The Morning After the Massacre at Camp...
Rick stood alone on a ridge, staring out at the sunrise over Atlanta.
The city's jagged skyline caught the rising sun, bathing the ruins in harsh, molten orange. Long, skeletal shadows of distant trees stretched toward him like reaching fingers. The walkie-talkie in his hand felt heavy, almost reluctant to be lifted.
He pressed the button, voice rough from a sleepless night and smoke-scraped lungs.
"Morgan, it's Rick. If you're out there... don't come to Atlanta. The city belongs to the dead now. We—we lost people last night. Good people. Stay away. Stay safe."
The message hung in the air like smoke, dissipating into silence.
A few meters behind, Casey watched. His arms were crossed tight against his chest, his posture rigid with exhaustion.
Neither spoke. Words felt too small for what they'd all lost. Without a sound, Casey turned and headed back toward camp, boots scuffing through the morning dew.
At the camp…
Andrea and Amy struggled, faces pale and drawn, dragging a body across the ground toward one of the hastily built pyres.
The corpse's dead weight pulled at Amy's fragile arms. Halfway there, she dropped the arms with a gasp, staggering back before doubling over, vomiting into the dirt.
Andrea abandoned the body and rushed to her sister's side, cradling her shoulders, whispering frantic comforts into her hair.
Amy shook and sobbed, rocking in place as Andrea held her tighter.
Not far away, Daryl swung a pickaxe down into a dead walker's skull.
The wet crack echoed across the clearing. Blood sprayed his boots, but Daryl barely blinked.
He ripped the hand tool free and moved to the next body without a pause.
A little ways away…
Glenn and T-Dog worked side by side, their faces grim, their hands slick with sweat and gore. Together, they dragged more bodies onto the fire, where thick, greasy smoke curled into the grey sky — a signal of survival... and loss.
Later…
Rick returned from the ridge, grim-faced, and quickly gathered Lori and Shane near Dale's RV.
Shane, arms folded across his chest, kept scanning the tree line, always ready, always tense.
"We need to move," Shane said, voice rough. "Fort Benning. It's our best shot. Military's there."
Rick frowned, skeptical.
"You sure? We saw what the military left behind in Atlanta — blood and bodies."
His hand tightened around the grip of his Colt Python. "I'm thinking the CDC."
Shane scoffed loudly, disbelief thick in his voice.
"The Center for Disease Control? You think they're still answering phones over there? The government abandoned everything."
Rick clenched his jaw, his voice sharp with venom, "If that's true, then Fort Benning isn't even an option."
Lori stepped between them quickly, her tone firm but soothing as she placed a hand on Rick's chest, trying to steady him.
"Rick, calm down," she said, her voice soft but insistent. "Shane's frustrated, but that doesn't mean we can't consider other options."
Then, turning to Shane, she spoke with a hint of urgency in her voice, "Shane, we all know the government left us for dead, but that doesn't mean we give up. Rick's just trying to hold on to some hope. We need to look for something, anything."
Shane hesitated, his eyes darting between them. He grunted, frustration still evident, he opened his mouth—but Lori's look stopped him cold.
"Fine," he muttered, teeth clenched. "But if you're wrong, we're heading to Fort Benning."
He stormed off, boots crunching the gravel.
Rick turned toward Casey, who had been standing nearby, silently absorbing everything.
"What do you think?" Rick asked quietly. "You've been straight with me so far."
Casey nodded, slow and tired, "CDC's our best bet. If anyone's got answers, it's them."
As he spoke, his gaze drifted across the camp to Jacqui, who struggled to lift a heavy pack.
Without hesitation, Casey strode over and helped her, lifting the burden like it was nothing.
Rick watched him go, thoughtful, before turning back to the grim work still happening all around them.
A few were still ensuring the dead were taken care of, trying to clear the camp. He was just about to step in when Daryl approached, pickaxe slung lazily over one shoulder, his eyes shadowed and serious. "You need to deal with Jim," he said bluntly. "He's bit. He's a damn time bomb."
Rick sighed, his eyes flickering toward the growing commotion. "I'll see what I can do," he muttered, already moving.
Lori, standing nearby, bristled at Daryl's words. "He's still one of us," she snapped. "Show some respect."
Daryl glanced at her, unreadable, but said nothing. Instead, he turned on his heel and went to help Morales haul away another body.
Time passed…
Morales and Daryl dragged another body toward the fire while Glenn stood stiffly nearby, his hands balled into fists.
"This one's ours, we should bury them," Glenn said, his voice cracking. "They're our people. They go over in that pile."
Daryl scoffed, wiping sweat from his brow. "They're all walkers now. What's the difference? Just burn 'em and be done with it."
He started toward the fire, body tense with frustration—but Glenn stepped into his path, sharp as a razor.
"The geeks that attacked our camp go in that pile by the fire," Glenn said, his voice cutting through the heavy air. "Our people go over there to be buried."
For a moment, Daryl just stared at him, exasperated. But finally, with a grunt, he turned and started helping sort the bodies, muttering under his breath.
He and Morales finished up their end of the clearing and went over to the RV where a crowd had gathered. The air was heavy with unspoken words, the tension knotting everyone's shoulders tight. Rick stood at the center, arms crossed, face grim. Shane loomed nearby, pacing like a caged animal.
A little ways away…
Jacqui and Casey worked in silence, piling the dead into somber rows.
Jacqui cast a bitter glance at the ones who weren't helping—just cowering, sobbing.
"If people didn't expect this world to be cruel," she muttered, almost to herself, "they wouldn't have made it this far."
Casey paused, tossing a bloodied tarp aside. He looked at her, his voice low and steady.
"They're grieving, Jacqui. Let 'em."
Near the RV…
Rick and the others approached Jim, who sat slouched near the RV, cradling a shovel close to his chest like a life raft. Sweat glistened on his forehead, his skin pale and clammy, and his breathing came in shallow, rasping gulps
Rick raised a calming hand. "Jim, we need to see. Please."
Jim shook his head weakly, his voice raw. "I'm fine... just leave me be."
As he tried to edge away, shovel lifting slightly, T-Dog moved closer, Jim panicked, swinging the shovel in a wild arc.
T-Dog ducked fast, the metal whooshing just over his head.
Without missing a beat, he lunged forward, grappling with Jim, twisting the shovel free and tossing it to the ground with a loud clatter.
Before Jim could react, T-Dog moved in twisting around Jim and locking his arms behind the man's head in a tight hold, holding him firmly.
Jim struggled weakly, breath ragged, but he was burning out fast.
The others closed in cautiously, seeing the truth plain as day: Jim wasn't going to last.
Daryl stepped closer, face hardened, lifting the edge of Jim's shirt.
The angry red bite on his side was all the confirmation they needed.
Glenn staggered back, covering his mouth. "Oh god..."
The crowd argued amongst themselves. Tension snapped into the air like a whip.
Rick stared down at Jim, jaw tight.
"I'm not killing him," Rick said, voice steady but grim.
From across the clearing, Casey finished helping Jacqui dispatch the last of the walkers on their side. He dusted off his hands, casting a wary glance toward the gathering crowd near the RV. Sensing the rising tension, he made his way over, footsteps heavy on the dirt.
He came to a stop beside Rick, arms crossing over his chest, his expression hard.
"He's not gonna get better," Casey said, voice low but firm. "You know that."
The weight of his words settled over the group like a fresh wound, raw and undeniable. Rick's jaw tightened, his gaze flickering briefly to Jim, slumped and pale, before hardening with resolve. He then shook his head slowly. "That's why we go to the CDC. If there's any chance at all..."
Shane stepped forward, frustration bleeding through, "CDC's twenty-five miles through walker-filled streets. Fort Benning's farther, but it's safe."
Rick locked eyes with him. "If anywhere's still protected... it's the CDC."
Daryl shifted the pickaxe on his shoulder and moved quickly towards Jim with a hard glint.
"Why don't we take care of it now? Before he turns on us."
Rick moved fast, drawing his gun and leveling it at Daryl's head without hesitation.
"We don't kill the living," Rick said evenly.
Daryl smirked, tilting his head. "That true? You got a gun pointed at me."
Shane stepped between them quickly, hands raised.
"Alright, that's enough. He's right—stand down."
Daryl stalked off. Rick and Shane helped Jim into the RV, a heavy silence blanketing the camp as the others watched.
Near the crackling fire…
Dale sat with Andrea and Amy, the smoke curling into the dusky sky. His hands rested on his knees, his face lined with exhaustion but soft with an old man's kind patience.
"We'll get through this," Dale said, his voice steady despite everything. "One way or another."
Andrea, sitting close to Amy, managed a faint, bittersweet smile. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a delicate necklace—a small, simple pendant that caught the firelight and shimmered like a promise.
"Happy birthday, Amy," Andrea whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
Amy's eyes widened in surprise, welling up with tears. She threw her arms around her sister in a fierce hug, clinging to her as if trying to hold onto a world that was slipping away. Dale looked on silently, the ghost of a smile touching his lips before he turned his gaze back to the fire.
Not far away…
Daryl stood over Ed's body, the pickaxe gripped tightly in his hands. He looked down at the man's slack, bruised face, his lip curling with a mixture of disgust and pity. For a moment, he simply stared, the weight of what needed to be done pressing heavily on him.
He raised the pickaxe high, ready to bring it down and finish what the walkers had started.
But before he could strike, a small, trembling voice broke the silence.
"Let me."
Carol stepped forward, her face pale but determined. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides, her whole body shaking—not with fear, but something rawer. Deeper.
Daryl froze, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. He hesitated, glancing at her, then slowly lowered the pickaxe and stepped aside without a word.
Carol stood over Ed's body, her shoulders heaving. Tears streamed down her face, but there was a fierceness in her now, a spark that hadn't been there before.
She raised the pickaxe with both hands and brought it down with a sickening crack.
And again.
And again.
Each swing was fueled by years of swallowed fear, of bruises hidden under clothes, of muffled sobs and broken promises. Her sobs echoed across the camp with every brutal, final strike.
Daryl flinched at the sound, looking away, his jaw tight. Even he, hardened as he was, couldn't stomach watching.
Casey stood nearby, arms folded across his chest, his face grim but impassive. He watched for a long moment before muttering under his breath, barely loud enough to hear, "Maybe now she and Sophia can finally breathe."
The brutal sound of the pickaxe striking bone finally faded into the crackling of the fire and the low moans of the distant dead.
Later…
As the group gathered around the clearing, Daryl dusted his hands off on his jeans and spoke up, his voice rough, "We oughta burn the bodies. Keep the sickness down."
Lori, standing with Shane, immediately shook her head, her eyes flashing with emotion.
"No," she said, firm and clear. "Let them mourn. We bury our people."
Her voice cut through the air like a blade, silencing any argument before it could start.
The camp fell into a heavy, grieving silence, the weight of their losses anchoring them to the bloodstained earth.
Later…
A funeral had begun.
The group gathered in a rough circle around a hastily dug grave. Heads were bowed, hands clasped, faces drawn tight with grief and exhaustion. Smoke from the still-burning pyres drifted across the camp, stinging eyes already red with loss.
Casey stood a little apart from the others, arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable. He didn't bow his head like the rest—instead, his gaze swept over the scene, sharp and wary, as if expecting the world to throw another blow at them before they could even catch their breath.
In the RV…
Jim hallucinated. His eyes flicked to shadows that weren't there. Faint whispers echoed in his ears. He heard Rick walked in and stared at him as he came closer.
Rick sat by Jim's side. Jim's voice was faint.
"You'll watch the boat, right?" Jim rasped, his cracked lips barely moving.
Rick nodded, voice low and steady.. "Yeah, Jim. I got the boat."
A soft creak sounded from the RV's entrance. Casey stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him. His voice was a rough whisper.
"Rick. Shane and Lori... they're arguing."
Rick exhaled heavily through his nose, weariness dragging at him like chains. He gave Jim's shoulder a brief squeeze before rising to his feet. Together, he and Casey moved to the RV's exit, standing just by the door, listening.
"You can't trust Rick's plan," Shane pressed, his words quick and heated. "You know this. You're smart, Lori. Don't let your marriage cloud your judgment. We gotta be realistic."
There was a short, charged silence before Lori's voice shot back, sharp and unwavering.
"You done?" she snapped. "Because we're following Rick."
Rick stepped outside then, making his presence known. His voice was calm, but edged with steel.
"Something going on?"
Shane froze mid-sentence, his jaw tightening. Lori glanced at him sharply, then quickly plastered on a tight, false smile.
"We were just... discussing the group's next move," she said, the lie hanging awkwardly in the air.
Rick's eyes flicked to Casey, who stood silently nearby.
Casey met Rick's gaze, shrugged lightly — a noncommittal gesture — and turned to walk off, hands tucked into his pockets, leaving Rick alone to pick apart the tension for himself.
The uneasy silence lingered long after Casey disappeared into the shifting shadows of the camp.
Later…
Rick, Shane, and Dale walked through the woods. Shane slowed, watching Rick.
"Change your mind. The CDC is suicide."
Rick's reply was firm. "You got something against hope?"
A rustle in the woods. They split up. Shane raised his Mossberg 590 12-gauge shotgun scanning the trees and bushes for any sign of a threat, suddenly Rick came into view and Shane felt an urge come over him and his grip on the shotgun tightened, he moved his gun slowly, aiming at Rick's back.
CLICK
The hammer of a Colt Python was cocked, the sound loud and final in the stillness.
Casey stood behind Shane, gun trained on him, eyes uncertain.
"That what we're doing now?" Casey asked, voice low.
Shane froze. Slowly, painfully, he lowered the shotgun.
Nearby, Dale emerged from the trees, having seen everything.
Shane muttered, "He walked into my sight. That's all."
Casey stared him down, unmoving.
"Guess it's time we all wore vests in the woods, huh?" Casey said, deadpan.
Shane didn't answer. He just looked away, shame written all over his face.
Back at camp…
He stepped forward, voice steady despite the tension in his jaw. "Look, I'm gonna be honest. I don't like this plan. Heading to the CDC? It's a risk. But I've known Rick a long time. I trust his instincts. His leadership. We follow him."
Murmurs rippled through the group — doubt, hope, fear all mixing together.
Casey, arms folded, stepped up beside Shane. "We'll need more cars," he said plainly. "More supplies too. There's a lot of people here."
Rick nodded, thinking fast. His eyes locked onto Casey. "I want you to go around the camp. Find out who can actually help long-term. What they did before all this. Anyone useful, I want 'em assigned to me, Shane, Daryl, or you. Group them by skills. We'll hold small meetings after."
Casey gave a short nod and moved out into the camp, starting his rounds.
He noticed the others—T-Dog, Carol, Lori, Andrea, Amy, Dale, and Jacqui—doing the same.
A small smile tugged at his lips before he refocused, weaving his way toward the crowd of twenty-nine people.
Some people opened up easily, recognizing him as the man who had helped defend the camp the night walkers attacked. Others only gave vague answers, still cautious even now.
After a while, Casey found himself in front of a tall, wiry man with messy blond hair a vertical scar on his mouth—Dylan Hoover, 23 years old.
"What'd you used to be?" Casey asked, voice casual but firm.
Dylan gave a short, awkward laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Used to be an engineer... did some mechanical work too. I was pretty decent too. Then after some financial struggles I became a hoodlum, after some time I had a change of heart and turned myself in just as the world ended."
Casey raised an eyebrow at the hooligan, skeptical. "If you're such a mechanic, why didn't you help Jim and Dale with the RV?"
Dylan shrugged sheepishly. "Figured if I said something, they'd work me to death. Fix every little thing while they sat around."
Casey narrowed his eyes, but finally just sighed and shook his head. "Fine. Go stand by the big rock behind the RV. That's where my tent's at. I'll have more instructions for you later."
As Dylan wandered off, Casey pressed forward. He came across two siblings—Eric and Natalia Hutchinson.
Eric, 30, was calm and composed. Natalia, 21, hovered nearby, wary.
Casey asked the same question. Eric answered without hesitation.
"Consultant in Family Medicine, Surgery, Obstetrics and Gynecology, Neurology, Pathology, Psychiatry, and Nephrology."
Casey stared at him like he'd grown two heads. "What the hell? How has no one noticed you?"
Eric gave a faint, almost sad smile. "We kept low. My idea. Didn't want to get swarmed — people begging for help, then turning on us when we couldn't save everyone."
Still trying to wrap his mind around it, Casey looked at Natalia. "And you?"
She spoke softly. "Nurse. Women's Health. Midwife."
Casey spun in a slow circle like he was in some kind of bizarre dream. "This gotta be a sitcom."
He finally pointed toward the fire where Shane stood. "Go report to where Shane is."
Shaking his head in disbelief, Casey moved on and met a slim man named Nelson, 24 years old.
"What about you?" Casey asked still flabbergasted from the recent interviews.
"Archer. Alpinist," Nelson replied casually, adjusting a compound bow slung over his back.
Casey wiped mock tears from his eyes. "You're kidding me. Where've you guys been hiding?"
"No where I just kept my head down," Nelson said with a half-smile.
Casey pointed him toward Daryl without hesitation.
Next was Kyle Peters—27 years old, rough-looking, cocky grin.
"Guns expert. Gunslinger. Professional Big-Rig driver," Kyle said proudly.
Casey deadpanned, looking him up and down. "Gunslinger? Where's your gun?"
Kyle snorted. "Shane took it when I showed up. Never even asked what I used to be."
Casey gave him a considering look, then jerked his thumb toward Rick. "Go report to Rick."
Still feeling like the universe was playing tricks on him, Casey continued his search.
He found two young women—Olivia, 26, who had been a Scientist and Science Teacher, and Charlotte, 28, a Math Teacher.
Both seemed nervous but willing. Casey assigned them to Rick as well.
As the sun dipped low behind the trees, the camp buzzed with new energy. Plans for the road ahead began to take shape.
At dawn…
Rick stood near the RV, speaking into his walkie-talkie.
"We're heading to the CDC. I hope I'm right," he said quietly. "There'll be a map taped to a red car showing our route."
The camp packed quickly, urgency in every movement.
Before the convoy left, Morales pulled Rick aside, voice low.
"We're gonna go to Birmingham. Got family there. Can't risk waiting."
Rick understood. He pressed a revolver into Morales's hand. "Good luck. Be safe."
Shane also handed Morales a box of ammunition—only half full, a silent reminder of what little they had left.
Tearful goodbyes followed. Morales's family packed up quickly, slipping into their worn vehicle. They drove down the quarry hill alongside the convoy until the road forked — Rick's group veering right toward the CDC, while Morales turned left, disappearing into the unknown.
Midway through the long, tense drive, the RV began to lurch and groan.
Casey, sitting near the back, frowned and braced himself as the old vehicle gave one final sputter and coughed to a dead stop along a deserted stretch of cracked highway.
Dale banged his hand on the steering wheel in frustration. "Damn it!"
Everyone inside jolted with the sudden silence.
Shane climbed out of one of the follow cars and stomped over, his boots crunching on gravel. His face was thunderous as he kicked the RV's tire.
"We're dead in the water," he muttered. "There's a gas station a few miles up the road. I'll take a few guys, see if we can scrounge fuel. Maybe some supplies."
Rick gave a curt nod, glancing back at the others. "Move fast. We'll hold here."
Dale and Dylan immediately set to work, raising the RV's hood, mumbling about clogged filters and cooling systems.
Inside the RV…
The heat was rising.
Jim sat slumped in one corner, his breathing shallow and ragged. His skin had taken on a greyish pallor, a sickly sheen of sweat covering his forehead. His body twitched occasionally, like some internal struggle was going on.
Suddenly, Jim lifted a trembling hand and beckoned.
Casey noticed first and hurried over, kneeling beside him.
Jim's voice was nearly lost to the hum of insects and murmured conversation outside. It was more a rasp than real speech, each word scraping painfully from his throat.
"I... want to stay," Jim gasped.
Casey's heart tightened painfully. He leaned closer. "What? Jim... you sure about that?"
Jim's eyes — bloodshot but clear — locked onto Casey's. Despite the labored breathing, there was no confusion there. Only sad, peaceful acceptance.
"I'm... clear now," Jim whispered. "I want this."
Casey pressed his lips together, fighting the ache in his chest.
Behind him, Dale had stopped working and was now watching, his old eyes heavy with sorrow. He walked over slowly, removing his fisherman's hat.
"Let's give him peace," Dale said quietly, his voice breaking at the edges.
No one argued.
Together, Casey and Dale, with T-Dog's help, gently lifted Jim from where he sat. His body was alarmingly light now, frail. Like he was already halfway gone.
They moved carefully down the side of the road, stepping into the forest. The cicadas buzzed loudly in the humid air. The smell of pine and decay filled their nostrils.
After a few minutes, they found a broad, sturdy tree — an old oak, its thick limbs stretching up toward the grey sky. It stood alone in a small clearing, the late afternoon sun breaking through the branches, casting a warm patch of golden light at its base.
"This is good," Jim murmured, a smile tugging weakly at his cracked lips.
They laid him down gently at the base of the tree, arranging him so he rested in the dappled sunlight, not the shadows.
The group circled around him.
Jacqui crouched, brushing a hand over his clammy forehead. She bent and pressed a kiss to his temple, tears slipping freely down her cheeks.
"You're not alone," she whispered.
Casey knelt again, close to Jim's side. He gripped Jim's cold, shaking hand firmly.
"You're not alone, Jim." Casey said, his voice thick with emotion. He hadn't known the man long, but it was never easy—watching someone who could've lived longer slip away.
"You're not alone, you hear me? You're not alone, not till the end."
Jim's eyes fluttered half-shut. A thin, rattling breath escaped him.
But he smiled—the kind of smile that spoke of true peace, a man ready to meet the ones he had lost.
"I... won't be alone," Jim rasped. Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth. "I'll see... my beloved... and... my two kids."
Casey's grip tightened briefly, offering silent strength.
Jim's breathing slowed, steadied for a moment.
Then he exhaled one final time, a shuddering sigh that drifted away with the soft rustle of the leaves overhead.
He was gone.
The group stood in silence for a long moment, the weight of death settling over them like a thick fog.
Casey finally stood, looking down in anguish.
The pain in his eyes wasn't just for what lay before him—it was for something distant, something buried.
But the expression was fleeting, almost invisible, gone before anyone could truly see.
Without a word, they left Jim resting under the great oak, shaded from the worst of the sun, his face turned upward toward the sky.
They didn't look back.
As they returned to the stalled RV and waiting caravan, the shadows grew longer, stretching across the broken road, as if trying to pull them back.
But they kept moving.
They had to.
Elsewhere…
Dr. Jenner sat alone.
"Day 194. Outbreak Day 63. Alone."
He spoke aloud into the recorder, his voice hollow, mechanical.
He carefully manipulated the vials in the containment chamber, but his hands trembled. The chemicals reacted violently. With a loud FWOOSH, flames burst behind the safety glass, swallowing the sample in a furious bloom of fire.
Jenner stumbled back, shielding his face as the alarms blared around him in shrill WEE-OO WEE-OO tones.
He stumbled toward the emergency shower, dousing himself in chemical-neutralizer spray, breathing heavily. Soaked and shaking, he found himself staring into the rising inferno behind the glass.
His hands balled into fists.
Was this it? Should he end it? The thought whispered, cold and tempting.
He staggered back to his living quarters, pouring a trembling shot of liquor. He raised the glass to his lips—then froze.
The security monitors flickered.
Outside... a caravan.
People.
He lowered the glass, his heart pounding.
Outside the CDC…
Rick's caravan rumbled toward the CDC compound as the orange sun dipped low over the ruined horizon.
The massive concrete walls loomed ahead, topped with barbed wire. Corpses — dozens — lay strewn around the entrance, flies buzzing in lazy circles. Two tanks, their heavy treads scarred with rust and blood, stood silent sentry: one at the gate, another positioned beside a battered Hino Ranger truck.
Among the bodies, three walkers shuffled and moaned.
Casey and Kyle were already moving.
Kyle swung a crowbar with a metallic CLANG, splitting a walker's skull clean open.
Casey, moving fast, drove the point of his Tsurugi through a crawling body with a wet SCHLIK, withdrawing the blade in a crimson spray.
Shane scanned the area, tense.
"We need a plan," he said gruffly, eyeing the dead and the dying sun. "Or we head back."
Rick shook his head, jaw clenching so hard the muscles in his neck bulged.
"We're not going," he said, voice low. "Not till we have answers."
He pointed toward the nearby tank where the remaining walkers staggered.
"Daryl. T-Dog. Take 'em out."
Daryl gave a sharp nod, raising his crossbow. THWIP — the bolt flew fast and true, slamming into the first walker's forehead with a heavy THUNK. The creature collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
Daryl didn't slow. He charged forward, drawing a knife from his belt in one smooth motion. With a sickening CRACK, he plunged it straight into the eye socket of the second walker.
The third stumbled toward T-Dog, arms reaching.
T-Dog hefted his baseball bat and swung hard with a brutal SMASH, caving the walker's skull with one hit. It dropped with a boneless THUD.
Inside the CDC…
Jenner stared at the monitors, a deep frown carving lines into his face. His hand hovered stiffly over the console, frozen in hesitation.
A group—a large one—stood outside, shouting, pounding on the CDC's steel doors like mindless animals.
His jaw tightened.
"Stupid," he muttered under his breath, glaring at the screen. "Go away."
He shifted in his chair, the leather squeaking, but stayed seated. They wouldn't hear him. They couldn't.
Still, he found himself speaking to the empty room.
"You're wasting your time. You're already dead. You just don't know it yet."
Irritation simmered in his chest, heavy and bitter. Why now? Why them? He had made his peace by being alone—sealed off from the chaos—and now here they were, banging and screaming like they thought salvation waited behind these walls.
Jenner slumped back, scrubbing a hand down his face.
He hated how a small, forgotten part of him still felt something watching them.
Hated it.
Outside…
Rick stepped up to the towering CDC steel shutters, hesitating.
He then pounded his fist against the cold metal. THUMP, THUMP, THUMP.
"I... I heard the CDC was working on a cure!" he shouted desperately, voice cracking. "I know you're in there! I know you can hear me! You're killing us!"
No answer.
Rick leaned harder against the door, thudding his palms over and over, growing frantic.
"We have nowhere else to go!" he cried out. "Keep your eyes open! If you don't let us in... you're killing us! Please! We have women! Children! No food—hardly any gas!"
Still nothing but the wind.
Rick's voice frayed into raw panic.
"We're dying out here! YOU'RE KILLING US!"
Dylan, who had been scanning the building calmly, spotted something—a faint glow inside the surveillance camera aimed at them.
He jabbed his finger toward it. "That camera's on! They're watching us!"
Shane scoffed. "How the hell do you know that?"
Dylan gave him a look of exasperation, explaining rapidly, "There's a red light. It's infrared. Found on CCTV and IP security systems. It's a key indicator of their working status!"
He added bitterly, "Whoever's in there... they're watching us beg."
Rick pounded harder, his fists reddening.
"YOU'RE KILLING US!" he screamed again, his voice echoing across the dead courtyard.
The sun dipped lower. Shadows grew long and twisted.
From beyond the wreckage and burned-out cars, new walkers began to emerge, drawn by the shouting and pounding—slow, rotting figures, their wet snarls growing louder.
The women whimpered, clutching their children tighter.
Casey spotted them and moved first.
"Incoming!" he barked, swinging his Tsurugi in a swift arc. The blade sliced cleanly through the skull of the nearest walker with a horrible SHLUK, the creature folding into a heap with a wet SPLAT.
"I think you people should hurry the hell up!" Casey shouted, spinning and slashing again, another walker dropping with a CRUNCH as his blade tore through bone.
Shane fired his shotgun at a walker closing in fast, the blast ringing out BOOM and splattering grey matter across the cracked pavement.
He whipped toward Rick, grabbing his arm roughly.
"RICK, WE NEED TO MOVE—NOW!"
Rick stumbled back, torn between retreat and hope.
Another walker lunged—Kyle intercepted it with a brutal WHAM, smashing its jaw sideways with a baseball bat.
More were coming. Dozens, maybe more.
Suddenly—
CLANK-CLANK-CLANK
The steel shutters of the CDC began to rise with a loud, grinding screech.
Blinding white light flooded outward, washing over the broken parking lot, illuminating the battered survivors in stark, holy brilliance.
For a heartbeat, everyone froze—stunned.
The walkers kept staggering forward, groaning mindlessly, oblivious to the sudden flood of light.
Rick lifted a hand to shield his eyes, hope and disbelief etched across his dirt-streaked face.
"We're in," he whispered hoarsely.
The group surged forward, dragging the wounded and the weak, sprinting into the light—into the unknown.
Behind them, the dead world howled and stumbled in their wake, endless and unrelenting.
But for the first time in a long, long while—
There was hope.