The road back toward the cracked highway was slow, cautious. Arthur kept his pace easy, letting the three strangers flank him. No one holstered their weapons entirely, but the barrels were no longer aimed at his chest, and that was progress enough.
The bearded man finally broke the silence. "Name's Clayton." He jerked a thumb toward the woman on Arthur's right. "That's Maeve. And the kid's Rory."
Arthur gave a small nod. "Arthur Morgan."
Rory's brows lifted. "Arthur? Like… old-timey Arthur?"
Arthur smirked faintly. "Guess so."
They traded scraps of their stories as they walked. Clayton's group had been drifting for months, working their way between ruined towns, scavenging what they could. Maeve had once been a nurse—back before "patient care" meant stitching bullet holes in the dirt with half-sterile thread. Rory? Barely twenty, born after the outbreak. The world before meant nothing to him.
Arthur told them just enough—how he'd been living up north, holed up with a small community, and was now headed south. He didn't tell them how far back his "before" went.
The conversation was… almost normal. At least until it wasn't.
Arthur felt it first — not sound, not movement, but the prickling weight of eyes on his back. His hand rested on the grip of his revolver without thinking.
Clayton stopped mid-sentence. "…you feel that?"
They all turned.
Shapes shifted in the treeline. Fungal growths mottled their faces, limbs jerking in that unnatural way. Infected. At least seven of them.
Maeve's breath caught. "Shit—"
But they didn't rush.
Didn't scream.
Didn't even close the distance.
They just stood there, swaying slightly, heads tilting in small, twitching motions. Watching.
It was wrong. Infected didn't stalk. They attacked, they fed, they tore apart anything breathing.
Arthur's eyes narrowed beneath the brim of his hat. "What in the hell are y'all waitin' for…?" he muttered under his breath.
Rory's knuckles whitened on his rifle. "This ain't normal."
Still, no movement. Just that eerie, unblinking attention, like they were waiting for a cue that never came.
Finally, one turned, lurching back into the shadows, and the others followed—melting away without a sound.
Silence pressed in heavy over the forest road.
Arthur holstered his revolver, but his jaw stayed tight. Something had kept them from attacking. And that something was still out here.
Rory's hand tightened around his rifle. "We're not alone."
Arthur's tone dropped low. "You're right. We ain't."
The woods were quiet—too quiet. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. But somewhere in that stillness… there was movement. Soft, deliberate. Not one thing. Many.
Maeve's voice was barely a whisper. "Whatever it is… it's not just passing through."
Arthur's fingers rested on the worn grip of his Cattleman revolver, his eyes never leaving the shadows between the trees. "They've seen us. Question is… are they waitin' to move, or just lettin' us stew?"
Clayton swallowed hard. "And which one's worse?"
Arthur didn't answer. He already knew.
Arthur watched the last of the infected vanish into the tree line, the quiet settling back over the road like nothing had happened. But the silence felt… heavy.
He slowly unslung the bolt-action from his back, the familiar weight grounding him. A twist of the lever, a glance at the chamber — loaded and ready.
From his satchel, he fished out the machete Joel had given him, its steel edge dulled but sturdy. He strapped it onto his belt on his off-hand side, where the Cattleman's holster sat snug against his hip.
Maeve tilted her head. "You expecting them to come back?"
Arthur's eyes stayed on the treeline. "No. Not them. Somethin' else."
That earned him three confused stares.
He finally turned toward them. "Few days back, I had a run-in with a pack. Nothin' unusual — 'cept they didn't come at me, neither. Just stood there… starin'. Felt like somethin' was pullin' their strings."
Clayton frowned. "You're saying infected can… what, take orders?"
Arthur shook his head. "Ain't sayin' they can. Sayin' somethin' else might be makin' 'em. Where I'm from, you see a predator just watchin' you instead o' pouncin'? Means it's waitin' for the right moment… or somethin' bigger's tellin' it when to bite."
Rory shifted uneasily, glancing toward the forest. "So you think…"
Arthur cut him off. "I think we're bein' watched. Not by them poor bastards with the fungus in their heads. By whatever made 'em act that way."
The air seemed colder now, the forest thicker.
No one spoke for a long moment. Somewhere far off, a crow cawed, sharp and lonely.
Arthur chambered a round with a slow, deliberate click. "Best we keep movin'. And best we don't stick to the road."
The wind shifted — carrying with it a deep, rolling sound that rattled the bones.Not a howl. Not a scream. A roar.
It rumbled through the trees, low and guttural, like thunder trying to crawl out of the earth. Arthur froze mid-step, his hand tightening around the rifle stock. The others looked to the treeline, eyes darting.
Then came the thump… thump… thump — heavy, deliberate. Each step made the ground tremble beneath their feet. Pebbles skittered across the cracked asphalt.
Maeve's whisper trembled. "What the hell is that?"
Before anyone could answer, the forest erupted in motion. Birds burst from the canopy, black shapes scattering into the grey sky. The thumping grew faster. Louder.
Arthur's voice was steady, but urgent. "We're leavin'."
The three didn't argue. Their car sat a short sprint away, half-hidden by the bend in the road. They broke for it. Arthur swung into the saddle in one smooth motion, his horse jerking forward in a hard gallop.
The noise behind them swelled — not one set of footsteps now, but many.
And then it came into view.
First — the swarm. Fifty, maybe sixty infected, exploding from the undergrowth in a frenzied wave. Behind them, the trees snapped apart.
Something massive was forcing its way through.
It wasn't moving fast — it was pushing. Shoving aside trees, sending splinters and leaves flying. When it stepped into the open, the sunlight hit it, and Arthur saw…
A bloater.
But not the kind whispered about in Jackson over campfires. This one was huge — at least twice the size of a normal one. Its entire body was plated in thick, bark-like fungal armor, dark and cracked in places, with glowing orange veins pulsing underneath. Its head was a grotesque crown of cordyceps, its mouth buried somewhere deep under layers of fungus.
It let out a roar that made Arthur's teeth ache.
The three froze, staring.
Arthur muttered under his breath, "That ain't normal…"
The bloater reached down, wrapped its massive hands around a pine trunk, and tore it in half, tossing it aside like firewood. The horde shrieked and scattered around its feet as it pushed forward, crushing smaller infected without pause.
"Bloater…?" Rory's voice cracked. "That's a bloater?!"
Arthur didn't take his eyes off it. "Drive, damn it!"
The car's engine roared to life. Arthur kicked his horse into a sprint alongside them. The horde surged forward, and the massive bloater followed — every step sending tremors up through the ground as it began its hunt.
The engine's growl and the pounding of hooves became one desperate rhythm.Arthur rode low in the saddle, his coat snapping in the wind. Beside him, the car's tires squealed as it picked up speed on the cracked highway.
Behind them came chaos.
The smaller infected — sprinters, their limbs twisted and jerking — didn't weave, didn't think, didn't slow. They vaulted over rotting logs, slammed shoulder-first into rusted guardrails, leapt over broken concrete slabs. Every one of them screamed like something burning alive.
Arthur twisted in the saddle, sliding the bolt-action from his back.
Click—clack. The bolt slid home. He drew a bead on the closest sprinter — a gaunt man-shaped blur, frothing at the mouth. The rifle cracked, the infected's head snapping back as its body crumpled mid-run.
Arthur didn't pause. The rifle barked again, dropping another sprinting thing that was seconds from leaping onto the car's trunk.
"Keep goin'!" Arthur shouted over the roar of the engine and the pounding of his horse's hooves. "Don't you slow down!"
The bloater was still coming.
It ignored the wrecked sedan it plowed into, the metal screeching as it simply shoved the car sideways off the road. A fallen utility pole cracked like a matchstick under its arm. Nothing slowed it — every step closing the distance.
Arthur's next shot punched into its fungal plating. A chunk of hardened growth exploded away — but the damn thing didn't even flinch.
Maeve's voice shouted from the car, "It's not stopping!"
"I can see that!" Arthur grunted, chambering another round. He dropped another sprinter before it could catch his horse's hind legs.
The road ahead was mercifully clear — a stretch of asphalt broken here and there by weeds and potholes, but no wall of rusted wrecks to box them in. Arthur knew if there had been… it'd be over already.
The horde behind them was faster than he liked. The sprinters were using the slower, shambling infected as springboards — launching themselves forward, slamming down onto the pavement with unnatural speed.
Arthur worked the bolt like a machine, his rhythm never breaking — aim, fire, eject, reload. Each shot a surgical choice. He wasn't wasting rounds on the entire mob — just the ones fast enough to catch them.
Another one lunged for his horse's flank. The rifle cracked, and it hit the asphalt face-first, sliding.
The car fishtailed around a pothole, nearly clipping Arthur. He pulled alongside the driver's side window.
"Head for the bridge!" Arthur barked.
"There's no way it's gonna hold that thing!" Rory yelled from the passenger seat.
"That's the point!" Arthur snapped, racking another round and taking a shot at the bloater. The bullet sank into one of its glowing orange patches. This time, it did react — letting out a roar that seemed to shake the snow from the trees.
The sound made even the horde falter for a split second. But the giant didn't slow.
It barreled forward, kicking a smaller infected out of its way so hard the corpse shattered against a roadside sign.
Arthur's horse snorted and fought the bit, terrified, but he kept it steady. The group sped on — horse and car in sync — with the nightmare behind them swallowing the road in its pursuit.
Arthur dug one hand into his satchel without even looking. His fingers brushed glass — the coarse wrapping of a Molotov's neck.
Well… if there's ever a time to raise hell…
He yanked it out, stuffed a rag tighter into the bottle's mouth, and struck a match against the rough leather of his belt. Flame caught.
With a twist in the saddle, Arthur hurled it straight into the teeth of the horde. The bottle shattered across the chest of a charging sprinter, who went up like dry tinder. The flames leapt to two more infected that slammed into it, turning their frenzy into a screaming, thrashing knot of fire in the middle of the road.
It didn't slow the others — but it bought seconds.
Arthur was already digging for the next one.
Clayton glanced in the side mirror, his eyes widening. "Where the hell are you keeping all that?"
Arthur lit another Molotov with the same match, tossed it, then spat the spent match into the wind. "Don't you worry 'bout my pockets, boy. Just keep that damn wheel straight."
Rory, braced half-out the back window, was snapping off shotgun blasts. Each boom kicked a hole in the pursuing tide, but it was like bailing water with a thimble. "There's too many!" he shouted over the noise.
Arthur's hand found something heavier — the cool, solid shape of dynamite. His thumb worked the fuse cord as he grabbed another match.
The bloater was closer now, its massive strides eating the distance. Fungal armor glistened in the weak sunlight, pockmarked from Arthur's earlier shots but still unbroken.
He lit the dynamite. The fuse hissed to life. Arthur counted in his head — one… two… three — and then lobbed it high, right into the thickest knot of infected at the bloater's feet.
The explosion tore the air apart.
A fireball blossomed in the road, hurling twisted bodies in every direction. Limbs smacked the pavement and rolled like sticks. The bloater itself was knocked a half-step sideways, letting out a bellow so deep Arthur felt it in his ribs.
But it didn't stop.
Arthur's satchel felt heavier again, like the damn thing was refilling itself every time he reached inside. He didn't question it now. Whatever force had dropped him into this strange new hell — maybe it figured he'd need plenty of ammunition.
Clayton's knuckles were white on the wheel as he swerved around debris from the blast. "If you got more of that magic bag trick, now's the time!"
Arthur was already lighting another stick of dynamite. "We ain't done yet."
Rory pumped his shotgun, fired again, and gave a breathless laugh. "You're insane, cowboy!"
Arthur grinned, eyes cold. "You're just now figurin' that out?"
Another explosion thundered behind them, painting the world in smoke and fire. Still, the bloater kept coming, but the rest of the horde was thinning — bodies burning, shredded, or too broken to follow.
The road to New Orleans was still ahead, but now the chase was down to them… and the monster.