Sunday, November 22, Midday.City Center.
I took the steps immediately after Alex, with Amy and Yuki pressed close behind me. George and Tim formed our silent rear guard. Every step was an act of concentration; the rotten wood groaned, and I felt like the slightest creak could be our death sentence or the trigger for an unnecessary confrontation. My heartbeat hammered against my ribcage so hard I was sure the group upstairs could hear it.
The voices grew clearer as we ascended. One of them, a raspy moan, betrayed pain, while the others murmured comfort. The naive part of me wanted to believe we were just two groups of exhausted survivors, looking for a break from the hell outside. There were no shouts of threat, no gunshots, only shared misery. I tightened my grip on the spear, but my thoughts remained locked in that uncomfortable balance: the hope of finding allies versus the certainty that any stranger is a potential enemy.
Reaching the second floor, the smell hit me: rusted iron, stale sweat, and, distinctly, fresh blood. The trail was unmistakable, a thin crimson streak that led us to the first open office. Alex moved toward the threshold, his body taut, ready for confrontation.
The office interior was a microcosm of our world: contained chaos. Five people—three men and two women—were huddled inside. My eyes went immediately to the man sprawled on the floor; his severely wounded leg was the source of the blood trail.
One of the women, working with the cold focus of a professional, was pressing a compress onto the injury, and judging by her actions, I assumed she was a nurse. The other two men were easily identifiable: a firefighter, still wearing parts of his grey and yellow uniform, and a cop, sporting the scruffy beard only two days of crisis could achieve.
The police officer saw us first. My gaze met his. There was no fear or evident malice in his eyes, but the way he immediately stiffened, covering the injured man with his body, was an instinctive response—the same one Alex had cultivated in us. He alerted the firefighter, and in an instant, everyone realized our presence.
My gaze returned to Alex. He was motionless. His eyes, however, weren't fixed solely on the cop or the nurse, but directly on the wounded leg. Then, he scrutinized the faces of everyone in the room. I saw the crude mixture of caution and a desperate glimmer of hope in his eyes. They didn't know how to fix their problem; they were stranded, likely on the brink of collapse.
My mind let out an ironic chuckle: We're all in the same trap, aren't we? Professionals, students, it doesn't matter. We're all just meat waiting for the next step.
Alex seemed to emerge from his introspection. Without a word, he took off his tactical backpack. My eyes followed his every move, watching him pull out the first-aid kit. With a deliberate motion, he tossed it to the firefighter.
The act was so simple, so devoid of emotion, that it left both groups in absolute silence. The firefighter caught the kit, and I saw his eyes widen with surprise, followed by a tangible relief. Everyone's expressions, even the tense nurse, softened at the sight of the medical supplies.
Alex's silence was worth a thousand words: We can help you, and in return, you keep quiet.
I saw the surprise on the faces of the new group; hope flashed in their eyes. They seemed enchanted by the kit, but Alex's voice, cold and emotionless, stopped them dead.
"I just hope that wound isn't a bite or a scratch from those things," Alex said. His voice was a scalpel, cutting the relief we had just felt.
I hadn't thought of that, I chastised myself. That's the difference between him and me. He sees the risk; I see the necessity.
Terror shot through me. If the injured man was infected, all of Alex's effort, our rest, our safety, would crumble.
The firefighter, who radiated calm authority, immediately shook his head.
"No, no, it was just a fall. We stumbled, and he got cut by a piece of metal. Nothing more."
Alex knelt to examine the leg. My breath hitched. He was observing the wound with the concentration of a surgeon. The cut wasn't clean, but jagged, yet the way Alex checked it, his calm touch, signaled to me that it wasn't what we feared. The blood was dark, yes, but not the viscous blackness I'd seen before; it was a deep, living red.
"It's fine," Alex muttered, almost to himself. The collective sigh of relief our group released was almost as loud as the injured man's groan.
I watched the firefighter and one of the women act with swift, precise movements. She cleaned the wound with alcohol—the injured man hissed but didn't complain—and covered it with sterile gauze. Genuine relief flooded the man's face.
"Thank you," he said weakly. "Thank you so much. We didn't know what to do."
"Don't mention it," Alex replied with a firm tone. It wasn't warmth, but pragmatism. "But after this, we leave. We can't stay here. And we can't take you with us."
His words were harsh, necessary, and yet, they hurt me. I felt a nascent connection to this group, an ephemeral brotherhood of survivors. But Alex was right. We can't afford compassion, Emily. It's a luxury that kills.
He had to be pragmatic if we wanted to survive. The rest of the new group understood. They nodded. The important thing was that the injured man was healing.
"I beg you," the firefighter said, the leader's voice cracking. "We need help. We were looking for our kids; we got separated from them last night. Please, just for a couple of hours, so the man can rest and recover... There are zombies everywhere."
Alex paused. I could see the conflict on his face, the small crack in his iron armor. Those were children. No one, not even Alex, could ignore that desperation. He looked at Tim, who nodded, understanding what Alex was thinking: the risk was worth it if we could get a couple of hours' respite.
"Only for a couple of hours," Alex said. "But if anything goes wrong, we leave. We won't stay here to die."
The group members nodded, grateful. I saw relief and debt marking their faces.
"I'm Mike, a firefighter from District 2," he introduced himself. "And this is my group: Sarah, my wife; Leo, a police officer; Clara, and Paul."
Alex nodded.
"I'm Alex… They are Tim, Emily, George, Amy, and Yuki," he introduced us, without embellishment.
The silence that followed was different. It was no longer the tension of confrontation, but the awkwardness of strangers sharing a space out of sheer necessity. I could see the curiosity, the slight wonder, on Amy's and Yuki's faces at meeting more people. But I noted the concern in Alex's expression.
More people means more responsibility.
I thought about my father and Alex's mission. Every minute lost, every new person added to the equation, made it harder for Alex to fulfill his promise to take me to Ron.
Suddenly, Alex's expression changed. Something had clicked in his mind.
"Mike, did you say you're looking for your kids? Do you know where they might be?" Alex asked, abruptly.
"They left with a group of my colleagues from District 2 and a police officer who was helping them," Mike replied, not grasping the connection.
"I think I know where they are, but... I might have bad news," Alex said, his tone tinged with something close to guilt.
In that moment, the piece clicked into place in my mind. Alex had seen the firefighter and police uniforms among the fleeing people, the group the man had sacrificed himself for. What he thought were bags of loot they were carrying must have been the children, whom we hadn't noticed because of the distance.
"What do you mean?" Mike asked, the concern erasing any trace of relief from his face.
The silence that followed Mike's question was dense, heavy, broken only by the distant echo of the walkers. I saw Mike's gaze on Alex, a raw mix of hope and distrust. Concern was etched into the firefighter's weathered face.
"Listen, Mike," Alex began, his voice low and firm. "Earlier, as we were fighting our way through the center, we saw a group fleeing a small horde. They were surrounded; it looked like they had no way out. But a guy with a gun... he stayed behind. He started shooting like crazy, drawing all the zombies toward him. He was yelling something about 'go, go now.'"
Alex took a moment to breathe, reliving the scene. I relived the scene with him: the chaos, the sacrifice.
"The rest escaped, carrying what I thought were bags of loot. From afar, that's what it looked like: people carrying stolen provisions in a panic. But now that you mention the kids and your District 2 colleagues... those uniforms I saw on some of them match yours. And they weren't bags, were they? They were children. They were carrying them to protect them."
Mike stood motionless, jaw clenched. Sarah, his wife, muffled a sob, covering her mouth with a trembling hand. Leo, the cop, frowned. Clara and Paul exchanged glances. The atmosphere had become unbreathable.
"Are you sure?" Mike finally asked, his voice hoarse. There was disbelief, a skepticism fighting against the fear. "Tell me exactly what you saw. What did they look like? How many?"
Alex rubbed his eyes, remembering. I remembered too. The sun, the stench, the zombies' relentless slowness.
"There were about eight or nine escaping in total. Some with uniforms like yours, firefighters. A police officer among them, guiding the kids. The little ones weren't screaming; they were terrified, but the adults kept them quiet. The one who sacrificed himself... was a cop, I think. Tall, short hair. He shot until the horde completely surrounded him. We saw him fall… It all happened very fast."
Sarah sobbed softly, clinging to Mike's arm. "Our children... are they safe? Did they look okay?" Her voice was fragile, desperately seeking confirmation.
"Yes, they looked unharmed," Alex confirmed. I felt a knot in my stomach. The children's survival came at a price, a man's sacrifice. Relief and guilt wrestled on Mike's face.
"That cop was my friend… probably. Jim. Always the hero," Mike nodded slowly, processing the horror. Then, urgency struck him. "Tell me where. Where exactly did you see them?"
"A couple of blocks east of here," Alex replied. "But a zombie cordon is forming there, and the sound of the gunshots must have attracted more. They're everywhere, like a slow but unstoppable tide. If you go now, you might reach them, but it's risky."
Mike and Sarah looked at each other. Then, they looked at Paul. The wounded leg was a sentence: they couldn't move.
Alex's mind worked fast. I could read the struggle in his posture: Help them or continue our path. But then he looked at me, then at Tim and the others. My face, showing the persistent desire to help, must have been the final straw.
"Those kids... we can't leave them alone," I murmured, as if reading my own thoughts. Tim, beside me, nodded silently.
Alex exhaled, the decision made.
"Mike, listen to me. I'll help you with the rescue. Just the three of us: you, me, and Leo. We are the most capable of moving fast and fighting if necessary. Tim stays here with Emily, George, Amy, and Yuki to protect everyone. And Sarah, you stay with Paul. Watch him, keep him stable until we get back."
Mike stared at him, surprise and overwhelming gratitude mingling in his expression. "Are you sure? You don't know us. That's a huge risk for strangers."
"Yes, it is," Alex admitted.
I felt the adrenaline flowing through me, my pulse quickening. Going back into the chaos was terrifying, but we couldn't stand still.
"But in this world, if we don't help each other... what do we have left?" Alex continued with a determined tone. "Besides, I can't ignore those children. Come on, let's prepare quickly. Weapons, protection, the basics. There's no time for sentimentality."
They moved with the efficiency of men who know their lives depend on preparation. Mike adjusted his firefighter's axe. Leo checked the ammunition in his pistol. Alex ensured his knife was accessible.
Sarah briefly hugged Mike, a quick goodbye kiss. "Come back with them," she whispered.
Tim approached Alex, slapping him on the shoulder. "Take care. I can't look after Emily on my own."
Alex nodded. He was leaving, and I was staying. The irony was that, in the chaos, the most dangerous and pragmatic figure was the only one offering hope.
The three descended quickly while I peered out a window. From the second-floor window, I watched Alex leave the building. Mike and Leo followed him. I was suddenly seized by a sharp pang of worry. Was Alex risking too much for strangers again because of me?
But the thought dissipated almost as soon as it arrived. Alex didn't act on impulse; he acted on calculation. He had seen the escape route in the chaos, the way to use these strangers for a greater benefit. His survival skills were our only life insurance.
I returned to the office. We were now a larger group: Tim, George, Amy, Yuki, and the three survivors from the other group: Sarah, Clara, and Paul (though injured, he was conscious). My attention focused on the reason for the men's departure: the group of people we had seen escaping hours earlier, who would now be rescued by this temporary alliance.
I took out my phone. As I turned it on, the icon in the upper corner gave me a microsecond of joy: a flickering signal. The phone network, mostly collapsed, still offered a thread of life.
I sat down and started typing a message to my father, Ron. I am safe. We are safe. We are on our way.
The phrase was simple but heavy. I omitted the mention of the wall of flesh, the devoured man, Amy's forced training. I couldn't give him that burden. My mind flooded with the lies I was writing, the brutal simplification of reality.
We had to stop due to a slight problem on the route, I typed, the word 'slight' feeling like a cruel mockery. I miss you very much. We will be together soon.
I looked up and realized everyone else was doing the same, taking advantage of the fleeting signal. I saw Tim with his head bowed, Amy with silent tears.
In that instant, I realized I had been whispering every word of my message to my parents. A wave of shame washed over me for exposing my vulnerability, my love, and my fear to strangers and to my friends.
I felt uncomfortable. There was a need to fill the silence, to justify our presence and Alex's. I forced myself to take a deep breath and decided the best thing was to tell them our story, to give them context that would serve as a weak bridge of connection.
"It's... it's so surreal," I said, trying to sound casual, but my voice was tight. "Only two days ago, we were celebrating the high school anniversary. A major event for us. Everything was perfect, as if the world would continue like this forever."
I closed my eyes, and the scene played out in my mind. The high school, full of life.
The sudden change. The arrival of the military, their empty promise of protection against the "protesters." The way they grouped us all together, ignoring complaints, unaware that by concentrating us, they were only creating an incubator for the virus.
"The military created the problem. They put us all together without knowing there were infected among us. Chaos broke out. Between seven and eight in the evening, the situation was uncontrollable. And worst of all, they abandoned us. They simply left and left hundreds of defenseless people at the mercy of... those things."
I felt the presence of Amy, George, and Yuki. Their silence confirmed the truth of every word. They were my living evidence.
"Then Alex showed up. He came at my father's request," I continued, my voice firmer when talking about Alex. "He didn't just help us get out; he came and took control. He reinforced the high school. He and Tim organized the clearing of walkers... He taught us how to survive."
The image of Alex, calm amid the panic, instructing people to use whatever they had at hand, fixed in my mind. The silent strength that had transformed the high school into a small, temporary citadel of resistance.
"He taught us to fight. To survive… Without him, without his knowledge, we would have died in that school. He gave us the tools to get here. And now...," I looked at Paul's wound and the attentive faces of Sarah and Clara. "And now, here we are."
I finished my account, feeling mentally drained. I had told my story. I had broken the ice, but the discomfort lingered, palpable, suspended between the relief of medical help and the mutual distrust.
We were two groups with two distinct pasts, but now we were united by the same hope: a blind faith in Alex's ability to forge a path through the wall of death.
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[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
First, I want to apologize for not posting in so long. I had some family issues to resolve.
I know I could have given you a heads-up, but I felt a little embarrassed since I had already told you there was a delay, and informing you about another delay was difficult.
This chapter is slow-paced because, upon rereading some of the last few chapters, I noticed I was focusing too much on Alex and neglecting Emily, when in reality this is her story.
Also, here we'll see a bit about the history of small groups like Mike's, the firefighter, and how they survived the first two days. Although this will happen in the next chapter.
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Read my other novels:
#The Walking Dead: Vision of the Future (Chapter 89)
#Vinland Kingdom: Race Against Time (Chapter 122)
#The Walking Dead: Patient 0 - Lyra File (Chapter 12) (INTERMITTENT)
You can find them on my profile.]