Chapter 5: The Weight of Tomorrow
The night watch had become Jake's obsession.
For two weeks, he'd volunteered for every shift, claiming insomnia and a desire to be useful. The truth was darker—he couldn't sleep knowing what was coming. The walker attack loomed in his mind like a storm on the horizon, inevitable and devastating, and his inability to warn anyone was driving him slowly insane.
He paced the camp's perimeter in the pre-dawn darkness, his death sense extended to its maximum range, scanning the tree line for the hollow voids that would herald their doom. Fifteen feet. That was all he could manage, a pathetic sphere of awareness in a world where death could approach from any direction.
The frustration gnawed at him like acid.
Jake had tried everything. Writing notes resulted in hand cramps so severe his fingers locked into claws. Drawing pictures caused violent tremors that made his sketches look like the work of a madman. Speaking in code triggered the same vocal scrambling that had plagued him since Atlanta—every warning transformed into meaningless babble.
He'd even tried Morse code, tapping out SOS on a metal pot during one desperate midnight attempt. The message had emerged as random noise, his motor control hijacked by whatever cosmic force kept his mouth sealed.
Behind him, the camp slept peacefully. Tents glowed softly in the starlight, filled with people who had no idea their safe haven was about to become a killing ground. Amy and Andrea shared their small blue tent near the water's edge. Carol and Sophia curled together for warmth and comfort. Dale dozed fitfully in his lawn chair atop the RV, trusting Jake to keep watch.
"They're all going to die because I can't say five simple words: 'Walkers are coming. Be ready.'"
The thought sent Jake's fist crashing into the nearest tree trunk. Pain exploded across his knuckles, blood welling from split skin, but the physical agony was nothing compared to the mental anguish. He hit the tree again, harder, leaving a smear of crimson on the bark.
"Son, what's eating you?"
Jake spun around, heart hammering. Dale stood ten feet away, flashlight in hand, his weathered face creased with concern. The older man had approached in perfect silence, a skill that seemed at odds with his grandfatherly appearance.
"Nothing," Jake said automatically, then winced at how hollow it sounded. "Just... stressed. Sorry if I woke you."
Dale studied him for a long moment, those sharp eyes taking in the bloody knuckles, the rigid posture, the haunted expression Jake couldn't quite hide. "Want to talk about it?"
God, yes. "There's nothing to talk about."
"Uh-huh." Dale settled onto a fallen log, patting the space beside him. "You know, in my experience, when someone says there's nothing to talk about, that usually means there's everything to talk about."
Jake remained standing, too agitated to sit. His death sense prickled with phantom threats, false alarms that made him jump at shadows. Every rustle in the underbrush could be scouts from the approaching horde. Every night bird call might mask the shuffle of dead feet.
"How do you stand it?" Jake asked suddenly. "The uncertainty. Not knowing what's coming."
Dale's eyebrows rose. "That's been the human condition since we climbed down from the trees, son. We never know what's coming. That's why we build communities, watch each other's backs."
"But what if you did know? What if you could see disaster approaching and couldn't warn anyone?" The words spilled out before Jake could stop them, raw with anguish. "What if your voice just... failed every time you tried to help?"
"Is that what this is about?" Dale's voice softened. "You think you see something the rest of us are missing?"
Jake's throat closed up. Even this oblique admission triggered the speech block, making his vocal cords seize. He nodded mutely, not trusting himself to speak.
Dale was quiet for a long time, watching the stars wheel overhead. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of decades. "During the war—Korea—I served with a guy named Morrison. Strangest thing about Morrie, he always knew when the shells were coming. Not the ones you could hear whistling in, but the silent ones, the ones that killed you before you knew they'd been fired."
Jake turned to face him, hope flickering in his chest.
"Morrie would just freeze up, couldn't speak, couldn't move. Rest of us learned to watch him, dive for cover when he got that look. Saved our unit more times than I can count." Dale met Jake's eyes. "Never did figure out how he knew. Some kind of sixth sense, maybe. But the knowing was eating him alive."
"What happened to him?"
"Made it through the war. Last I heard, he was running a hardware store in Kansas, married with three kids." Dale smiled sadly. "Point is, sometimes the burden of knowing is harder to bear than the ignorance of not knowing."
Jake's hands trembled. Here was someone who might understand, who might accept that knowledge could come without explanation. But even as he opened his mouth to try again, the familiar constriction seized his throat.
"I can't—" he began, then choked as the words tangled themselves into meaninglessness.
Dale reached out and gripped his shoulder. "Then don't try. Just be ready when the time comes. That's all any of us can do."
The old man's touch was warm, paternal, and Jake had to fight back tears. He nodded again, not trusting his voice, and Dale squeezed once before releasing him.
"Get some rest, son. Whatever's coming, you'll need your strength."
Dale shuffled back toward the RV, leaving Jake alone with his vigil. The brief moment of human connection had helped, but the fundamental problem remained. He knew death was coming, and he was powerless to prevent it.
The next evening brought a new torment.
Jake sat by the water's edge, mechanically cleaning his knife while his death sense scanned the treeline. Nearby, Amy and Andrea Harrison were doing laundry, their laughter carrying across the quarry like silver bells. They looked so alive, so vibrantly human, that watching them felt like staring into the sun.
Amy was teasing her sister about something—a childhood embarrassment involving a school play and a torn costume. Andrea's protests only made Amy laugh harder, her whole face lighting up with mischievous joy. She looked young in that moment, younger than her twenty-four years, innocent of the horror that was rushing toward them through the Georgia darkness.
"She has maybe hours left. Days at most. And I can't tell them to sleep somewhere else, to stay away from the RV, to watch for movement in the woods."
Jake's vision blurred as he realized he was crying. Silent tears tracked down his cheeks, salt-bitter with grief for a death that hadn't happened yet.
"You okay?" Andrea's voice made him jump. She was standing above him, wet clothes draped over her arm, concern creasing her features. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Just tired," Jake managed, wiping his eyes quickly. "Haven't been sleeping well."
Andrea settled beside him on the rocky shore, close enough that he could smell her soap and the lingering scent of lake water. "Bad dreams?"
"Something like that." Jake stared out across the water, unable to meet her eyes. How could he look at her knowing what was coming? How could he make small talk when her sister was living on borrowed time?
"You remind me of someone," he said suddenly, surprising himself. "Someone I used to know."
"Good someone or bad someone?"
"Good. Definitely good." Jake's voice cracked slightly. "She was brave. Stronger than she knew."
Andrea studied his profile, trying to read the pain written there. "What happened to her?"
"She died." The words came out flat, emotionless, but Jake's hands were shaking. "I couldn't save her."
Amy's laughter rang out again from where she was hanging shirts on an improvised clothesline. The sound was like a knife in Jake's chest, beautiful and doomed and utterly heartbreaking.
"I'm sorry," Andrea said quietly. "The world's taken a lot from all of us."
"Not as much as it's about to take."
The conversation continued for a few more minutes, polite and meaningless, but Jake barely heard it. His attention was fixed on Amy, memorizing her voice, her gestures, the way she hummed while working. Soon there would be nothing left but memories and regret.
When the sisters finally gathered their things and headed back to camp, Jake remained by the water. The weight of his foreknowledge was crushing him, making it hard to breathe. He knew too much and could do too little, trapped between knowledge and action by forces he didn't understand.
The stress built in his stomach like pressure in a sealed vessel, rising and rising until it found release. Jake leaned over and vomited into the lake, his body rejecting the poison of helpless certainty.
Behind him, the camp prepared for another peaceful night, unaware that their time was measured in hours.
He sat by the water until dawn, watching the horizon and counting down to disaster.
Author's Note / Promotion:
Your Reviews and Power Stones are the best way to show support. They help me know what you're enjoying and bring in new readers!
Can't wait for the next chapter of [ In The Walking Dead With 3 Wishes ]?
You don't have to. Get instant access to more content by supporting me on Patreon. I have three options so you can pick how far ahead you want to be:
🪙 Silver Tier ($6): Read 10 chapters ahead of the public site.
👑 Gold Tier ($9): Get 15-20 chapters ahead of the public site.
💎 Platinum Tier ($15): The ultimate experience. Get new chapters the second I finish them (20+ chapters ahead!). No waiting for weekly drops, just pure, instant access.
Your support helps me write more .
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/fanficwriter1