The heavy wooden door let out a creaking groan as it slowly slid open, revealing a gap just wide enough for one person to pass through.
Sunlight struggled to squeeze into the darkness; rather than bringing warmth, it stirred up the long-settled deathly air within the barn.
A thick, putrid stench instantly surged out, hitting them full in the face.
The figures in the darkness sensed the presence of the living and grew restless, letting out hungry snarls from their throats.
The first Walker knocked its kin aside and stumbled into the light.
It was an old man wearing old overalls with thinning hair. His skin was already grey and decayed; he stood with his mouth agape, cloudy eyeballs rolling around, lunging frantically at the living beings before him.
Hershel stood in the sunlight with a complex expression, his gaze piercing through the rotting shell before him as if he could see the days of old within those cloudy pupils.
"That's Richard."
He spoke softly, his tone as casual as if he were chatting with an old friend while sitting on a porch.
"He used to complain to me all the time about how his joints would kill him whenever it rained, like someone was hammering a chisel into his bones. He said he could never sleep well at night, tossing and turning..."
The Walker snarled and lunged forward.
Iron meeting flesh made a dull thud, permanently ending that ceaseless hunger and pain.
"Sleep now, Richard."
Hershel pulled out the pitchfork and whispered, "It won't hurt anymore tonight."
The corpse fell, followed immediately by a second one.
It was a woman in a floral apron; her once plump body had shriveled, with only the ribbon at her waist still stubbornly tied in a pretty bow.
"Mrs. Baker."
Hershel's fingers tightened slightly around the wooden handle. "Every Sunday afternoon, the wind used to carry the scent drifting from her kitchen."
"The apple pies she baked were the best in town. When they were fresh out of the oven, even the pickiest child would drool."
"Regrettably, we'll never smell that scent again."
The pitchfork thrust forward.
In that instant, memories of delicious food and afternoon sunlight shattered along with the splashing rotten blood, finally returning to the dust.
Then came the third, the fourth... Walkers squeezed out of the barn gap one after another.
Hershel mechanically repeated the stabbing motion, sweat mixed with dust trickling down his aged cheeks and into his collar.
With every kill, he forcibly stripped away a piece of a vivid past from those hideous faces.
"Old George... that miser. He'd argue until he was red in the face over two coins lost in a card game... He even owes me two packs of cigarettes he never returned."
Hershel kicked away a lunging Walker and delivered a killing blow, panting as he gave a bitter smile. "It looks like this debt will just have to rot in the ledger."
"Wilton... to be honest, I didn't like him."
"The man was sharp-tongued and petty, always complaining that my cows were too loud, and he argued with me for days just over a fence repair."
The old man pulled out the pitchfork, looking at the face below him that still appeared somewhat mean despite its decay, the light in his eyes slowly dimming.
"But Lord, looking at him now... I actually find myself missing those days of bickering."
"At least back then, the world was normal. We were just two people who got angry over trivial little things."
The execution was long and drawn out.
Bodies slowly piled up at Hershel's feet; the Walkers, who were originally nauseating, now took on a different appearance in everyone's eyes.
Amidst the old man's whispers, what lay there were no longer hideous Walkers, but a microcosm of that peaceful small town—
Neighbors who prayed in church on Sundays, drunks bragging in bars, housewives busy in their kitchens... the damn apocalypse came too quickly, not even leaving them time to say goodbye. Life came to such a hurried end, sealing all the unspoken love and hate within their rotting throats.
The stagnant atmosphere was suffocating.
In such an environment, even Merle, who usually found fault with everything, rarely showed his sharp edges.
He just leaned quietly against the fence, his gaze somewhat vacant; his cigarette burned to the end, and he didn't even notice when it scorched his fingers.
Everyone watched this unique funeral in silence, seeing a corner of the old world completely collapse before their eyes.
The old man's strength was fading, but his back remained ramrod straight.
Until—
A familiar figure stumbled out from the depths of the shadows.
She was wearing the dress she loved most in life, though it was now covered in foul blood.
She still looked at Hershel, but those eyes that were once full of love now held nothing but a craving for flesh.
"Mom..."
Beth instinctively reached out, crying out with a sob as she tried to rush forward, only to be stopped by Maggie beside her.
Hershel froze.
The Walker let out a snarl, the excitement of a predator finding its prey. It opened its mouth and staggered toward the old man.
That was his wife. The woman who would leave a light on for him late at night and hand him a cup of hot tea when he returned from his chores.
The pitchfork in the old man's hands rose, then slumped down dejectedly, before trembling as it rose again.
The sharp tines were aimed at that face, but he couldn't bring himself to strike no matter what. The smile in his memory and the hideous face before him constantly overlapped, tearing at his heart.
"Annette..."
He called his wife's name, but the Walker did not stop because of his grief; it opened its mouth, howling, and drew closer step by step.
Rick and the others nearby sensed something was wrong and instinctively gripped their guns, preparing to step forward and help.
However, one figure was faster than everyone else.
It was Maggie.
Like an arrow released from a bow, carrying all her sorrow, she charged into the fray holding a short knife.
Squelch.
The blade pierced precisely through the temple, severing the last connection between that shell and this world.
Maggie didn't pull the knife out; instead, she used her momentum to step forward and catch her mother before she fell.
Ignoring the nauseating blood and stench, she slowly knelt down, laying her mother flat on the grass.
Her blood-stained hands reached out, gently smoothing the messy hair on her mother's forehead, then closed those cloudy eyes.
At that moment, the tear that had been welling in her eye for so long finally became too heavy and fell, splashing onto her mother's face.
"Goodnight, Mom."
...The wind blew through the barn, carrying away the last trace of a sigh.
Hershel held his wife's body and began to weep silently like a child.
With Annette's fall, this long funeral seemed to have reached its final chapter, and a sense of weary relief permeated the air.
Until Shawn broke the silence.
He glanced toward the barn and lowered his voice:
"Are there any more Walkers inside?"
Shawn wiped his tears away forcefully, his eyes red, as he cautiously peered into the dark depths of the barn.
"There's one last one left," he said hoarsely. "Looks like his leg is injured; he's moving very slowly."
Everyone's nerves, which had just relaxed, tightened once more.
Heavy, dragging footsteps, accompanied by labored breathing, were inching toward the light.
It was a tall, bloated figure. He struggled in the shadows; his left foot seemed broken, and his body swayed violently with every step, making it look exceptionally difficult.
When he finally emerged into the sunlight, everyone was stunned.
Though the face was bloated and grey with bulging eyeballs, the signature beer belly and loathsome facial features were familiar to everyone present.
"Ed..."
Someone whispered his name with a complex tone.
This was the very same Ed who had abandoned his wife and daughter to flee alone when the caravan was attacked.
Although everyone had always disliked this domestic abuser who was only brave at home—to the point of wanting to beat him up—
Seeing him actually turned into this state, many felt a sense of sorrow for their shared fate.
"He... didn't make it," Glenn sighed. "Looks like he was bitten in the woods."
Almost instinctively, everyone's gaze turned toward Carol.
Shane frowned; he couldn't bear to let Carol face this cruel scene, so he raised his gun and stepped forward. "I'll take care of him."
"No."
Carol shook her head, refusing his kindness.