia now stood near the archway, hugging her arms. Her small face was pale and guilt-ridden.
Lori swallowed hard. "Alright," she said. "As soon as they get back… you can do the surgery?"
"I'll certainly do my best," Hershel nodded, folding his arms.
"Okay," Lori said, slower now. "I mean… you've done this kind of procedure before, right?"
"In a sense," Hershel said.
Lori's brow furrowed. "In a sense?"
Rick took another sip from the glass before setting it on the table. "We don't have the luxury of shopping for a surgeon, Lori."
"No, I understand that," she said, still focused on Hershel. "But, I mean, you're a doctor, right?"
"Yes, ma'am," Hershel replied. "Of course. A vet."
Lori blinked. "A vet… like a veteran? A combat medic?"
Hershel paused for a moment. "A veterinarian."
Lori's face froze. Her mouth slowly fell open, she stared at Hershel in silence, then turned her head toward Rick, eyes wide.
Rick glanced away.
"You've done this kind of surgery on what?" she asked, a touch of disbelief creeping in her voice. "Cows? Pigs?"
"I-I have to sit down," Rick muttered, his knees bluckling slightly, he grabbed a chair, pulling it behind him, before his knees finally gave in, his hand still resting on the glass, limped, pulling back at his side, knocking over the glass, sending the remaining juice splashing across the table.
Lori caught him as he nearly collapsed from the chair.
Hershel calmly reached forward, righting the cup.
Lori stared at him, her voice hollow. "You're completely in over your head, aren't you?"
Hershel met her eyes with weary honesty. "Ma'am," he said, his voice low, "aren't we all?"
****
Read +3 or +7 chapters ahead on my Pat*eon
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