Episode 16 – "Ashes of Home"
John stood in the field, eyes scanning the tree line. His chest tightened as the memory of two weeks ago clawed back into his mind. Screams, blood, fire—his own gun spitting death into innocents. His stomach turned. He doubled over and vomited, bile burning his throat.
Then—A whisper.Only for him."Run… or you die."
His head snapped up. And that's when he saw them.
A tide of bodies, shuffling, sprinting—ferals mixed with shamblers. A horde. Thousands of them.
"WALKERS!" John's roar shook the farm.
The group rushed out, weapons firing, arrows loosing, panic seizing every breath. Bob's shotgun barked, Makota's machete hacked, Kelsey screamed names into the chaos.
But it wasn't enough. The wave swallowed fences, tore down gates.
Then the whisper again—louder, urgent:"Run. Retreat. Now."
John didn't think. He grabbed Cainen by the collar, dragging him toward the RV. "MOVE, GODDAMMIT!"
The farmhouse door splintered under clawing hands as the group piled inside the vehicle—Bob, Travis, Makota, Jackjack, Kelsey, Cainen.
Shawn wasn't fast enough. He turned to shoot one last burst, and the ferals swarmed him. His scream was cut short, drowned in teeth and blood.
Kelsey sobbed, clawing at the window as the RV lurched forward, wheels screaming in mud. "SHAWN! NOOO!"
John slammed the RV into gear, grinding it down the dirt road as their home fell apart behind them. Walls collapsed. Fire spread from lanterns knocked over in the struggle. The farmhouse—their safety, their roots—was consumed in seconds.
Inside, the group sat silent. Broken. Ash-smeared faces stared at nothing. No one spoke Shawn's name.
John's hands tightened on the wheel, knuckles white. His voice cracked low, almost to himself:"We just lost everything."
The RV rumbled into the night, leaving behind nothing but smoke and the ashes of home.
The RV rattled down the broken road, tires eating distance, but inside there was no escape.
Kelsey's sobs cut through the silence, muffled in her hands. Jackjack clung to her arm, too young to understand, but old enough to feel the fear.
Cainen broke the silence first, voice sharp:"This is on you, John."
The words hung heavy in the cramped air.
John didn't look back, hands welded to the wheel. "Say that again."
Cainen leaned forward, pointing at the back of John's head. "The farmhouse. Shawn. All of it. You brought this on us. You walk around like some damn devil and now the devil came knocking."
Bob tried to interject, voice tired: "Cainen—"
"No, Bob," Cainen snapped. "Someone needs to say it. We were safe until him. Every damn thing goes bad the moment he—"
John slammed the brakes. The RV screeched, everyone lurching forward. John stood, shoulders filling the narrow aisle, his eyes dark as night.
"You think I wanted this?" His voice was low, dangerous. "You think I asked to wake up every day with this curse in me? That horde didn't come for me. They came because this world don't give a damn about any of us."
Makota's hand tightened on his machete. Kelsey lifted her tear-streaked face, voice breaking."But Shawn's gone. Our home is gone. And every time something happens, John, it's like… like death follows you."
Silence. The RV hummed in idle. Everyone was waiting for John to explode again.
Instead, he sat back down, started the engine. His voice was quieter now, raspier."Maybe you're right. Maybe death does follow me. But if you think you'll last one day out there without me—go ahead. Open the damn door."
No one moved.
The RV rolled forward, the group stewing in their grief and resentment. John lit a cigarette, smoke curling around his head as he muttered under his breath:"Blame me all you want. But I'm the reason any of you are still breathing."