[{On the roof top…}]
Daryl's scream tore through the stillness—a raw, guttural cry of anguish and disbelief. "NO! No, no, no!" He stormed forward, snatching Merle's severed hand and slamming it hard against the concrete, fury radiating from every muscle. "He cut it off! He cut off his damn hand!"
The group stood frozen, the weight of the moment pinning them in place.
Amos let out a low, rueful whistle. "Man was cornered. That's survival instinct right there…" He crouched by the dried blood trail, eyes narrowing as they traced the desperate path. "Did the only reasonable thing."
His gaze lifted, sharp and unflinching, locking on T-Dog. "This… this is what happens when you're not careful." He blamed knowing full well he kind of could've prevented this.
T-Dog's eyes flicked from the severed hand to the rusted hacksaw lying nearby, then back to Amos. The weight of those words cut deeper than any blade.
A heavy silence settled over the rooftop, thick and suffocating, like a stone pressing down on their chests.
The group felt the raw desperation clinging to the air—the tangible echo of Merle's fight for survival.
And T-Dog? He felt the crushing burden of guilt—no longer just a chain on Merle's wrist, but now shackled tightly to his own conscience.
Daryl prowled back and forth like a predator trapped behind invisible bars, his glare scorching T-Dog, though he kept his anger bottled up for now. Then, without warning, he jerked his crossbow up, leveling it dead center at T-Dog's chest.
Rick and Amos moved in a heartbeat, stepping between the two men with pistols drawn, their faces set like stone.
"Put it down, Daryl," Rick commanded, voice low but sharp with authority.
Amos added coolly, "You fire that thing, you'll regret it."
For a tense moment, Daryl stood rigid, muscles coiled tight, fury simmering behind his eyes. Then, with a muttered curse, the crossbow clattered to his side.
"Give me something to wrap this," he growled.
Without hesitation, T-Dog peeled off his do-rag and tossed it to him. Daryl snatched it up, fingers working quickly to bind the bloodied, severed hand. No ceremony—just grim necessity—as he shoved it into Glenn's bag.
Amos's sharp gaze caught something in the dim light. He pointed silently.
"There—blood trail."
The group's attention snapped to the faint, dark smear leading away, vanishing into the shadows.
Without a word, weapons raised and senses heightened, they fell into step behind it, the trail pulling them deeper into the unknown.
[{Inside the building…}]
Daryl's bolt flew true, striking down a walker with cold precision. His gaze flicked to another figure—already dead, slumped against a cracked wall. "Merle took that one out. One-handed," he muttered, a mixture of grudging respect and disbelief in his voice.
Amos nodded silently, eyes scanning the dim, cluttered office. The faint trail they'd been following came to an abrupt halt in the kitchen. There, amidst the grime and broken tiles, lay a scorched steak weight—its surface blackened, sticky with burnt flesh. Nearby, a blowtorch hummed softly, still warm from use.
Rick crouched low, voice rough. "He cauterized the stump."
Amos exhaled, the cold truth settling heavy between them. "He's long gone."
Rick's jaw tightened. "We'll find him. But first, we get those guns."
Glenn stepped forward, approaching a dusty whiteboard and quickly sketching a plan. "Here's the layout—Amos and Daryl cover me from the alley. Rick and T-Dog flank two blocks over," he explained, voice steady but urgent.
They moved silently, slipping into their assigned positions.
In the shadowed city alley, Glenn, Amos and Daryl descended the fire escape—Glenn landing softly on the cracked pavement, eyes sharp, scanning the debris-strewn street. Daryl and Amos remained, weapons drawn, like silent sentries.
Glenn moved with practiced agility, weaving between burned-out cars and scattered wreckage. The groans of stirring walkers filled the air as the dead began to rise, slow and relentless. Without hesitating, Glenn grabbed the heavy bag of weapons, and Rick's battered hat slipped onto his head.
Heart pounding, breath steady, he sprinted back toward the alley, every step a race against the rising tide of the undead.
[{In the alley...}]
Amos settled into the cold shadows of the alleyway, slumping against the grimy brick near a dumpster. The stench of rot and refuse clawed at his senses, but he forced himself to stay still, eyes sharp beneath the hood. Minutes stretched out, the silence thick and oppressive—until movement caught his attention.
A teenager crept from the darkness, aiming to catch Daryl off guard.
Daryl, unaware, heard a faint rustle behind him but assumed it was Amos. He didn't bother to look back.
Click.
The sharp snap of a hammer cocking sliced through the tension.
Daryl's body froze, every muscle taut as adrenaline surged. For a moment, he thought the gun was aimed at him.
But then Amos stepped out of the shadows, Colt Python raised and unwavering, the cold barrel pressed against the terrified forehead of the youth—barely older than Glenn—who'd been stalking Daryl.
"Who might you be?" Amos asked, voice cutting through the night like a razor.
Daryl spun, crossbow snapping up in a practiced reflex, the bolt aimed dead center between the kid's eyes.
The teenager panicked, hands shooting up in surrender.
"¡Ayúdame! ¡Ayúdame!" he pleaded, voice trembling.
"Ssshhh… Está bien," Amos whispered smoothly in flawless Mexican Spanish, finger tightening on the trigger. "Lo haré rápido e indoloro."
The kid's eyes widened, terror raw and unmistakable.
Before Amos could react, Daryl stepped in with brutal speed—
CRACK—
his fist connected hard, sending blood gushing from the boy's nose as he nearly crumpled to the ground.
"I had that," Amos growled, shooting Daryl a sharp glare.
Daryl shrugged, slinging his crossbow back onto his shoulder. "We need actions, not Spanish."
Before the two could argue, harsh voices and curses ripped through the alley entrance—two armed men lunged toward them, wild and desperate.
Caught off guard, Daryl and Amos tightened their grip on their captive, ready to fight.
Glenn arrived just seconds too late—eyes wide, heart pounding as the danger exploded around them.
The men turned and shifted their focus to Glenn.
They grabbed him and started beating him mercilessly as he shouted for help. In the chaos, they seemed to forget about the other two at the other end.
Amos caught Glenn's ragged cry amidst the chaos—a fragile thread pulling him back from the storm of violence. His eyes narrowed, sharp and fierce, like a brewing tempest ready to break loose. For a moment, the world seemed to freeze: the ruins around them softened into gold light, distant birdsong drifting like ghostly echoes from a forgotten past. The faint murmur of water whispered somewhere far off, and time stretched thin, delicate as silk shimmering in the morning sun.
With reverence rather than rage, Amos lifted his Colt Python, breath held steady and silent. Then—thunder shattered the hush. One shot, then another—each precise and unyielding.
A man screamed, clutching a bullet lodged deep in his thigh. The other collapsed, blood pouring from a shattered arm.
Daryl's crossbow barked next, a bolt piercing a fleeing attacker's back. "That's for Glenn, asshole," he growled.
The wounded men staggered, limping and cursing, desperate to fend off the approaching walkers clawing at their heels. Swearing their retreat, they piled into a waiting car, tires screaming as they tore through the empty streets.
Amos moved swiftly, helping Glenn to his feet. Glenn looked like hell, but he hoisted the recovered bag of guns without complaint.
Daryl slammed the alley gate shut with a resounding clang, trapping a handful of walkers outside who thrashed and clawed helplessly at the bars.
Rick and T-Dog arrived moments later, weapons drawn, eyes sharp and scanning.
With no hesitation, Amos spoke, voice low and steady, still locked on the trembling teen. "Some punks tried to jump us. Wanted the guns, maybe even kill Glenn."
"But not today," Daryl added, dark and fierce.
Rick's gaze softened slightly as he looked down at the bloodied youth, fear still etched deep in his eyes. "He's coming with us."
With the bag secured, the guns recovered, and their reluctant captive in tow, the group vanished back up the fire escape, leaving the echoes of undead groans to fill the alley once more.
[{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, Amos 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 Amos 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."
[{Abandoned Factory…}]
Miguel led Rick and Daryl through a labyrinth of crumbling industrial ruins, their footsteps echoing against shattered walls and broken glass. The scent of rust and decay hung heavy in the air. At last, they arrived at an old, battered factory—its doors groaned open like a weary sentinel awakening from a long slumber. Figures emerged from the shadows, hard-eyed and weapon-ready, muscles tense like coiled springs.
At their forefront stood a man who radiated authority—arms crossed, a permanent scowl etched deep across his weathered face. The unmistakable leader of the Vatos.
Rick held his ground, calm but resolute, every muscle ready for whatever might come. "We're not here to start trouble," he said, voice steady as steel. "We just want answers. We'll trade Miguel for them."
The leader's sharp gaze flicked to the heavy bag of guns strapped across Rick's back, his eyes narrowing with calculating interest. "You've got some nerve showing up here with our prize," he said coolly, voice dripping with challenge.
High above, on a rooftop perch, T-Dog's fingers rested lightly on the trigger of a scoped rifle, the barrel unwavering and trained on the leader's head. Nearby, Amos stood like a statue, his Mk 18 Mod 0 rifle raised, face carved from stone, betraying no emotion.
The Vatos leader lifted his chin defiantly, voice low and razor-sharp. "You walk in here strapped like that... thinking you're gonna leave without leaving a few souvenirs behind?"
Rick's jaw clenched tight, his entire body coiled with tension, ready to snap. "These guns don't leave my back," he said, voice cold as iron.
The silence between them thickened, heavy as storm clouds ready to burst. Weapons slowly rose, eyes locked in a battle of wills.
Finally, the leader spun on his heel, voice cutting through the stillness. "Then I suggest you leave."
Miguel's voice cracked with panic. "Wait! Boss—what about me?"
But the leader didn't even spare a glance. His retreating figure swallowed by the shadows of the dark factory.
Only cold silence answered.
[{Abandoned Office…}]
Rick and the crew retreated into a battered office, the heavy silence thick enough to choke on. The tension hung in the air, raw and biting. Daryl paced like a caged animal, jaw clenched and spit flying as he snarled, "Screw this. The guns are worth more than some punk's story."
Rick whipped around, eyes sharp and voice snapping like a whip. "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."
Amos cut in, his gaze cold and unflinching. "Y'know, we could just take the kid and leave. Never come back."
Every head turned to him in surprise. "What?"
T-Dog stepped forward, scratching the back of his neck, his voice steady, leaving no room for debate. "We're not doing that."
Rick rubbed a hand down his face, exhaustion and resolve mixing in his sharp tone. "This could go sideways real fast. I'll go back in alone."
T-Dog shook his head immediately, voice firm and unyielding. "Hell no. You ain't walking back in there by yourself. No way."
Daryl let out a low, bitter laugh. "For a cop, you sure are dumb."
Amos' voice was calm but resolute. "We're not letting you die for this, man. You got family waiting back at camp."
Glenn looked Rick square in the eye. "We have to go together. Strength in numbers—and all that extra bs."
Rick's eyes swept the group, a flicker of gratitude behind the hardness. He gave a short nod, jaw tight with determination. "Alright. We do it together."
[{Inside the abandoned factory…}]
Rick stepped back into the crumbling building, the weight of the mission heavy on his shoulders. The others followed close, eyes sharp, muscles tensed. Miguel stumbled forward, freed now from his zip ties, casting nervous glances around. Rick's voice cut through the thick air like steel. "Let's finish this."
Ahead, the Vatos waited—arms crossed, chest puffed, a smug smirk twisting his lips like a warning. "Didn't think you had the guts," he sneered.
Rick didn't flinch. His gaze was hard, unyielding. "I've got plenty. And a hell of a lot more firepower. Now talk. Why'd you attack us?"
The Vatos jerked his chin toward the deep shadows behind him, voice low and dangerous. "My men saw the bags in the streets. It's ours."
Rick shook his head, voice cold as stone. "No, it's ours. I dropped it."
The Vatos laughed bitterly. "Anyone can come along and say the same crap. What makes you special? That cop uniform won't save you in the long run."
Rick's eyes narrowed sharply at the insult.
The Vatos spoke again, voice low and menacing. "And it sure as hell won't stop me from feeding you to my dogs."
In an instant, the tension exploded. Guns raised in synchronized motion—Amos flipped his safety off with a sharp click, Daryl's crossbow snapped to ready, T-Dog braced with fingers trembling on the trigger.
Daryl's low growl rumbled like a warning in the air. "Try it."
Rick stepped forward, jaw clenched tight with resolve. "You want a fight," he growled, "you've got one."
The humid air crackled with electric menace, the seconds stretching unbearably thin—then, from the shadows, a frail figure emerged. An old woman shuffled forward, her faded nightgown whispering secrets of better days. Thin arms trembled as she clutched a worn bag of IV fluid like a lifeline.
Her voice, fragile but unwavering, sliced through the tension. "Felipe, mijo! Come help Mr. Gilbert!"
The steely mask on Vatos' face faltered, eyes darkening with something closer to fear. "Felipe," he barked sharply, "get your Abuela outta here."
Amos barked an urgent command. "Get that old woman out of the line of fire!"
But Abuela's gaze locked on Rick's uniform. Ignoring the guns raised around her, she stepped closer, surprising strength in her grasp as she seized Rick's hand. "Please," she whispered, desperation etched deep in her eyes, "don't take him. Felipe helps us. We need him. Don't kill my grandson."
Rick blinked, stunned, the hardness in his chest softening as the truth began to pierce the standoff's brutal edge. His voice lowered, steady but kind. "We're not here to hurt anyone. We're just trying to understand."
Abuela tugged insistently at his sleeve, her eyes wide with desperate honesty. "Come. I'll show you."
[{Elderly home auditorium…}]
They learned the Vatos' leader's real name—Guillermo—as the old woman led Rick and the others down a dim corridor and into a wide, sunlit room that smelled faintly of dust and old linens.
Rows of cots and threadbare couches filled the space, each occupied by frail, weathered faces. The elderly lay wrapped in faded blankets, some asleep, others watching the newcomers with wary, tired eyes.
Near the far wall, Felipe knelt beside an asthmatic man, guiding an inhaler to his lips with steady, patient hands.
From a shadowed corner, the sound of furious barking broke the silence. Three tiny chihuahuas—Guillermo's "vicious" dogs—stood trembling, their whole bodies vibrating with defiance.
Amos smirked, shaking his head.
"That's what had us all tense?"
He let out a low chuckle, strolling away as Rick stood rooted in place, the truth settling heavy in his chest.
Guillermo stepped closer, voice quiet enough to keep it between them.
"When the staff ran, it was just me and Felipe," he said, his gaze drifting to the cots. "Then people started showing up. Grandkids, sons, daughters... they needed help. We couldn't turn them away."
Rick's jaw tightened, shame pricking at the edges of his voice.
"We nearly killed all of you."
Guillermo gave a dry, grim chuckle.
"We nearly killed you too. Guess that makes us even."
While their words hung in the still air, Amos wandered off, slipping through a side door into a crumbling building. Dust lay thick over everything, muting the color of the world. But one thing stood out—an object resting in the center of the room.
A long wooden box. New. Out of place.
Kneeling, Amos worked the lid open. Inside, wrapped in deep indigo cloth, lay a sword—a 100 cm Tsurugi. Perfectly straight. Double-edged. Its black blade caught what little light filtered through the cracks, drinking it in, while the dark-blue hilt shimmered faintly under layers of fine wrapping.
Ancient. Elegant. Deadly.
He lifted it with a reverence he didn't show for much else, feeling its perfect balance as he moved it through the air—precise, controlled, almost ceremonial.
Satisfied, Amos slid the blade back into its scabbard and slung it over his back, the hilt settling just above his shoulder.
Without a word, he stepped back into the courtyard, his new weapon a silent shadow at his side, unnoticed by the rest.
[{Back inside the elderly home…}]
Rick made his call.
He reached into the bag, the weight of cold steel shifting under his hands, and pulled out a small share of the guns. Dust motes swirled lazily in the stale air between him and Guillermo as he held them out.
"You'll need them more than we will," Rick said, his voice steady but carrying the unspoken truth—they'd both seen enough of the world to know what was coming.
Guillermo studied him for a long moment, eyes sharp but softened by something rare—trust. He nodded once. Their hands met in a firm, deliberate shake, the kind forged in fire, where words were unnecessary.
From the side, Amos leaned against a cracked wall, jaw working as he silently cursed Rick's generosity. "What an idiot. Two would've done fine. Now I'll have to find a way to replace them."
No one spoke as they left. Boots crunched over gravel, the quiet broken only by the soft, distant barking of Guillermo's little dogs.
The van was exactly as they'd left it, its sun-faded paint still dull under the gray sky. No shattered glass. No scavenger marks. Untouched.
They piled in fast—metal doors slamming with finality. The engine rumbled to life, coughing once before settling into a steady growl.
Rick's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror one last time, catching the shrinking image of Guillermo standing in the courtyard, hands buried in his pockets, watching them go.
Then Daryl's foot hit the gas. Tires screamed across cracked pavement, and the van shot forward, bouncing over potholes, carrying them away.
Their hearts felt a shade lighter, but their eyes stayed sharp—scanning the ruined horizon, knowing peace was only ever temporary.
[{Quarry Camp…}]
They had made it back hours ago, the tension of the Vatos standoff now just a faint echo in the back of their minds. Amos sat with an old man named Fernando, the two of them tucked in the dim glow of a flickering lantern. The air smelled faintly of earth, rust, and the sweet tang of dried herbs.
Fernando's weathered hands clutched a battered tobacco pipe, its bowl choked with stubborn resin. Amos worked it with quiet patience—salt in, holes plugged tight, giving it a firm shake until the grit scraped loose. He wiped the inside clean, the cloth coming away dark and grainy.
"There," Amos said, handing it back. "That should do it, old man."
Fernando, settled deep in his worn chair, nodded with slow appreciation. "Thank you, son. How old is you, anyways?"
Amos glanced toward the sky—inky, near-black, with only a faint sliver of moon showing through the clouds. "Twenty-six."
Another nod. Fernando was already packing the bowl with a few pinches of ground herb, his fingers moving with the ease of muscle memory. "Might have to start collectin' seeds from all over. Store 'em up, plant 'em. 'Cause I know damn well nobody's risking their neck for a pack of cannabis."
Amos gave a low hum of agreement turning to the old man. "Well… if you need help, call the rest. I'm sure someone'll pitch in when it counts."
Fernando struck a match, the sudden flare carving sharp shadows across his weathered face. The herb caught quickly, smoke curling upward as he pinched the flame out and took a slow, steady draw. He exhaled in a languid stream, the tension easing from his features, the deep lines of agitation softening into something almost peaceful. "You just got here," he said, voice low and gravelly, "and already you're more useful than half this lot. Kids come by now and then, sure—but they don't know how to do it right."
He reached into the bag beside him, pulling out a well-worn book, crossing one leg over the other in a gesture of settled comfort. "So… thank you."
Amos gave him a small smile. "You're welcome, old man." He rose, stretching slightly before heading off toward the rest of the group.
The thick, oily scent of fish hung heavy in the air, coating the camp in its stubborn cling. Over the fire's steady crackle, Morales beamed, proudly showing off an improved setup—stones stacked in a perfect ring to hold the heat.
A few steps away, Carl trailed beside Shane, a little bounce in his step. Shane forced a smile as he worked the knot binding Jim to the tree, freeing his raw wrists.
"Join us," Shane said, clapping him lightly on the back. "Everyone's welcome."
Jim only nodded, eyes fixed on the ground, his mind miles away. Something in his stillness put Shane on edge, so he excused himself, muttering about the heat, and climbed into the RV, eager for the stale shade inside.
In one of the tents, Ed sat slouched, his face a map of bruises, one eye swollen shut. Carol ducked inside, holding a dented plate with a few pieces of charred fish.
"Come eat," she said quietly, not meeting his glare.
Ed's voice was a low, bitter rasp. "Hell with them people. Wouldn't piss on 'em if their heads were on fire."
Sophia started to turn away, but Ed's hand shot out, clamping around her wrist hard enough to make her flinch.
"Hey," he muttered, "why don't you stay here? Keep your daddy company."
Carol's breath caught. Her grip tightened on Sophia's arm as she pulled her back.
"She wants to join in," she said, her voice trembling but unyielding. "Come on."
Ed cursed after them. "Fine. Hell with the both of you. Ain't no need to bother me the rest of the night."
Carol didn't look back. She just kept walking, her hand firm on Sophia's shoulder, leading her toward the warm light of the fire, away from the shadow of the tent.
The fire popped and hissed, sending sparks spiraling into the night, its glow painting the survivors in shifting bands of gold and shadow. For the first time in days, a thin thread of laughter wove through the camp—fragile, cautious, but real.
"Feels like a Friday night again, huh?" Morales said, tearing a piece of fish from the stick and passing the rest to Eliza. His eyes drifted to Dale, who sat winding his watch with careful, deliberate turns. Morales leaned forward, his voice steady but curious. "I've gotta ask you, man—it's been driving me crazy."
Dale looked up, brows drawn. "What?"
"That watch." Morales pointed with a half-smile.
Dale blinked, still puzzled. "What's wrong with my watch?"
Morales chuckled. "Every day, same time, you wind that thing like a village priest saying mass."
From a few feet away, Jacqui grinned, joining in. "I've wondered the same thing."
Dale's lips twitched into a smile. "I'm missing the point…"
Jacqui giggled. "Unless I've misread the signs, the world's ended. Or at least hit a speed bump for a good long while."
Morales leaned back with a shrug. "Yet here you are, winding that stupid watch every single day."
Dale smiled faintly, but when he spoke again, his voice softened, carrying something almost ceremonial. "Time… it's important to keep track. The days, at least. Don't you think, Andrea? Back me up here."
Andrea smirked and shook her head. "You're on your own."
For a moment, Dale searched for words, then his eyes lit faintly with memory. "I like… I like what, um, a father said to son when he gave him a watch that had been handed down through generations. He said, '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.'"
Amos leaned forward with a smirk. "Sounds like a fancy way of saying, 'Here's something useless—good luck.'"
The group broke into laughter, the lingering wariness toward Amos dissolving under the firelight.
Dale's smile widened as he deflected with ease. "That's not me. That's Faulkner. William Faulkner. Maybe with a little bad paraphrasing."
The fire snapped and hissed, sending bursts of orange sparks into the night as voices overlapped in easy, scattered conversation. Shadows swayed across the gathered faces, the heat from the flames mixing with the faint chill of the evening.
T-Dog leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "Is it really true you were out in the blazing heat, diggin' nothin' but holes?" he asked, his tone curious but edged with disbelief.
Jim didn't look at him. His gaze stayed fixed on the fire, the flames reflected in his eyes. "I'd rather not talk about that," he murmured, his voice carrying a weight that stilled further questions.
Across the circle, Glenn leaned in toward Amy and Andrea. "Yo, we almost got ransacked by a Mexican gang today," he said, the words carrying just enough swagger to soften the danger of the memory.
Amy's brows shot up. "Really? What did they want?" she asked, her voice half curious, half concerned.
Andrea tilted her head, frowning. "You guys really escaped?"
Glenn spread his hands, answering both at once. "They wanted the bag of guns Rick dropped when he and Amos went into a tank when we first met them. And yeah, we got out… barely. I almost died, but we came to an agreement. Rick gave them half the guns, I think."
Amy exhaled in relief, though her eyes still held a spark of worry. She stood, brushing her palms against her jeans as if shaking off the heaviness of the story. "Be right back!" she called over her shoulder, her voice bright and light against the night air. "Gotta grab something."
Amy slipped into the dim confines of the RV, the metal door groaning shut behind her. The air inside was thick with the faint scent of oil and dust. Shane sat near the back, posture stiff, a shotgun laid across his lap like an extension of himself.
"Hey," she said casually, rifling through the shelves. Cans clinked faintly under her fingers. After a moment of fruitless searching, she muttered, "Seriously? No toilet paper? Come on."
Shane gave a dry chuckle without looking at her, his eyes locked on the camp beyond the glass.
Amy turned toward the door, ready to step back out—when something shifted in the corner of her eye.
A shadow lunged.
The walker burst from behind the doorframe, its skin gray and peeling, hands clamping onto her arm with crushing force. The stench of rot hit her like a wave, its jagged, yellow teeth snapping inches from her face.
Amy screamed, yanking back in panic—
A deafening crack split the air. Glass shattered into glittering shards as the back window blew out.
Shane didn't hesitate. The shotgun roared in his grip, the slug obliterating the walker's skull in a violent spray of blackened gore. The body crumpled bonelessly to the floor.
Amy stumbled backward, adrenaline surging, and collided with Shane's chest. He caught her, arms tightening instinctively.
"Walkers! Get to the RV!" Shane bellowed, his voice sharp and cutting through the night like a blade.
Out by the fire, the survivors froze mid-laugh, their faces turning toward the treeline.
Shapes moved in the darkness.
One by one, they emerged—walkers, dozens of them, their staggering forms bathed in the orange flicker of the firelight. Low snarls and wet groans filled the air, a chorus of hunger and decay.
Panic broke loose.
In his tent, Ed scowled at the noise, muttering under his breath as he stormed toward the flap. "Damn it, who's making all this—"
The zipper rasped down—
—and death rushed in.
The walker crashed into him with a sickening weight, jaws clamping into the side of his neck. Flesh tore with a wet rip, and Ed's voice choked off into a gargled scream.
Blood fountained, splattering the tent walls in jagged streaks, painting the fabric in a fresh, horrific canvas. Ed's legs buckled, and the light in his eyes dimmed as the walker fed.
The camp dissolved into chaos.
Screams tore through the night as walkers smashed through tents, dragging people into the dirt, teeth sinking into soft flesh. Canvas ripped like paper. The air filled with the wet, tearing sounds of feeding.
Andrea spun at the sound of Amy's scream—her blood turned to ice. A walker had tackled her sister, pinning her down, its jaws lowering. Before it could bite, a thunderous blast ripped it sideways—Shane's second shot.
Andrea didn't think. She lunged forward, shoving the door of the RV so hard it rattled on its hinges, dragging Amy inside and slamming it behind them.
Across the chaos, Shane's eyes locked on Lori and Carl behind Rick. Rick's Colt barked in rapid, precise bursts, each shot a clean kill. Shane racked the shotgun, shouting over the madness.
"Rick! Lori! Get to the RV! Now!"
Lori didn't hesitate. She scooped Carl into her arms, sprinting hard, Rick covering them with tight, surgical shots. Every pull of the trigger dropped a walker threatening their path.
Jim and Morales fought side by side, their bats cracking skulls with wild, desperate force. Glenn grappled with one on the ground, driving a jagged chair leg straight through its temple.
TAP-TAP-TAP
Amos moved like a shadow, his Mk 18 steady, cutting down three walkers in quick, surgical bursts. He reached Fernando—who, against all odds, was alive, a pistol in hand, hitting walkers dead-center with uncanny accuracy. The old man ducked a lunge, and stomped a walker's skull until it burst under his sandaled foot, black blood soaking into the dirt. Amos yanked him toward the RV—then froze at a scream.
A walker clawed at a nearby tent, the fabric ripping as the trapped woman inside shrieked.
Daryl's crossbow cracked sharply, sending one walker crashing to the ground. Without missing a beat, he swung the stock into another's face—the sickening crunch of bone echoing through the chaos. In one fluid motion, he drew his knife, spinning it with deadly precision before driving it deep into a snarling skull and yanking it free.
Beside him, T-Dog wielded his crowbar like a warhammer, smashing skulls and forcing trembling survivors toward the safety of the RV.
Both were locked in relentless battle, so consumed by the fight that the desperate cry for help went unheard, swallowed by the roar of violence around them.
"I'll be alright, just get 'em to safety," Fernando insisted, wrenching his arm free with surprising strength. He raised his pistol and fired a sharp, precise shot—another walker's head exploded in a spray of dark blood. Without any hesitation, he limped with haste towards the RV, determined to reach shelter.
Andrea knelt inside the RV, rocking Amy, whispering frantic words that didn't matter—anything to keep her breathing.
Amos let his rifle hang by its belt, shifting the weapon to his left his fingers instantly closing around the hilt of his Tsurugi. With two powerful strides, he was at the torn tent flap. The blade flashed in a deadly arc, slicing cleanly from shoulder to hip, splitting the walker's rotting flesh open.
The creature crumpled to the ground, and Amos tore the shredded fabric aside, pulling the dazed woman free. She clung to him desperately, her grip like a lifeline, sending a sharp weight of responsibility through him. Without hesitation, he guided her toward the RV, not daring to look back.
Shane, Rick, and Fernando fired in tight rhythm, their shots echoing through the night as Amos moved close, shielding the trembling woman who refused to let go of him. Clips clicked empty, the sting of dwindling ammo sharpening every breath. They fought like men backed into a corner—each walker that fell replaced by two more staggering from the shadows. The ground became a gruesome mosaic of fallen bodies—friends and strangers alike—torn apart mid-scream, their faces frozen in terror, eyes vacant and unseeing. The dirt soaked dark with blood, slick and unforgiving.
The relentless onslaught finally slowed, the last walker collapsing with a sickening thud that echoed in the sudden, suffocating silence. The quiet pressed down heavier than any scream, swallowing the night whole.
Twenty of their people were gone. Friends. Neighbors. People—good, bad, and everything in between. Silence settled over the camp, broken only by the low, ragged moans of the injured and the faint crackle of the dying fire.
Rick lowered his revolver slowly, eyes scanning the ruin around him. His chest tightened, a cold weight settling deep inside. From the edge of the firelight, Carl broke free from Lori's hold, stumbling toward Rick as sobs racked his small body, each breath desperate and shallow. Rick dropped to one knee, pulling his son into a fierce embrace, his arms a shield against the merciless night. Lori moved closer, collapsing beside them, wrapping both in her trembling arms, tears and soot streaking her face like silent scars.
Morales wandered through the wreckage, hands stained dark—blood, but whose, he couldn't tell. His gaze fixed on his fingers as if seeing them for the first time, disbelief and numbness washing over him like cold rain.
Amos strode among the shattered remains, sword sheathed on his back, eyes sharp and unyielding. Silent and steady, he counted survivors with grim precision—twenty-nine left standing. Bloodied. Bruised. Hollow-eyed. Twenty more lay cold and broken, beyond any hope.
They were alive, yes—but no longer the people who had faced the sunset hours before.
Jim stood apart, his body trembling, moonlight carving deep lines of fear and exhaustion across his face. His once-steady hands shook violently at his sides. He lurched back toward the group, eyes wide and haunted, trapped in the nightmare of his own mind.
When he finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper, fragile and breaking the heavy silence like a ghost's breath:
"I remember now..."
The words drifted across the camp, fragile and weighty. Heads slowly turned, too drained, too shattered to respond.
"Why I dug those holes..." he choked out, voice cracking under the unbearable weight.
"I dug the graves for them. I—I didn't know why, but... I felt it. Saw it coming."
The group remained frozen, swallowed whole by the magnitude of loss, each soul grappling with the terrible truth in their own silence.
Each walker that had breached the camp lay motionless now—heads shattered, eyes lifeless—a grim testament to survival. At least, that's what they hoped. But even with the immediate threat quelled, no victory stirred among the living.
Because the living—those ragged souls left standing—would never truly stand tall again.
Something deep inside them had cracked, unseen yet unyielding. An invisible fracture that no bullet could mend. It wasn't fear. It wasn't grief. It was something heavier—a quiet, crushing knowing.
Knowing that safety was a cruel illusion. That tomorrow's dawn could snatch everything away without warning. That the laughter shared tonight might dissolve into silence before sunrise.
It showed in their eyes—vacant, unfocused, as if reality had drained away. It showed in their steps—slow, hesitant, burdened by the weight of what they dared not say. Even the air seemed thick with sorrow, pressing down on shoulders bowed beneath a grief they hadn't yet named.
They would keep walking. They would keep fighting. But none—not Lori clutching Carl close, nor Shane gripping his shotgun with trembling hands, nor Morales staring blankly at blood-streaked palms—none would ever stand quite as tall again.
Above, the stars flickered cold and distant, silent witnesses to the fragile endurance of those left behind.
Tomorrow, they would bury their dead. Tonight, they survived in the heavy quiet—enduring the silence, carrying the weight of loss until the dawn.
The acrid smoke of spent gunpowder clung thickly to the cooling evening air, weaving through the camp like a ghost of the violence that had just erupted. All around, the bodies of fallen walkers lay twisted and broken—limbs bent at unnatural angles, skulls shattered in grisly splatters, blood dark and sticky, seeping deep into the thirsty dirt. A heavy silence settled over the scene, oppressive and raw, shattered only by the ragged sobs of those still alive, their grief spilling out in desperate waves.
At the edge of the flickering firelight, Amos stood alone, the Tsurugi sheathed across his back, the scuffed leather smeared with dark, drying blood. His Mk 18 hung silent at his side. His face was a mask of calm, yet his eyes betrayed a distant storm, miles away from the camp's turmoil.
Without a word, he turned his back to the others and moved slowly toward the shadowed tree line, each measured step crunching over gravel and ash as if the weight of the world pressed down on him. He sank onto a fallen log, elbows resting heavily on his knees, his gaze lifting to the vast expanse of night where stars blinked faint and cold overhead. Behind him, the hollow echoes of mourning drifted faintly—soft cries swallowed by the vastness of loss.
His voice was low, barely more than a breath, breaking the stillness. "A fish fry. That's all it was supposed to be. Just a damn fish fry."
From a worn cloth tucked in his pocket, Amos carefully pulled it free, drawing it across the blade of the Tsurugi in slow, deliberate strokes—each pass a silent ritual, a moment of fragile control amid chaos.
He studied the blade, tracing the dark gleam with quiet reverence before speaking again. "This world… it keeps asking who you're willing to become just to keep breathing."
The words hung heavy in the cool air as he finished wiping the steel clean. His eyes stayed locked on the blade, a mirror to the unspoken battles within. "I don't even know how I got here," he murmured, voice tight with a mixture of confusion and resignation. "Protecting others like they've been family all along… but what about my country? My friends? My family?"
His gaze lifted slowly to the endless sky, shimmering with distant stars that seemed too indifferent to the suffering below. "It's like I'm expected to just move on," he said, pain threading through the quiet. "Like I'm supposed to pretend I never had a home… never had people who mattered."
The night wrapped around him like a shroud, cold and unyielding—while inside, a battle raged, fierce and unspoken.
"It's not my fault." The thought tore through the silence, rough and jagged.
"No." The voice came low, steady.
Amos shook his head, the weight of everything settling like a stone in his chest. "I was just sitting in my yard, waiting for my friends to find me. Then—next thing I know—I'm thrown into Atlanta. Surrounded by walkers."
"And now what? His mind echoed, desperate. "I'm supposed to just stand here and do nothing?"
"I've been pushing it away for as long as I could. Avoiding the hard questions. But after tonight… it doesn't make sense to anymore."
"I'll adapt, after I've done so, I'll make jokes again. Be more lively."
A sharp crack of a twig split the stillness.
Rick emerged from the shadows, his hat hanging loose in one hand, the other buried deep in his pocket. "Figured I might find you out here," he said, voice carrying a weary edge.
Amos didn't turn.
Rick took a few slow steps forward, the firelight behind him casting long, broken shadows across the ground. "Why don't you come join us around the fire?"
Amos's gaze stayed fixed on the dirt, the lines of his face hidden in shadow. "Let me sort my thoughts first."
Rick studied him for a moment, then gave a small nod and turned as if to leave.
Finally, Amos's voice cut through the quiet, low and steady. "You think this is how it's always gonna be? Blood. Fire. Guilt?"
Rick stopped mid-step. He looked back, his voice soft but anchored in steel. "I don't know. But I know this—we can't lose ourselves in it. We've still got a job to do. People counting on us."
Amos slowly stood from the log, the movement deliberate, his shoulders squaring beneath the weight. His eyes caught the faint starlight, sharp with resolve. "Then we make damn sure the next ones don't die like that."
His voice deepened, the words carrying an edge that felt like a blade drawn in the dark. "'Cause if they do… I'm not stoppin'. Not 'til every last one of 'em's dead. Walkers. People. Doesn't matter. We make sure the next ones live. And if anybody gets in the way…" He took a step closer to Rick, the fire's glow catching the glint in his eyes. "…they won't."