One day passed.
The camp still hadn't recovered from what happened with Ed. People spoke more quietly, moved more carefully, as if one wrong step might shatter the fragile balance they'd barely found.
Night didn't wait.
Dale was on watch.
As always.
He stood on the rise with his binoculars when he caught movement along the old road. Not a walker. Not an animal.
A man.
The figure moved carefully—too carefully.
"Contact," Dale said quietly into the radio. "One. Watching."
The response came almost immediately.
"Copy," Harry answered. "Don't engage. Let him think he wasn't seen."
The figure lingered a few minutes longer, then slipped back into the dark.
"He's gone," Dale reported.
"No," Harry replied. "He went to get others."
The Attack
Just over an hour later, the first shot rang out.
Dry. Controlled.
The bullet struck Harry square in the chest.
The impact knocked the air from his lungs and forced him back a step—but he stayed upright.
"Sniper!" someone shouted.
Harry looked down.
The leather cuirass had taken the hit.
No tear.
No dent.
Not even a visible deformation—only a dark mark where the bullet had lost its energy and fallen harmlessly to the ground.
"He's been shot!" someone yelled from cover.
"No," Harry said evenly. "Missed."
A second shot.
Again to the chest.
Same result.
"What the hell?!" one of the attackers shouted from the darkness. "He should be down!"
"Cover!" Harry ordered. "Flanks. Stay calm!"
Five armed men emerged from the shadows, confident and aggressive.
Harry stepped forward deliberately.
The first arrow flew—throat.
The second—eye.
Daryl worked the right flank with cold precision.
Merle covered the left, loud and brutal.
The fight ended quickly.
Four attackers lay dead. The fifth fled into the darkness, limping.
Aftermath
Silence returned slowly.
People emerged from cover, staring.
"They shot you," Andrea said, disbelief clear in her voice. "With a rifle."
Harry removed the cuirass.
It was intact.
No cracks.
No dents.
"I heard the report," Dale said. "That was a rifle."
Daryl looked at the armor again, then said quietly:
"I'd want one of those."
Merle snorted, then nodded.
"Damn right. If it stops that, I'm in."
Harry met their eyes.
"I said I'd help," he replied calmly. "I meant it.
Not immediately—but I will."
Merle studied him.
"You serious?"
"Yes," Harry answered. "If we're holding this perimeter together, protection matters."
Others nearby heard him.
The Worse Truth
A shout came from the main camp.
"They're getting up!"
Bodies from the firefight began to twitch.
And among them—
Ed.
Empty eyes. Jerky movements.
"Hold," Harry said sharply. "Step back."
"But—" someone whispered. "No one bit them."
"No bite marks," Dale confirmed. "I checked."
Harry nodded.
"Then listen carefully," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Bites aren't the cause.
If you die—you turn.
Everyone. No exceptions."
Fear spread.
"Then what do we do?" Andrea asked.
"The same thing as always," Harry replied. "Head. Control."
A few precise strikes ended it.
After
Carol held Sophia close, staring at the ground.
"He…" her voice broke.
"I know," Harry said quietly. "But now you know the truth."
He looked over the camp.
"The living come for your supplies.
The dead just keep walking.
And the dead always come back."
He fastened the armor again.
"Perimeter isn't optional. It's survival."
That night, the camp learned two things:
Armor saves lives.
And death isn't the end.
End of Chapter 17