Daryl's scream is primal. "NO! No, no, no!"
He storms forward, grabbing the hand, then slamming it against the ground in rage.
"He cut it off! He cut off his damn hand!"
The group stands frozen.
Casey lets out a low whistle. "Man was cornered. That's survival instinct right there…"
He crouches by the dried blood trail, eyes scanning.
"Did the only reasonable thing."
He looks up at T-Dog, gaze sharp, words steady. "This… this is what happens when you're not careful."
T-Dog stares—at the hand, the saw, and then at Casey.
Casey's words cut deeper than the hacksaw ever could.
Silence settles like a stone across the rooftop.
The group feels the weight of Merle's desperation.
And T-Dog?
He feels the weight of guilt—now chained to his conscience instead of Merle.
At the Quarry Lake…
Down in the quarry's lake, Andrea and Amy fished quietly from a small canoe.
Amy shaded herself with an umbrella, bobbing gently with the water's slow movements.
"What knot did Dad teach you for this?" Amy asked, threading her line with careful fingers.
"Double uni," Andrea replied without looking up.
"He taught me clench," Amy murmured.
They sat there for a moment, the silence stretching between them, heavy with unspoken worries.
"He knew I needed to catch the fish. You needed to let 'em go," Andrea said, a small, sad smile tugging at her lips.
"Think he's still alive? Florida wasn't hit as bad..." Amy whispered, hope bleeding into her voice.
"Don't go there," Andrea said, her voice tight, almost breaking.
Amy blinked rapidly and wiped her eyes.
"You remember the rule," Andrea said gently. "No crying in the boat."
Amy sniffled, forcing a small laugh. "Scares the fish."
Back up at Camp…
Dale stood atop the RV, the sun beating down relentlessly.
He lifted his binoculars and scanned the camp, stopping when he caught sight of Jim near the tree line.
Sweat clung to Jim's clothes, the fabric darkened and heavy as he dug feverishly into the hard earth, shoveling dirt with frantic, jerky movements.
His face was tight, his eyes distant, like he was somewhere else entirely.
Dale lowered the binoculars slowly, a sinking feeling knotting in his gut.
On the rooftop…
Daryl paced like a caged animal, shooting daggers at T-Dog but holding his tongue.
Suddenly, he jerked up his crossbow, aiming it straight at T-Dog's chest.
Rick and Casey instantly stepped between them, pistols drawn, faces hard.
"Put it down, Daryl," Rick barked, steady and commanding.
"You fire that thing," Casey warned coolly, "you'll regret it."
Daryl stood there for a heartbeat, seething. Then, with a muttered curse, he dropped the crossbow to his side.
"Give me something to wrap this," he grunted.
T-Dog, tense but silent, pulled off his do-rag and tossed it to him. Daryl snatched it up, wrapping the bloody severed hand tightly before stuffing it into Glenn's bag without ceremony.
Casey's sharp eyes caught something. He pointed.
"There—blood trail," he said.
The group's attention snapped to where he indicated — a faint, dark smear leading away.
Without a word, they followed it, weapons ready, the trail pulling them deeper inside.
Inside the building…
Daryl shot another walker and looked to see an already dead one. "Merle took it out two one-handed."
Casey nodded silently, looking around the office. The trail ended in a kitchen. They saw a scorched steak weight, scorched flesh stuck to it. Blowtorch still warm.
Rick muttered, "He cauterized the stump."
Casey added, "He's long gone."
Rick said, "We'll find him. But we get those guns first."
Glenn approached a whiteboard and drew on it laying out the plan.
"Here's the plan—Casey and Daryl cover me from the alley. Rick and T-Dog flank two blocks over," he said.
They made their way to the positions assigned to them.
In the city alley, Glenn and Daryl climb down the fire escape. Glenn drops silently to the pavement below, eyes scanning the street, while Daryl stays on the ladder, crossbow ready.
Glenn moves fast, weaving between burned-out cars and scattered debris toward the tank. Walkers begin to stir, groaning and shambling to their feet. He doesn't hesitate. Grabs the bag. Grabs Rick's hat. And sprints back.
In the alley...
Daryl heard a rustle behind him. Thinking it was just Casey, he didn't even glance back.
Click.
The unmistakable snap of a hammer cocking.
Daryl froze, muscles tightening. For a heartbeat, he thought the gun was aimed at him.
Then Casey stepped from the shadows, Colt Python raised, the barrel locked steady on the forehead of a young man—barely older than Glenn—creeping up behind Daryl.
"Who might you be?" Casey asked, his voice cold and cutting like steel.
Daryl whirled, crossbow snapping up in a blink, trained right between the kid's eyes.
The teen panicked, raising his hands high.
"¡Ayúdame! ¡Ayúdame!"
(Help me! Help me!)
"Ssshhh! Está bien," Casey snapped in flawless Mexican Spanish, his finger tightening slightly on the trigger.
(It's okay.)
"Lo haré rápido e indoloro."
(I'll make it quick and painless.)
The teen stared at him, wide-eyed, terror written across his face.
Before Casey could make another move, Daryl stepped in—fast and hard.
CRACK
A brutal punch nearly knocked the kid out cold, blood gushing from his nose.
"I had that," Casey muttered, shooting Daryl a pissed glance.
Daryl scoffed, slinging his crossbow back up. "We need actions, not words."
Before Casey can retort, two armed men lunge from the alley entrance shouting curses and see Daryl and Casey—holding their man at gunpoint. They're about to rush at them when Glenn, just arrives, and sees the men but is too late to get away.
The men turn and instead shift their focus on Glenn.
They grab him and start to beat him mercilessly as he shouts for help, they somehow forget the other two at the other end.
Casey hears Glenn's cry—a ragged thread through the chaos—and his eyes narrow like a storm on the edge of breaking. The world spills into gold, a hush falling over ruin,
where birds sing like echoes of a time long gone. Water murmurs in the distance, time stretches thin, like pulled silk in morning light. He lifts the Python with reverence, not rage, and with breath held still—one shot, then another—he parts the silence with thunder.
One man screams, a bullet lodged in his thigh. The other crumples, arm bleeding.
Daryl fires a bolt, striking one in the rear. "That's for Glenn, asshole."
The two men stagger back, limping and swearing, trying to fight off incoming walkers. They retreat, disappearing into a waiting car and peeling off into the street.
Casey helps Glenn up who—looks like shit—and hoists the bag of guns.
Daryl slams the alley gate shut, trapping a few walkers outside as they claw at the bars.
Rick and T-Dog arrive seconds later, guns already drawn.
Casey speaks up immediately, eyes still on the teen. "Some punks tried to jump us. Take the guns, maybe kill Glenn."
"But not today," Daryl adds darkly.
Rick looks at the bloodied teen, now trembling. "He's coming with us."
Bag secured. Guns recovered. Teen in custody. They vanish back up the ladder as the groans of the undead echo below.
Back inside the abandoned office building…
They learn the teen's name is Miguel. Rick paces in front of him, eyes hard and voice low as he demands answers.
Rick says, "Start talking. Why'd you ambush us?"
Miguel doesn't answer and just stares, probably still dazed from Daryl's punch, Casey didn't know.
T-Dog frowns from the side. "Man, we came here to get some guns and save a guy. What the hell did we do to deserve this?"
Glenn sits in the corner, bruised and shaken from the beating he took. He avoids eye contact, clutching his ribs. Daryl stands close, still seething with rage. He glares at Miguel, then reaches into his bag.
Daryl throws something at Miguel's lap. It hits with a wet thump. Miguel looks down and recoils—it's Merle's severed hand.
Daryl snarls, "That's what happened to the last guy who crossed us."
Without another word, Daryl lunges, fists pounding into Miguel's chest and jaw. Miguel screams, trying to shield himself as Casey sighs in the background. Rick grabs Daryl and yanks him off.
Rick shouts, "Enough! We need him talking, not bleeding out."
Miguel gasps, blood trickling from his nose. "Please, I can take you to him. My boss—Vatos. He runs the place."
Rick nods slowly. "Then you're taking us there. Now."
Foreman's Office…
Miguel led Rick and Daryl through the maze of crumbling industrial ruins to an old, battered factory. Rusted doors creaked open, and figures stepped out—hard-eyed, weapons drawn.
One man in particular moved to the front, arms crossed, wearing a permanent scowl. A leader. Vatos.
Rick kept his stance calm but firm.
"We're not here to start trouble," he said. "We just want to know why you ambushed us. We'll trade Miguel for some answers."
The leader's gaze flicked to the bag of guns strapped across Rick's back. His eyes narrowed with interest.
"You've got something else we want," he said coolly.
Above, on a rooftop, T-Dog took position with a scoped rifle, the barrel trained steadily on the leader's head. Casey stood nearby, Mk 18 Mod 0 raised, stone-faced and unmoving.
The Vatos leader tilted his chin up, voice low and challenging.
"You walk in here strapped like that... and think you ain't gonna leave a few souvenirs?"
Rick's jaw tightened, his whole body coiled with tension.
"These guns don't leave my back," he said, voice like iron.
The standoff thickened. Weapons lifted. Eyes narrowed.
"Then leave," the Vatos leader said, turning his back without another word.
Miguel stammered in panic, "Wait! Boss—what about me?"
The leader didn't even glance back.
Cold silence was the only answer as he stalked into the dark factory.
Foreman's Office…
Rick and the crew fell back into a nearby office, the air heavy with tension.
Daryl paced like a caged animal, spitting, "Screw this. The guns are worth more than some punk's story."
Rick rounded on him, snapping, "It's not just about the guns. We need to know what they're hiding. Why they attacked. If there's more of them out there."
He scrubbed a hand down his face, voice low but sharp. "This could go sideways real fast. I'll go back in alone."
T-Dog shook his head immediately. "Hell no. You ain't walking back in there by yourself. No way."
Casey's voice was steady, firm. "We're not letting you die for this, man. You got family waiting back at camp."
Rick's eyes swept over them—he gave a short nod, jaw tight. "Alright. We do it together."
Inside the Factory…
Rick reentered the crumbling building, the others tight behind him, Miguel stumbling forward after Rick sliced his zip tie.
"Let's finish this," Rick said, voice like stone.
Vatos stood waiting, arms crossed, a smug smirk pulling at his mouth.
"Didn't think you had the guts," he sneered.
Rick didn't flinch. "I've got plenty. And a hell of a lot more firepower. Now talk. Leave us the hell alone."
Vatos jerked his chin toward the deeper shadows behind him. "We could chop you up and feed you to my dogs."
In an instant, guns were up. Casey flipped his safety off with a click, Daryl's crossbow snapped into a ready position, T-Dog braced to fire.
Daryl snarled low in his throat, "Try it."
Rick stepped forward, jaw clenched tight.
"You want a fight," he growled, "you've got one."
Tension crackled in the heavy, humid air—then—
From the shadows, an old woman shuffled into view, wearing a faded nightgown, thin arms trembling as she clutched a bag of IV fluid against her chest.
Her voice, frail but firm, broke the standoff.
"Felipe, mijo! Come help Mr. Gilbert!"
The tough facade on Vatos' face faltered.
"Felipe," he muttered sharply, "get your Abuela outta here."
Casey barked quickly, shifting to fluent Spanish:
"¡Saquen a esa anciana de la línea de fuego!"
(Get that old woman out of the line of fire!)
But the old woman—Abuela—saw Rick's uniform and moved closer, ignoring the drawn weapons.
"Please," she whispered, grabbing Rick's hand with surprising strength. "Don't take him. Felipe helps us. We need him. Don't kill my grandson."
Rick blinked, stunned, as the reality behind the guns started to shift.
He softened, voice lowering. "We're not here to hurt anyone. We're just trying to understand."
Abuela tugged at his sleeve insistently, her eyes wide with desperate honesty.
"Come. I'll show you."
Nursing Home Auditorium…
They learn the Vatos' leader's real name—Guillermo—as the old woman leads Rick and the others into a wide room filled with elderly people sprawled across cots and worn-out couches. Felipe knelt beside an asthmatic man, gently helping him with an inhaler.
From the corner, three tiny chihuahuas yapped furiously—Guillermo's so-called "vicious" dogs.
Casey smirked.
"That's what had us all tense?"
He shook his head and strolled off as Rick stood frozen, taking it all in.
Guillermo pulled Rick aside.
"When the staff ran, it was just me and Felipe," he said quietly. "Then people started showing up. Grandkids, sons, daughters. They needed help."
Rick's jaw tightened.
"I nearly killed all of you."
Guillermo gave a grim chuckle.
"I nearly killed you too. Guess that makes us even."
While they talked, Casey drifted away, crossing the courtyard into a crumbling building. Inside, the air was heavy with dust, but one object stood out—a long wooden box, much newer than the decaying surroundings.
He pried it open.
Inside lay a sword—a 100 cm Tsurugi, perfectly straight, double-edged, with a black blade and a dark, blue-wrapped hilt.
Ancient. Elegant. Deadly.
Casey lifted it, feeling the weight, slicing the air with a few practiced motions.
Satisfied, he sheathed the sword and slung it over his back, the hilt resting neatly over his shoulder.
Without a word, he returned to the others, his new weapon unnoticed.
Back inside…
Rick made his call. He pulled a small share of the guns from the bag and offered them to Guillermo.
"You'll need them more than we will," Rick said.
Guillermo nodded, and they shook hands—a mutual respect passing silently between them.
The group hustled back to the van. It was exactly as they'd left it—untouched.
They piled in, doors slamming shut, the engine roaring to life.
Tires screeched across the cracked pavement as they sped away, hearts lighter but eyes still scanning the horizon.
Quarry Camp…Here's your scene rewritten with even more detail, emotion, and grit, while keeping exactly what you asked:
The gang returns in time to help.20 people still die.The camp is shaken but not completely wiped out.
Here's the full, expanded version:
The smell of fish filled the air, thick and oily, clinging to everything.
Over the crackle of the fire, Morales grinned proudly, showing off an improved campfire setup, stones arranged perfectly to hold the heat.
Nearby, Carl walked with Shane, a little bounce in his step. Shane, forcing a smile, finished untying Jim from the tree.
"Join us," Shane said, clapping Jim lightly on the back. "Everyone's welcome."
Jim just nodded, eyes low, distant.
Something about him still made Shane's skin crawl, so he excused himself, muttering about the heat, and climbed into the RV to cool off.
Inside one of the tents, Ed sat hunched with a swollen, bruised face. His one good eye glared up at Carol as she ducked inside, holding a battered plate of cooked fish.
"Come eat," she said softly, not meeting his gaze.
When Sophia peered around her mother's legs, Ed's hand shot out, gripping the girl's wrist tight enough to make her whimper.
"She stays," Ed muttered, voice low and bitter.
Carol's face tightened. She pulled Sophia back sharply.
"She's going," she said, voice trembling but firm. "I said so."
Ed cursed after them, but Carol didn't look back as she led Sophia toward the fire.
Around the fire, the survivors gathered, the crackling flames casting flickering shadows across tired faces.
For the first time in days, there was laughter—thin, cautious, but real.
"Feels like a Friday night again, huh?" Morales said, flipping a piece of fish with a flat stone.
Jacqui pointed toward Dale, perched atop the RV, meticulously winding his old wristwatch.
"You still doing that?" she teased.
Dale nodded sagely. "Time keeps us human."
Amy giggled. "You and that watch. World'sThe world's gone and you're still counting minutes."
Dale smiled faintly, then his voice grew softer, almost ceremonial, as he recited:
"A father passes his watch over to his son and says, '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.'"
The fire popped and hissed.
The group fell silent, words sinking deep.
Amy stood up, brushing her hands on her jeans.
"Be right back!" she called brightly. "Gotta grab something."
She disappeared into the RV. Inside, she found Shane sitting stiffly near the back, a shotgun across his lap.
"Hey," she said, rummaging through the shelves. After a minute, she grumbled, "Seriously? No toilet paper? Come on."
Shane chuckled dryly, eyes still scanning the camp through the window.
Amy turned to step back out—and a shadow moved.
A walker lunged from behind the door, grimy hands seizing her arm. Yellowed teeth snapped inches from her face.
Amy screamed, jerking back.
A crack rang out—glass shattered—
Shane had fired through the RV window without hesitation.
The walker's skull exploded in a spray of black gore, dropping it instantly.
Amy bolted back inside, heart pounding, slamming into Shane's chest.
He caught her tightly.
"Walkers! Get to the RV!" Shane shouted at the top of his lungs, voice cutting through the night like a knife.
Out at the fire, everyone froze.
From the darkness of the tree line—walkers stumbled out, dozens of them.
Low snarls filled the air.
Dead faces twisted in hunger.
Panic erupted.
Ed, inside his tent, heard the commotion. He stomped toward the flap, fuming.
"Damn it, who's making all this—"
He yanked the zipper down—
—and a walker lunged straight into him.
Before he could even scream, rotting teeth tore into his throat.
Ed's eyes bulged as he gurgled, blood spraying the canvas.
Around the camp, survivors screamed.
Walkers crashed through tents, grabbing, biting, dragging people down.
Andrea spun around at Amy's scream, heart stopping when she saw a walker tackle her sister—but before it could bite, a second shot from Shane dropped it cold.
Andrea didn't hesitate. She sprinted toward the RV, slamming into the door, hauling Amy inside.
Across the camp, Shane spotted Lori and Carl.
He pumped the shotgun once, barking: "Lori! Carl! Get to the RV! Now!"
Lori didn't think—she scooped Carl into her arms and ran.
Meanwhile, Jim and Morales swung bats, beating back walkers with wild desperation.
Glenn wrestled one to the ground, driving a broken chair leg through its skull.
And then—
SCREECH
The van barreled into the camp, headlights slashing through the dark.
Rick, Casey, Glenn, Daryl, and T-Dog poured out, weapons blazing.
Casey moved like a specter, Mk 18 Mod 0 raised.
TAP-TAP-TAP
Three walkers dropped before they even knew he was there.
Rick fired his revolver in quick, practiced shots, picking off walkers near the survivors.
Daryl loosed bolts from his crossbow with deadly precision.
T-Dog swung a crowbar, smashing skulls, pulling terrified survivors toward the RV.
Andrea huddled inside, clutching Amy, whispering nonsense words, anything to keep her calm.
Casey slashed through a walker trying to claw into a tent, yanking a dazed woman free.
For every walker they dropped, another one seemed to shamble out of the trees.
Bodies littered the dirt—camp members torn apart mid-scream, their eyes wide with terror.
Despite Rick's team fighting like hell, they were too late for many.
By the time the last walker collapsed with a wet thud onto the blood-soaked ground,
twenty survivors were dead.
Friends. Neighbors. Good people.
Silence fell, broken only by the low moans of the injured and the crackle of the dying fire.
Carl clung to Rick's leg, sobbing. Lori dropped to her knees, cradling him.
Morales stared blankly at the ground, blood staining his hands.
Casey walked through the carnage, sword sheathed, scanning the camp.
He counted heads.
Twenty survivors left, battered, bloodied, dazed.
Another twenty lay dead.
The survivors were alive—but changed forever.
Jim stood nearby, pale as ash. His hands shook.
"I remember now," he said in a hollow whisper.
Everyone turned to look.
"Why I dug those holes," Jim murmured, tears streaming down his face. "I dug the graves for them."
Ed, inside his tent, grumbled as the distant shouts grew louder, slicing through the stillness of the night.
Face swollen from Shane's earlier beating, he scowled, nursing his wounded pride more than his injuries.
"Damn it, who's making all this—" he growled, stumbling toward the tent's zipper with a clumsy hand.
He yanked it down in one rough pull—
—and death met him on the other side.
A walker, its jaw stripped of flesh, its eyes clouded and ravenous, slammed into him with feral force.
Before Ed could even draw breath to scream, rotted teeth sank deep into his throat.
A sickening, wet crunch echoed as blood erupted from the wound, spraying the inside of the tent in thick, dark bursts.
Ed's eyes widened in shock, bulging, as he gurgled helplessly—his hands clawing weakly at the snapping maw latched onto him.
Within seconds, he crumpled to the ground, a twitching heap.
Outside, chaos ignited like wildfire.
Survivors' screams tore through the camp, mingling with the guttural snarls of the dead.
Walkers crashed through tents, shredding thin canvas walls with clawed fingers.
They dragged people from their sleeping bags, feasting on them before they could even cry out.
Blood painted the dirt in long, dark streaks as panic spread.
Near the firepit, Andrea spun at the sound of her sister's scream—pure, raw terror.
Her heart lurched into her throat as she saw a walker tackle Amy, slamming her hard into the ground.
"Amy!" Andrea shrieked, surging forward—
—but a deafening crack split the air.
A second shot from Shane's pistol smashed into the walker's skull, pitching it backward in a fountain of rotten gore.
Without missing a beat, Andrea sprinted for Amy, grabbing her under the arms and hauling her up.
They stumbled back toward the RV, Andrea slamming her shoulder into the door to force it open, dragging Amy inside just as more walkers surged toward them.
Across the camp, Shane's sharp eyes locked onto Lori and Carl, frozen near a collapsed tent.
He pumped the shotgun once—cha-chunk—and barked over the chaos, "Lori! Carl! Get to the RV! Now!"
Lori didn't hesitate. She scooped Carl into her arms, holding him tight against her chest, and ran full tilt for safety.
Jim and Morales fought like cornered animals, swinging bats and sticks, beating walkers back with sheer desperation.
Morales caught one clean across the jaw, bone splintering under the blow, while Jim frantically bashed another's head until the bat snapped in half.
Dale wrestled a walker to the ground, teeth gnashing inches from his face, before plunging a broken chair leg through its skull with a sickening crunch.
And then—
SCREECH
The van tore into the camp, headlights slicing through smoke and darkness, the engine roaring like a beast.
The doors flung open, and Rick, Casey, Glenn, Daryl, and T-Dog poured out—every one of them a weapon of war.
Casey moved like a wraith through the carnage, his Mk 18 Mod 0 rifle raised.
TAP-TAP-TAP
Precise bursts—three walkers dropped mid-step, their bodies crumpling into the dirt without even a scream.
Rick fired his revolver with cold precision, each shot a death sentence. He moved methodically, clearing a path to the survivors.
Daryl, stone-faced, loosed bolt after bolt from his crossbow, reloading with inhuman speed.
Each bolt buried itself deep, dropping walkers with brutal efficiency.
T-Dog swung a crowbar in wide, desperate arcs, caving in skulls and yanking terrified survivors toward the RV.
Inside the RV…
Andrea huddled around Amy, who shook violently, tears streaming down her dirt-smeared face. Andrea murmured soft, desperate words—anything, anything to keep her grounded.
Outside…
Casey spotted a walker clawing its way into a collapsed tent.
Without hesitation, he slashed downward with a cold fury, severing its head in a single strike, then hauled a dazed, blood-smeared woman out from the ruins.
Yet no matter how many they killed, more kept coming—staggering from the woods in droves, drawn by the smell of blood and death.
For every walker they dropped, it seemed another took its place.
The camp was no longer a home—it was a slaughterhouse.
Bodies littered the dirt, twisted in grotesque angles, some frozen mid-scream.
Campfires guttered low, casting long, warped shadows that danced mockingly over the dead.
Despite Rick's group fighting like hell—despite every bullet, every bolt, every ounce of strength they poured into saving their own—they were too late for many.
The last walker finally collapsed, a wet, broken thud against the churned-up earth.
And then—
silence.
Only the crackle of dying fires and the low, pitiful moans of the wounded remained.
Rick lowered his revolver slowly, scanning the devastation.
His heart clenched at what he saw.
Carl ran from Lori and clung to Rick's leg, sobbing so hard he could barely breathe.
Rick sank to one knee, pulling his son into a fierce embrace, shielding him with his body.
Lori came slowly and fell beside them, wrapping her arms around both of them, her face streaked with tears and soot.
Morales staggered numbly through the wreckage, hands coated in blood—his own or someone else's, he didn't know.
He stared at them like he had never seen his own fingers before.
Casey walked among the carnage, sword now sheathed across his back, eyes sharp and unflinching.
He moved like a silent sentinel, counting survivors with grim precision.
Twenty-nine left standing.
Bloodied. Bruised. Hollow-eyed.
And another twenty lying cold and broken on the ground—beyond saving.
The survivors were alive—but they were no longer the same people they had been when the sun had set.
Jim stood apart from the others, trembling.
The moonlight caught the deep lines of fear and exhaustion etched across his face.
His hands—once steady and sure—shook violently at his sides.
He stumbled backwards towards the group, alert like a man caught in a waking nightmare.
When he finally spoke, his voice was barely more than a dry whisper,
"I remember now..."
The words seemed to drift across the camp, ghostly and frail.
The others turned to look—too weary, too broken to speak.
"Why I dug those holes..." he choked out, his voice cracking under the weight of it.
"I dug the graves for them. I—I didn't know why, but... but I felt it. I saw it coming."
The group simply stood there in silence, frozen by the enormity of what had just happened.
Each walker that had breached their home had been put down for good—headshots, every one—at least that what they hoped.
But even with the threat ended, the camp felt no victory.
Because the living... the living would never truly stand straight again.
Something inside them had been shattered, something invisible yet deeply real.
The ones who survived stood hunched beneath a weight no bullet could lift.
Not fear, not even grief—but a heavy knowing.
That safety was a lie.
That tomorrow could rip everything away without warning.
That the people laughing beside them today could be corpses before the next sunrise.
It showed in their eyes—the dazed stares, the hollow blinking. It showed in their steps—slow, hesitant, as if the ground might break beneath them. Even the air itself seemed heavier, pressing down on their shoulders, folding them in half with sorrow they hadn't yet found the strength to name.
They would keep walking. They would keep fighting. But none of them—not Lori clutching Carl, not Shane gripping his shotgun with trembling hands, not Morales staring at blood smeared across his palms—none of them would ever stand quite tall again.
Above them, the stars watched silently, cold and uncaring.
Tomorrow, they would bury their dead.
Tonight, they simply endured the silence—and survived.
Later…
The smoke of spent gunpowder clings to the evening air. The camp is littered with walker corpses—limbs twisted, heads shattered, blood soaking into the dirt. A grim silence falls, broken only by the sobs of the living.
Casey stands at the edge of the firelight, the Tsurugi resting across his back, its sheath smudged with blood. His Mk 18 hangs at his side. He doesn't speak. His face is calm, but his eyes are distant.
He turns away from the others and walks slowly toward the tree line, breathing heavily. Every step crunches gravel and ash.
Forest Edge…
Casey sits on a fallen log, elbows on his knees, watching the stars slowly appear overhead. The sounds of mourning echo faintly behind him. His mind races, but outwardly, he's still—like the calm eye of a hurricane.
He speaks under his breath, "A fish fry. That's all it was supposed to be. Just a damn fish fry."
He pulls out a cloth and begins cleaning the Tsurugi's blade with slow, deliberate strokes.
Casey: "This world... it keeps asking who you're willing to become just to keep breathing."
He finishes wiping the blade and stares at it, "But if I gotta become something else to protect people... maybe I already have."
A twig snaps nearby.
Rick steps into view, his hat in his hands, "Thought I might find you here."
Casey doesn't turn.
Rick sighs, "You did good back there. You saved lives."
Casey still doesn't look up, "Yeah? Still didn't save everyone."
Rick walks closer, nodding, "No. We didn't. But we would've lost more if you hadn't been there."
Casey finally looked up at him, eyes shadowed, "You think this is how it's always gonna be? Blood, fire, guilt?"
Rick talks softly "I don't know. But I know we can't lose ourselves in it. We've still got a job to do. People counting on us."
Casey nods slowly, then stands, "Then let's make sure the next ones don't die screaming."