The darkness was absolute, a suffocating void without dimension or time. Within it, a single point of light drifted, formless and adrift. It pulsed faintly, a lonely ember in the cosmic emptiness. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the light began to coalesce, stretching and reshaping itself. Limbs formed, a torso solidified, the vague outline of a head emerged. It was the nascent form of a human boy, suspended in the nothingness.
(MC POV)
A sound pierced the silence, ethereal and ancient, seeming to resonate from everywhere and nowhere at once. "Oh, you're finally awake. Took you long enough."
My eyes snapped open, heavy as lead. Disorientation washed over me like a cold wave. Where was I? The last thing I remembered was the crushing weight of grief – Beth Greene's death scene in The Walking Dead replaying behind my eyelids, tears hot on my cheeks. Now… this. Utter, consuming darkness. And before me, the only source of illumination: an old man. His beard was long and white as fresh snow, cascading down his simple robes, and his eyes held a depth of millennia, looking at me with unnerving kindness.
"Huh? Where am I? Who are you?" The questions tumbled out, rapid-fire, my voice echoing strangely in the void. I scrambled mentally, trying to find purchase. Nothing. Just the impossible darkness and this impossible figure.
He didn't answer immediately. That small, enigmatic smile remained fixed on his lips, as if he expected comprehension to dawn on me like sunrise. It was infuriating. And then, like a hammer blow to the skull, it hit me. The novels, the isekai tropes… the crushing finality of it. "I died." The words sounded flat, hollow in the vastness. "Well, I've read enough novels to know where this is going," I muttered, forcing a shaky calm over the rising panic. Was this judgement? Heaven? Hell? Limbo?
Amusement flickered in the old man's ancient eyes. "Yes and no," he replied, his voice a chorus – a hundred whispers layered over a deep, resonant bass. "To put it simply, my son, I pulled your soul here to grant you a wish." He paused, letting the words sink in. "A wish you've nurtured since you first watched your favorite TV show unfold. I will send you to the World of The Walking Dead, so you can try to prevent the deaths of the characters you mourned."
He looked obscenely pleased with himself, this cosmic entity casually planning to drop me into a meat grinder. 'Is this old man senile? Or just sadistic? I'm just a normal 17-year-old kid! I might know the plot beats like the back of my hand, but my survival skills come from Call of Duty marathons and Jackie Chan movies!' Panic threatened to resurge, but I wrestled it down. 'Okay, deep breaths. At least it's not World War Z. I'd be zombie chow in under two minutes there, and right back in this depressing void.'
"Wait!" The memory surfaced like a lifebuoy. "Do I get any wishes? You mentioned a wish!"
The old man inclined his head, a gesture that sent ripples of relief through my formless being. "You do get a wish. But only one." His perpetual smile was starting to grate on my nerves. Three would have been nice, but beggars couldn't be choosers. Now, the critical question: how did I want to enter hell?
"First question: do I keep my memories? Second: When and where will I reincarnate? And third: will I start as a baby or..?" The questions spilled out again, urgent.
"Yes, you'll retain your memories," he confirmed, his smile widening slightly. "It wouldn't be entertaining otherwise. As for your arrival: you'll wake up three days before Rick Grimes emerges from his coma. And location? Atlanta." He delivered the information with serene certainty.
"Now," he continued, holding up a translucent, age-spotted hand before I could dream of godhood, "before you wish to be Superman, understand the rules. No magic. The world you're entering is grounded, normal by its own harsh standards. No alien technology. And no overt superpowers. You may wish for enhancements – immunity to the reanimation virus, peak human physique, mastery of martial arts, extensive knowledge... things that could theoretically exist, pushed to their absolute limit."
My mental image of soaring over Atlanta in a cape crumbled. Superman was off the table. Kryptonian DNA? Denied. I sank into a silent, twenty-minute internal monologue, sifting through possibilities. Immunity was tempting, essential even. Peak human? Useful. But in a world ruled by teeth and desperation, knowledge and skill felt paramount. Then it crystallized – a blend of capability and sheer, undeniable badassery.
"I think I've got it," I announced, meeting his ancient gaze. "I wish to reincarnate as Itachi Uchiha, with all his combat knowledge, instincts, tactics, and experience imprinted upon me. However," I emphasized, "I still want to be myself. I don't want his personality, his traumas, or his burdens influencing my thoughts or actions. Just the skills. The lethality."
Even without chakra-fueled fireballs or Susanoo, Itachi's genius-level intellect, flawless taijutsu, mastery of stealth, weaponry, and psychological warfare would be an unparalleled asset. And frankly? The sheer coolness factor was undeniable.
The old man stroked his beard, the chorus of his voice humming thoughtfully. "Hmm, an intriguing choice. Focused on the foundation rather than the flash. Very well. In recognition of the inherent limitations of that world, I shall grant a small bonus. You will have enough innate chakra to awaken the Two Tomoe Sharingan." My breath hitched. The Sharingan!
"Additionally," he continued, "I will impart comprehensive knowledge of medical ninjutsu – diagnostic techniques, herbalism, salve and ointment creation, the Healing Palm technique. However," his tone turned firm, "all combat-based ninjutsu – fireballs, water dragons, clones – are excluded. This chakra will subtly enhance your physical capabilities – strength, speed, reflexes, endurance – placing you significantly beyond peak human potential in your new world. It will also grant you a considerably extended lifespan."
Hope warred with pragmatism. "That's... acceptable. Can I at least have a storage scroll? For supplies?" Survival hinged on logistics.
He nodded. "Agreed. A standard sealing scroll shall be part of your starting equipment."
"Well," the old man said, his smile turning mischievous, "it's best you be off then, little one. Entertain me." He raised a hand that seemed to gather the darkness itself. "Oh, and I added a few extra... surprises... for you in that world. I do hope you like them." His soft chuckle was the last thing I heard before consciousness dissolved into utter blackness.
Atlanta - An Unknown Time Later
A jolt, like lightning hitting bone. I snapped upright in a narrow bed, gasping for air as if surfacing from deep water. The room swam into focus – cheap plaster walls, a scarred wooden desk under a grimy window, a battered closet, a threadbare rug. Spartan. Functional. A dorm room or low-rent apartment. The air hung thick with dust and the faint, sweet-sick odor of decay drifting through the closed window.
Atlanta. Three days before Rick wakes up. The knowledge surfaced instantly, clear as the old man's words. I swung my legs over the side, the movement fluid, effortless. No stiffness. No grogginess. Just alertness humming beneath the skin. Itachi's instincts.
I padded silently to the window, the bare floorboards cool under my feet. Peeling back a corner of the heavy curtain with infinite care, I peered down. Third floor. Below, on the cracked asphalt street, two figures shambled with the jerky, broken-doll gait I knew too well from countless screens. Walkers. One dragged a rope of glistening, purplish intestines behind it, leaving a slick trail of bile and decay.
The sight should have sent me retching, triggered primal terror. Instead, a profound, unnatural calm settled over me. Like ice water filling my veins. Itachi's mental fortitude. No panic. Just assessment. Threat level: minimal.
I took a deliberate minute to orient myself. The apartment was small – a single room plus a tiny bathroom. Silence pressed in, broken only by the distant, guttural moans filtering up from the street. First: Self-assessment. I focused inward, reaching for the chakra the old man promised. It was there – a cool, vibrant current flowing just beneath awareness, like a hidden river. I willed it to my eyes. The world shifted.
Colors bled out, replaced by stark contrasts of red and black. Details sharpened impossibly – the grain in the wood of the door, the individual dust motes dancing in a shaft of weak light, the minute tremors in the walker's rotting limbs three stories down. Two Tomoe Sharingan. Activated. Deactivated. Seamless. Good.
Next, the chakra flow. I directed it to my feet, envisioning adhesion. Stepping onto the wall felt as natural as breathing. I walked up, inverted, and stood effortlessly on the ceiling, looking down at the bed. Gravity was a suggestion. Excellent. I dropped down silently.
Medical knowledge. It flooded my mind – complex anatomical diagrams, the properties of hundreds of herbs (many familiar, Earth-native plants), intricate procedures for wound closure and detoxification, the precise chakra control needed for the Healing Palm. It was vast, practical, and immediately accessible. A lifesaver in this world.
Satisfied with the core functions, I began the systematic search of the apartment. Survival depended on resources. Priority: Food, water, weapons, storage. The bed first. Crouching, I peered underneath. Dust bunnies… and a sturdy military-style duffel bag. I dragged it out. Unzipping it revealed a treasure trove for the apocalypse: canned beans, peaches, and soup; protein bars stacked neatly; five sealed liter bottles of water; a compact but well-stocked first-aid kit; a tightly rolled sleeping bag; a small, lightweight tent strapped to the side; spare socks and underwear; and nestled at the bottom – the big, familiar cylinder of a sealing scroll. Exactly as promised. A genuine chuckle escaped me – half relief, half disbelief.
I pulled the scroll out first. Unfurling it on the floor, I channeled a trickle of chakra. The intricate sealing formula glowed faintly, then revealed… emptiness. Just blank parchment. Disappointing, but logical. Need to fill it myself. Methodically, I placed the canned goods and water bottles onto the scroll's surface. Focusing chakra, I formed the release seal with my fingers. Poof. The items vanished, sealed away in timeless stasis. "Guess I'll have to look for supplies the old fashioned way, huh?" I muttered, the sound loud in the quiet room.
I placed the duffel on the bed and turned to the closet. The door creaked open. Hanging inside wasn't flannel or denim, but sleek, dark fabric and reinforced plates. An ANBU uniform – Konoha black, complete with armored vest, reinforced arm and leg guards (greaves), and fingerless gloves. Laid beneath it: a sheathed katana (Tatsuko, the name whispered in my mind), two well-worn tactical pouches, one bulging with kunai, the other with shuriken, and a coil of thin, incredibly strong steel wire.
Overkill for walkers, but perfect. Relief washed over me, cold and steady. I shed my pajamas and donned the ANBU gear. It fit perfectly, lightweight yet offering significant protection against bites and scratches. The vest wouldn't stop a bullet, but walkers didn't shoot. The sword settled comfortably across my back in its saya. The kunai pouch went on my left thigh, the shuriken pouch on my right hip. The wire coil was secured discreetly behind my back, under the vest. The mask was absent. Good. Better for communication.
"Where the hell is a mirror when you need one?" I grumbled, heading for the bathroom. The small space held a grimy mirror above the sink. I stopped, truly seeing myself for the first time. Young. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. Tall, leanly muscled – a fighter's build. Long, dark hair fell straight and sleek to my shoulders.
Sharp, intelligent dark eyes, no trace of Itachi's characteristic stress lines. High cheekbones, a defined jaw. Handsome, in a pale, almost ethereal way. Japanese ancestry was dominant, but with hints suggesting mixed heritage. Damn, I clean up well. A brief, absurd moment of vanity surfaced before the reality of the situation clamped down again. I practiced a few stances – smooth, balanced, powerful. This body knows violence.
Leaving the bathroom, I finished clearing the apartment. Kitchen knives (sealed), pots and pans (sealed – cooking potential), spare blankets (sealed), but nothing else vital. Time to expand the search. I shouldered the duffel bag – now containing only the scroll and two water bottles – and eased the apartment door open, katana sliding silently from its sheath into my hand.
The hallway was dim, lit only by emergency exit signs. Five walkers shuffled aimlessly, their moans echoing off the bare walls. They turned as one, drawn by the sound or scent. Instinct took over. My arm blurred. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Five kunai flew with impossible speed and precision, each finding its mark through an eye socket or temple. The bodies crumpled wetly. No hesitation. No tremor. Itachi's efficiency.
It took two hours to meticulously clear the entire third floor. Room by room, silent as shadow, lethal as a razor. I encountered more walkers – dispatched with kunai thrown from darkness or the silent kiss of Tatsuko's blade. The haul was significant: more canned food, bottled water, toilet paper, soap, towels, blankets, pillows. In one apartment, tucked in a nightstand drawer: a Glock 17 with three full magazines and a worn hip holster. I secured it immediately on my belt. In another, a baseball bat, a cricket helmet, and three surprisingly sharp machetes. I retrieved every kunai, wiping them clean. Everything non-essential went into the scroll with satisfying poofs. The scroll became my bottomless inventory. The duffel remained light.
Satisfied the floor was secure, I barricaded my original room's door with a heavy dresser and the small fridge, ate a cold can of beans and a protein bar, and lay down on the bed. Sleep came quickly, deep and dreamless, the calm of the predator resting.
Dawn bled grey light through the curtains. Another protein bar, another can of beans – cold, tasteless fuel. I geared up meticulously. The Glock holstered on my right hip. Tatsuko sheathed securely on my left. The baseball bat, fitted into a makeshift harness, rested across my right shoulder. Seven kunai filled the thigh holster. A smaller kunai sheath was strapped to my right boot under the greave. The duffel bag secured on my back. Finally, the slightly absurd but practical cricket helmet went on my head. Every layer counts.
The stairs down to the second floor groaned under my weight. The hallway there was a nightmare. At least twenty-one walkers packed the space, drawn by yesterday's muted activity or simply trapped. A low growl rippled through them as they sensed me. Time for a test. I drew Tatsuko. The blade felt like an extension of my arm. I activated the Sharingan. The world bled crimson, every twitch, every lunge magnified, predictable. I stepped forward.
Chaos erupted. I moved through them, not around. Tatsuko became a silver blur – horizontal slices decapitating, vertical strikes splitting skulls, precise thrusts piercing eyes. I flowed like water, ducking under clumsy grabs, spinning away from lunges, using a walker as a shield against another. A kick shattered a kneecap, sending a walker crashing into two others. The Sharingan processed everything – trajectories, weaknesses, openings – faster than thought. Ten minutes later, the hallway was a charnel house of dismembered corpses and black gore. I stood amidst the carnage, breathing steadily, Tatsuko dripping, my gear spattered but unbreached. Enhanced. Efficient.
The first floor was worse. Over thirty walkers milled near the barricaded main entrance and side doors. I repeated the dance of death, a whirlwind of sharpened steel guided by supernatural perception. The locked doors were secured with chains I'd scavenged. Then came the real work: scavenging. Every apartment yielded more supplies – food, medicine, tools, clothing. By late afternoon, the scroll held enough for three months. I understood my new body's limits now – speed bordering on the superhuman, strength to shatter bone with ease, endurance that barely flagged.
I claimed a clean, ground-floor apartment facing the alley as my new base. After a light dinner (sealed tuna, crackers), I spread a detailed map of Georgia on the table. Route 85. Rick's path into Atlanta. My finger traced the highway, then moved to a cluster of buildings nearby. There. A large department store, strategically positioned. That's where Glenn will be. Where Rick will stumble into the horde. That was my rendezvous point. I blew out the scavenged candles, plunging the room into darkness. Sleep claimed me again, the silence broken only by the ever-present moans outside. Tomorrow would be chaos.
----------------------------
Midday sun beat down on Atlanta's corpse, baking the stench of decay into the concrete. I moved like a ghost through back alleys and service roads, sticking to shadows, senses extended. The cricket helmet felt hot and cumbersome, but the protection was worth it. The map was etched in my mind. I was close.
Then, the sounds shattered the oppressive quietude. The terrified scream of a horse. The guttural, hungry snarls of the dead. And then, sharp, echoing cracks – gunfire. Seven shots, rapid and panicked, followed by an abrupt, chilling silence. Rick.
I broke into a run, unsheathing Tatsuko as I moved. The alley walls blurred. I pushed chakra into my legs, feeling the surge of unnatural speed. Turning the final corner, I activated the Sharingan. Time seemed to slow, crystallizing the scene into hyper-focused clarity. The street opened onto a small plaza dominated by an abandoned M1 Abrams tank. Surrounding it, a seething mass of at least sixty-seven walkers, their collective moan a physical pressure. Their attention was laser-focused on the tank's hatch. And there, just a few feet from the tank's treads, lay a bulging green duffel bag. Rick's guns.
No time for hesitation. I exploded into motion. Tatsuko flashed, a silver scythe reaping rotten wheat. Heads rolled. Necks parted cleanly. Torsos split open. I wove through the horde, using their own bodies as obstacles, kicks shattering limbs and sending walkers tumbling. Sharingan predicted every lunge, every grab, microseconds before it happened. Five seconds. Fifteen walkers down. A decaying hand swiped at my back. I dropped, rolled under it, came up in a crouch beside the bag. Snatched it. Stood. Spun. Tatsuko whirled in a blinding horizontal arc. Five heads flew. Gore sprayed.
At that exact moment, the tank hatch clanged open. Rick Grimes, face pale beneath grime and blood, hauled himself out, a Beretta M9 clutched in his shaking hand. He froze, eyes wide with utter disbelief, staring at the blood-soaked teenager who had just bisected a walker inches from his face.
"Move your ass, man!" My voice cut through the moans, sharp and commanding. "Or we're gonna be lunch for these freaks!" I didn't wait, turning and sprinting towards the narrow alley on our left, the gun bag slung over my shoulder, Sharingan deactivated.
Rick scrambled after me, firing wild shots behind him to slow the encroaching tide. In the alley's mouth, Glenn Rhee appeared, eyes wide with terror and astonishment. "Hurry up! Get over here!" he yelled, already scrambling up a rusty ladder bolted to the building wall.
I reached the ladder and jumped, catching the rungs halfway up, scaling it with effortless speed. Rick followed, gasping, his movements heavy with exhaustion and adrenaline. We reached a second-floor metal landing. Glenn slumped against a wall, hands on knees, sucking in great gulps of air. Rick leaned heavily on the railing, chest heaving. I stood calmly, chakra already cycling, smoothing my breathing.
"Damn, that was close," Glenn wheezed. He looked at me, a shaky grin forming. "Nice moves there, Clint Eastwood. You the new sheriff? Come ridin' in to clean up the town?" His attempt at levity was strained.
"A dumbass is what he is," I stated flatly, looking at Rick. My voice was cold, cutting through Glenn's forced humor. "This isn't the wild west. Cowboy shit like that gets people killed." Rick's expression tightened, a mix of offense, shame, and lingering shock. Before he could formulate a reply, I moved to the next ladder leading to the roof. "We'll talk later. For now, let's move." I climbed swiftly.
Glenn clapped Rick on the shoulder as he followed. "Heh, look at the bright side, Sheriff. If you fall, it'll be the fall that kills ya, not those hungry geeks down below."
The roof was hot tar under the relentless sun. Rick leaned against a vent, finally catching his breath properly. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead. "What's... your name, kid?" he asked, eyeing me with deep wariness.
"Hadrian. Hadrian Walters." My gaze met his steadily. "And I'm the most dangerous person you will ever meet in this world. So drop the 'kid' reference." The statement hung in the air, heavy and undeniable.
"Yeah, Sheriff," Glenn chimed in, his voice still breathless but earnest. "You didn't see it like I did. Hadrian here sliced through twenty of those dead geeks like they were nothing to get to your guns. He moved... it was like a blur. Fastest damn thing I ever saw. Smooth, like... like a dancer killin' folks. Where'd you learn to fight like that?" He turned to me, awe mixed with apprehension.
The lie came easily, flavored with just enough truth. "I was trained since I was a boy in the art of killing." I kept my tone neutral, matter-of-fact. "You could say it's a family tradition." The silence that followed was thick. Glenn visibly swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. Rick's jaw clenched, the unease deepening into something darker – the realization that the rules had changed utterly.
Rick extended a hand, forcing professionalism through the shock. "Name's Rick Grimes. And thank you both. Seriously. You pulled my ass out of the fire." His grip was firm, calloused.
"Glenn Rhee. No problem, man. Mostly Hadrian, though," Glenn added quickly.
"So," Rick looked between us, the leader instinct surfacing despite his disorientation, "what now?"
I answered before Glenn could. "I'm guessing Glenn here is part of a group. We meet them, then find a way out. That ruckus just drew every walker in a ten-block radius." I nodded towards Glenn.
"Yeah," Glenn confirmed, pulling a small CB radio from his belt. "My people are holed up in the department store next door. We were scavenging when Sheriff Trigger-Happy started the party. Others are still barricaded inside." He keyed the mic, his voice tense. "Guys? You copy? It's Glenn. I've got the Sheriff and... uh... help. We're comin' in!"
We followed Glenn down through a roof access door, then down dim, cluttered stairs smelling of mildew and dust. Glenn led us to a side door exiting into another alley. He radioed again. "Coming out! Don't shoot!" As we emerged, two figures in baseball catcher's gear – Morales and T-Dog – burst from a doorway further down, wielding bats against four advancing walkers.
I didn't hesitate. Two kunai flew from my hand, thudding into walker skulls. Morales and T-Dog finished the other two with heavy swings. Glenn and Rick rushed past me into the store. Morales and T-Dog followed, slamming and bolting the heavy metal door behind us. The relative gloom of the store's stockroom was a relief.
It vanished instantly. Andrea stood there, wild-eyed, her pistol shaking violently in her hand, aimed directly at Rick's head. "You sons of bitches!" she screamed, her voice raw with panic and fury. The barrel swung towards me. "I oughta kill you both!" Her finger was dangerously close to the trigger, but the safety was visibly on. Idiot.
Rage, cold and sharp, sliced through my calm. In a blink, my hand moved. A kunai, trailing a thin strand of steel wire, flashed through the air. Clang! It struck her pistol with pinpoint accuracy, knocking it from her grasp. A sharp yank on the wire pulled her off balance. She stumbled forward, a cry escaping her lips, directly into my reach. My free hand shot out, clamping around her throat like a vise. I lifted her effortlessly off her feet. Her eyes bulged, her free hand scrabbling uselessly at my iron grip, her feet kicking air. The wire kept her other arm pinned.
"Never," I hissed, my voice dropping to a sub-zero whisper that silenced the shocked room, "ever point a gun at me like that again." My dark eyes bored into her terrified blue ones. "Or it will be the last time you have a hand." The threat hung in the air, absolute and terrifying.
The stockroom froze. Morales gaped. T-Dog looked stunned. Jacqui pressed a hand to her mouth. Glenn took a step forward, hands raised placatingly. "Hey, hey! Whoa! Hadrian, man! Easy! Put her down, okay? Please?" His voice was high-pitched with alarm.
I held Andrea's gaze for two more seconds, letting the terror sink in, letting her feel the absolute lack of mercy in my eyes. Weakness with a weapon is a death sentence. Better she learns fear now. Then I released her. She dropped like a sack, collapsing to her knees, gasping and choking, her face slowly fading from purple back to pale. Jacqui rushed to her side, murmuring reassurances. The others stared at me with naked fear now. Andrea looked up, rubbing her bruised throat, her eyes wide with shock and a dawning, primal fear. She met my gaze for a split second before flinching away. Good.
Glenn jumped in, desperate to defuse the bomb I'd just set off. "Alright, look! It wasn't Hadrian who fired those shots! It was Rick! Hadrian was nearby, heard the shots, and came to help! Saved both our asses!"
I removed the cricket helmet, running a hand through my sweat-damp hair. The stunned silence deepened as they registered my youth. Andrea's expression was pure cognitive dissonance – terror warring with disbelief at the face of the teenager who'd nearly crushed her windpipe. I also realized, belatedly, that I was coated head-to-toe in dried, flaking walker gore and blood – a horrifying spectre. T-Dog broke the silence with a sigh heavy with resignation. "Doesn't matter anymore who fired what. We're all dead now. Glass won't hold forever."
Rick frowned. "I don't understand."
Morales gripped Rick's arm, his expression grim. "C'mon." He led Rick towards the store's main entrance. The sight that greeted them was apocalyptic. A sea of walkers pressed against the huge plexiglass windows and doors, dozens, maybe hundreds. Fists, heads, shoulders slammed against the barrier in a relentless, mindless tide. The glass groaned under the pressure, spiderweb cracks already spreading like frost.
"We came into the city to scavenge," Morales said, his voice tight. "You know the key to scavenging? Surviving. You know the key to surviving? Sneaking in and out. No noise. Definitely no shootin' up the damn street!" T-Dog added, ripping off his chest protector, his voice thick with accusation. "You just rung the dinner bell on our asses, Cowboy."
A loud CRACK echoed through the store as a fissure snaked across the main window. Everyone flinched back.
"What the hell were you doing out there anyway?" Andrea rasped, still on her knees, glaring at Rick but carefully avoiding looking at me.
"Trying to flag down the helicopter," Rick stated, his eyes fixed on the cracking glass.
"Helicopter?" T-Dog scoffed. "Man, ain't no helicopters flying 'round here. You chasin' mirages, Sheriff."
"Probably dehydration, stress," Jacqui offered softly. "Hallucinations."
"I saw it too," I stated calmly, drawing all eyes back to me, wary and uneasy. "Low flight path. Search pattern." My confirmation, delivered with unnerving certainty, added another layer of confusion.
Before the debate could continue, three sharp CRACKS echoed from above – gunfire on the roof.
"Oh god," Andrea whispered, fear momentarily overriding her anger. "Dixon?" She scrambled to her feet. The others reacted instantly, panic surging anew.
"Damn fool!" I snapped, the irritation genuine. "He's calling the whole damn city down on us! Move!" I shoved past Rick towards the stairwell leading up. "Hurry!"
We stampeded up the concrete stairs, the gunfire growing louder with each flight. Morales was first through the roof door, followed by the others. I came out last, just behind Rick. Merle Dixon stood near the roof's edge, firing his rifle wildly down into the street below, cackling like a madman.
"Hey, Dixon! Are you crazy!?" Morales yelled, advancing.
Merle spun, his eyes bloodshot, a manic grin splitting his face. "Huh? Heey! You outta be polite to a man holdin' a gun!" He waved the rifle loosely in Morales's direction.
T-Dog, fueled by adrenaline and anger, stepped forward. "You dumb redneck! You tryin' to get us killed faster?" The confrontation escalated rapidly. T-Dog swung. Merle dodged with surprising speed for his state and slammed the rifle butt into T-Dog's mouth. A tooth flew. T-Dog went down hard. Rick rushed in. Merle met him with a vicious left hook that sent the Sheriff sprawling.
Merle turned his fury back on T-Dog, kicking and stomping. "Stupid nigger! Tryin' to take Merle Dixon?" Andrea, Jacqui, Morales, and Glenn yelled, trying to intervene but held back by the rifle Merle still clutched.
I watched for precisely three seconds. Then I moved. As Merle reared back for another stomp, my hand shot out, grabbing his wrist in an unbreakable grip. I yanked him backwards. He crashed onto the tarpaper, stunned. Before he could recover, my boot slammed down onto his face. Crunch. His head snapped back, eyes rolling. Another stomp for good measure. He lay still, groaning, blood streaming from his broken nose.
"Rick! Cuffs!" I barked. Rick, shaking his head clear, fumbled his handcuffs free and tossed them over. I hauled Merle's limp form to a thick ventilation pipe, wrenched his arms behind it, and cuffed him tight. A quick pat-down yielded a small plastic bag of white powder from his jacket pocket. I held it up for everyone to see. "Explains the party," I said flatly.
I stood, dusting my hands off, and leaned against the roof ledge, watching the street below. Merle groaned, blinking back to awareness. "Hey... that's my stuff! Give it here, you slant-eyed little bastard, or I'll—"
"Hey!" Rick cut in, his voice firm, stepping forward. He looked down at Merle, then at the rest of the group – T-Dog spitting blood, Andrea trembling, the others shell-shocked. "There are no 'niggers' anymore. No 'white trash.' Just the living," he pointed to us, "and the dead." He gestured towards the horde below. "We clear?"
Merle just glared, spitting blood. "Fuck you, Officer Friendly. And fuck your chink friend! When I get loose—" My boot connected with his face again, cutting off the tirade. "You talk too much," I stated, delivering a third, measured stomp. Merle slumped, unconscious. Andrea and Jacqui shared a look of horrified realization. Morales just shook his head. Glenn looked utterly lost. Rick picked up Merle's discarded rifle.
"He'll be out awhile," Morales said, helping T-Dog sit up. T-Dog touched his split lip, wincing.
"T-Dog, you okay?" Glenn asked, pulling out his own radio.
"Yeah," T-Dog mumbled, testing his jaw. "Radio's dead, though. Signal's weaker than Merle's brain right now." He fiddled with the knobs, getting only static.
While they talked, I pulled Glenn aside. "Follow me. Bring your radio. Now." The command brooked no argument. We slipped back down the stairs, out the side door, and retraced our path through the alleys, back to the ladder we'd used earlier. We climbed to the roof again. I pulled the shotgun from Rick's gun bag and shoved it into Glenn's hands. "Safety off. Point. Pull trigger. Reload here." I showed him the pump action quickly. "Cover me."
Down the ladder again. We crept through the alley mouth. Sharingan active, I scanned. There. A construction site across the street, partially fenced. A large red Camaro parked beside an 18-wheeler. "Keys," I muttered. A quick search of a nearby foreman's shack yielded a keyring. I tossed the truck keys to Glenn. "Hotwire the car. Cause a distraction. Loud."
Glenn's eyes widened, but he nodded, the plan dawning on him. He sprinted to the Camaro. Seconds later, the car alarm blared into the decaying city – an ear-splitting, insistent wail. Walkers' heads snapped towards the sound. Glenn peeled out, the Camaro fishtailing as he sped down a side street, leading the horde away like a demented pied piper. I counted to sixty in my head, the alarm fading into the distance, the bulk of the walkers shambling after it.
I ran to the semi, jumped into the cab, and jammed the key into the ignition. The diesel engine roared to life. I slammed it into gear and floored it, the massive truck lurching forward. Rain began to fall, first in heavy drops, then a torrential downpour. I pulled up directly in front of the department store's main entrance, leaned on the horn – five long, blaring notes.
The metal door flew open. Merle burst out first, surprisingly agile despite his injuries, running for the semi's trailer. Behind him came Rick, Morales helping T-Dog, Andrea, and Jacqui. They scrambled into the trailer. Rick yanked open the passenger door. "Drive!" he yelled, hauling Merle into the cab beside him. I slammed the accelerator. The semi surged forward, crushing walkers caught in its path, pushing through the rain-lashed street towards the highway.
Merle wiped blood from his nose, eyeing me with a strange mix of resentment and grudging respect. "You're one crazy son of a bitch, kid," he rasped.
"Yeah? You're not still pissed about that shit on the roof?" I asked, navigating the flooded streets.
Merle chuckled wetly. "Nah. Needed that beatin' to clear the fog. Officer Friendly here," he jerked a thumb at Rick, "made me a deal I couldn't refuse." Rick kept his eyes on the road ahead, his expression unreadable. Whatever deal they'd struck on the roof remained between them.
As we approached the city limits, something caught my Sharingan-enhanced eye. Parked haphazardly on the shoulder, doors hanging open: a massive, imposing vehicle. Military-grade. An INKAS Huron APC, painted matte black. Bodies in fatigues lay scattered around it. A beast of a machine.
"Shit," I breathed, a genuine spark of excitement in my voice. "Now that's a ride. One of you take the wheel. I'm claiming that APC." I started slowing down.
Merle whistled appreciatively. "That's a beast, boy. You think you can handle her?"
A predatory smile touched my lips. "Oh yeah. That big girl is mine." I pulled the semi onto the shoulder just past the APC. Rick slid over into the driver's seat as I hopped out. I sprinted through the rain towards the armored vehicle. Walkers stirred nearby, drawn by the semi's noise. I ignored them, vaulting over a slumped body and into the APC's open driver's door. Slammed it shut. The interior smelled of oil, cordite, and death. Empty. Keys in the ignition. I turned them. The engine roared to life, a deep, powerful thrum that vibrated through the seat. Mine.
I saw Rick pull the semi back onto the road ahead. Honking the APC's horn twice in acknowledgment, I followed. I unfastened the gun bag and my duffel, tossing them into the spacious rear compartment. Military gear was strewn about – ammo cans, ration packs, a medic kit, spare uniforms. Jackpot. A fierce grin spread across my face. This changes everything.
The original plot was already shredded. Merle was with the group. Andrea had felt my hand around her throat. And I was rolling out of Atlanta in a goddamn tank. As we merged onto the rain-slicked highway, Glenn's red Camaro came speeding up from behind, Glenn whooping and waving from the window before zooming past. I chuckled, knowing the vultures back at camp would strip it bare. Let them try. They'll learn. The road stretched ahead, wet and grey. The real game was just beginning.
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Camp - Quarry
(AMY POV)
The static hissed from the CB radio like a venomous snake, each burst of white noise tightening the knot of anxiety in Amy's chest. She sat hunched in a faded beach chair beside Dale's RV, the plastic straps digging into her legs. An hour. It had been an hour since T-Dog's garbled transmission cut off. 'Andrea… please be okay…' She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to banish the horrific images her imagination conjured. The book in her lap – a tattered romance novel – lay forgotten, its pages damp from her nervous sweating in the Georgia humidity.
Around the camp, life carried on with a fragile normalcy that felt like a lie. Carol tended a small fire, stirring a meager pot of beans. Ed glowered nearby. Carl and Sophia played a quiet game of jacks in the dirt. Lori folded laundry with tight, precise movements. Dale sat perched in his RV's lookout chair, binoculars constantly scanning the tree line and the road snaking below the quarry ledge. Shane patrolled the perimeter, his Remington 870 held loosely but ready, his expression perpetually tense.
The sudden, jarring blare of a car alarm ripped through the peaceful afternoon like a physical blow. Amy jumped, her heart slamming against her ribs. Shane snapped to attention, sprinting towards the parked vehicles near the camp entrance. "What the hell is that? Dale! You got eyes?" he barked, racking a shell into the shotgun's chamber.
Dale fumbled with his binoculars. "Can't tell yet! Still a ways off! Coming up the access road!" His voice was strained.
Amy was already on her feet, the book tumbling forgotten to the ground. Hope warred with dread. Please let it be them. Please let Andrea be okay. She ran to stand beside Shane, peering down the winding dirt track that led up from the highway below. The sound was maddeningly loud, echoing off the quarry walls.
Lori grabbed Carl, pulling him close. Carol clutched Sophia. Everyone watched the road, frozen. The blaring grew louder, accompanied by the roar of an engine being pushed hard. A flash of red appeared around the final bend.
"Well, I'll be damned," Dale breathed, lowering his binoculars slightly.
"What is it? Is it them?" Amy asked, her voice tight.
"Stolen car, by the look of it," Dale replied grimly. "Driving like the devil's on his tail."
The red Camaro skidded wildly onto the flat top of the quarry ledge, kicking up a spray of gravel, and slammed to a halt inches from Dale's camper. The alarm continued its ear-splitting shriek. Glenn tumbled out of the driver's seat, his face split by a wide, adrenaline-fueled grin, utterly oblivious to the terror he'd caused.
"Holy crap! Turn that damn thing off!" Dale bellowed, hands over his ears. "You'll bring every walker from here to Macon down on us!"
Glenn spread his hands helplessly, still grinning. "I got no clue how!"
"Pop the hood!" Shane yelled, striding forward, shotgun now pointed at the ground but his posture rigid with tension. He looked ready to strangle Glenn.
Amy couldn't wait. She rushed forward, grabbing Glenn's arm. "Glenn! Is my sister okay? Why isn't she with you? What happened?" The questions tumbled out in a frantic rush.
Glenn blinked, momentarily overwhelmed. "Huh? Yeah, everyone's fine! They're right behind me!" As if summoned, the massive shape of the semi-truck rumbled into view, cresting the hill and pulling to a stop behind the Camaro. Shane finally got the Camaro's hood open and ripped out a wire. Blessed silence crashed down, leaving only the sound of the idling semi and the rain that had followed them starting to patter on the dusty ground.
"You crazy driving this loud bastard up here?" Shane rounded on Glenn, fury barely contained. "You tryin' to draw in every damn walker from miles around? Paint a target on us?"
"I think we're okay, Shane," Dale interjected, scanning the surrounding woods with his binoculars. "The sound... it echoed all over this valley. Like a bell in a canyon. Hard to pinpoint exactly where it came from." His logic was sound, but Shane's scowl deepened.
Amy didn't hear them. Her eyes were locked on the semi's trailer. The doors swung open. Morales jumped down, running to embrace his wife and children. Then Andrea emerged, blinking in the rain. Relief, so intense it was almost painful, flooded Amy. "ANDREA!" she screamed, sprinting across the clearing. She crashed into her sister, wrapping her in a desperate hug, tears mingling with the rain on her cheeks. Andrea hugged back fiercely, but Amy felt a tremor run through her, a tension that hadn't been there before. Her eyes, when Amy pulled back slightly, kept flicking towards the semi's cab with something akin to fear.
-----------------
(POV MC)
I parked the black behemoth of the APC beside the idling semi, its diesel engine rumbling like a contented predator. The rain drummed a steady rhythm on its armored roof. Stepping out, I ignored the stunned stares from the camp residents – Shane's suspicious glare, Dale's open-mouthed wonder, the wide eyes of children and adults alike fixed on the imposing military vehicle. I had work to do.
Inside the APC's rear compartment, I unsealed the storage scroll with a puff of displaced air and got to work. The haul from the military vehicle was substantial, and I needed it organized and secure. The spacious interior became my armory and larder. Sorting took focused minutes:
Firepower: Three HK MP5s, two Sig SG 553 assault rifles, one Benelli M4 shotgun, five HK P7 pistols, one Remington M24 sniper rifle, two M4A1 assault rifles fitted with M203 grenade launchers and scopes.
Ammunition: Seventeen heavy ammo boxes filled with various calibers.
Supplies: Five large crates containing MREs (Meals Ready-to-Eat), flashlights, a flare gun with flares, waterproof matches, flint and steel, portable solar-powered lanterns, basic tools.
Gear: Eight complete combat gear sets (gas masks, goggles, ballistic helmets, night vision binoculars, gloves, boots, combat trousers, tactical vests, combat belts), one full-body ceramic riot suit (heavy but incredibly protective).
Other: Two razor-sharp tomahawk axes, seven M84 stun grenades (flashbangs), four M67 fragmentation grenades (handle with extreme care), five military-grade CB radios.
The non-essentials – the rifles, sniper, grenade launchers, most ammo, the bulk supplies, the riot suit, spare gear sets, grenades – vanished into the storage scroll with satisfying poofs. I kept the Benelli, the five HK P7s, the three MP5s, the two tomahawks, and a reasonable amount of accessible ammo out. Then Glenn appeared at the open rear door, peering in with awe.
"Holy shit, Hadrian. You hit the jackpot!" His eyes were wide as saucers, taking in the APC's armored interior and the remaining gear.
"Glenn. Good timing," I said, tossing him a heavy crate of MREs. "Help me clear some space on this side. Need room for a bed." We worked together, muscling out the fold-down seats on the left side of the compartment. Glenn kept up a steady stream of amazed commentary. "This thing is a beast! Where'd you even find it? Man, I am so jealous right now." He ran a hand over the cool, reinforced steel wall.
Once the space was cleared, I secured the remaining gear in lockers bolted to the walls. "Show me the camp," I instructed, slinging the bag containing Rick's recovered guns over my shoulder, the Benelli over the other, and the two tomahawks tucked into my belt. I locked the APC's heavy rear doors with a satisfying clunk.
As we walked, Glenn launched into his tour-guide spiel, pointing out the water source (the quarry below, needing purification), the fishing spot, Dale's lookout post. I listened with half an ear, my Sharingan-enhanced gaze taking in the woeful state of the camp. No perimeter fence. No watch rotations beyond Dale. No early-warning systems. Tents haphazardly pitched. People milling about with a dangerous complacency. Sitting ducks. The sight of elderly members and very young children solidified my decision. The weak would be culled by the world soon enough. My focus would be on the strong.
"Hey Glenn," I interrupted him as we passed a group of men idly whittling wood. "How many people total here?"
"Uh... around thirty-five, give or take? Why?"
"How many are young? Fit? Capable of fighting? Like you, Morales, T-Dog... Merle's brother?"
Glenn thought. "Daryl? Yeah... maybe eight or nine guys who could handle themselves, including me and Daryl."
"Call them. All of them. To my APC. Later this afternoon." My tone left no room for debate.
Glenn blinked. "Sure... uh, what's this about?"
"You'll find out at the meeting," I replied, offering no more.
The tour concluded at the central fire pit. Rick stood with Lori and Carl. Shane lingered nearby, his eyes tracking me like a hawk. Carl played with Sophia and a few other kids. The weight of Shane's suspicion was palpable.
"Hadrian, hey," Rick greeted, a genuine warmth in his voice despite the exhaustion lining his face. "Lori, this is Hadrian Walters. The one who got us out of Atlanta alive." He turned to me. "Hadrian, my wife, Lori."
I nodded curtly to Lori, whose eyes held a mixture of gratitude and deep apprehension as she took in my blood-stained ANBU gear and the arsenal I carried. I dropped the bag of guns at Rick's feet. Shane stepped forward, his gaze fixed on the Benelli slung on my back and the tomahawks at my belt.
"You know how to use those, kid?" Shane's voice was laced with condescension. "Might be best to hand 'em over to folks with real experience. Professionals." He held out a hand expectantly.
I turned slowly, meeting Shane's eyes directly. I didn't speak. Didn't blink. Just held his gaze, letting the silence stretch, letting him feel the utter lack of intimidation he projected. My expression was utterly blank, but my eyes, dark and assessing, conveyed a silent challenge. Shane's jaw tightened. His eyes flickered. Rick saw the tension coiling like a spring and stepped between us, placing a hand on my shoulder.
"No need, Shane," Rick said firmly, his voice brooking no argument. He bent to pick up the gun bag. "Hadrian retrieved this bag under heavy fire. He's earned the right to his pick. And trust me," Rick added, looking Shane dead in the eye, "he knows exactly how to handle himself. Probably better than anyone here." He turned back to me, clapping my shoulder. "Thanks again, Hadrian. For everything."
"No problem," I said, my voice flat. I turned and walked away without a backward glance at Shane, whose face darkened with frustration and simmering anger. Obsessed simp. Dead man walking.
My next stop was the cluster of tents where Merle and Daryl resided. Merle sat on an upturned crate outside his tent, a bottle of cheap whiskey in one hand, a filthy rag pressed to his still-oozing nose. He looked up as I approached, his eyes bloodshot but alert, lacking their earlier manic glaze. "Well, if it ain't the rooftop stomper," he drawled, a crooked, pained smile twisting his lips. "You here for round two?"
"Nope," I replied. "Peace offerings." I unslung the Benelli M4 and tossed it to him.
Merle caught it one-handed, his eyes widening with genuine surprise that quickly morphed into appreciation. He ran a calloused hand along the sleek barrel. "Heh! A Benelli? Now that's what I call a peace pipe, kid." His grin widened.
"That's not all." I pulled one of the tomahawks from my belt and flipped it handle-first towards him.
Merle snatched it out of the air, his grin turning predatory as he hefted its perfect balance. "Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit," he chuckled, a low, rasping sound. "Now this here speaks my language." He gave it an experimental swing, the blade whistling through the air.
"So? We good?" I asked, watching as Merle chuckled to himself like a child on Christmas.
"Yeah kid, we good." Merle answered, turning to me, "Tell you what? If you find other goodies like these? I might just let you stomp on my face again." He chuckled and started polishing the shotgun.
Tossing him a couple of the shotgun's shells I left Merle and walked back towards my APC. It was time to set up my sleeping bag and other things inside, then take a bath in the quarry before nightfall. The stay here was sure to be eventful in the coming days.
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