The glass doors of the CDC hissed open with a mechanical sigh, and the battered survivors filed inside, weapons lowered but still clutched tight.
Rick led them, face grim but respectful. His boots echoed hollowly against the sterile floor. A man in a lab coat stood waiting—face tired, stubble dotting his chin, pistol holstered at his side.
Rick stepped forward first, hands slightly raised in a gesture of peace.
"Why are you here?" the man asked, voice rough, almost disbelieving. "What do you want?"
Rick swallowed hard. "A chance."
The man—Dr. Edwin Jenner, according to the patch on his coat—studied them. Behind Rick, Lori clutched Carl protectively, Glenn shifted nervously on his feet, and Casey, dirt-smeared and quiet, rested a hand loosely on the hilt of his sword slung across his back.
"That's asking an awful lot these days," Jenner said.
"I know," Rick admitted.
Jenner's gaze lingered a moment longer, then he sighed. "Fine. But first—we run blood tests. All of you."
The survivors hesitated, but nodded, understanding. They had no choice.
Jenner led them deeper inside. As they moved through the sterile halls, Carol looked around anxiously. The heavy, windowless walls seemed to close in.
"I don't like this," she muttered. "I'm claustrophobic."
Jenner, without slowing, threw over his shoulder, "Then don't think about it."
They passed empty offices and silent labs, the cold fluorescent lighting humming above them. Jenner paused at a steel door marked CONTROL ROOM, keyed in a code, and led them inside.
Rick scanned the space—rows of monitors, blinking consoles, endless silence. No movement, no chatter. Just Jenner.
"Where's the rest of your people?" Rick asked.
Jenner shrugged, emotionless. "I'm it."
The group absorbed that with heavy hearts. Another nail in the coffin of hope.
Lori looked up at one of the monitors where a soft female voice echoed occasional updates. "Who's... Vi?" she asked cautiously.
Jenner actually smirked, a tiny flicker of humor. "Vital Information. The computer system."
He motioned them forward for blood draws. One by one, they stepped up. Andrea flinched slightly as the needle pierced her arm.
"What's the point?" she muttered. "If we're bit, we'd already have the fever."
Jenner's hands remained steady. "I've already broken every rule letting you in here. Let me at least be thorough."
When it was Casey's turn, he sat heavily in the chair, looking bone-tired.
As Jenner slid the needle into his arm, Casey's stomach rumbled audibly.
Jenner raised an eyebrow.
"He hasn't eaten, none of us have," Jacqui answered, covering for him.
Later, the CDC cafeteria came alive with the clink of silverware and the clatter of laughter.
Bottles of wine and liquor flowed freely from the untouched kitchens.
For the first time in what felt like forever, the survivors feasted like kings.
All except Casey.
He sat alone at a corner table, his plate half-empty, his gaze distant. The merriment around him seemed like a dream he wasn't ready to believe in. His battered pack and sword leaned against the wall beside him, always within arm's reach.
After a long moment, he stood quietly, grabbing his gear. Moving through the din, he approached Jenner at the far end of the room.
"Hey," Casey said lowly, almost a whisper. "Are there... staff quarters? Somewhere quiet?"
Jenner blinked, surprised by the seriousness in his tone, but nodded, giving directions.
Casey nodded back. No one noticed as he slipped away, disappearing down a side hall.
The cafeteria buzzed with something close to joy—an emotion nearly forgotten. Laughter rolled across the tables, bouncing off the sterile white walls and echoing in the survivors' hollowed chests like the last notes of a half-remembered song.
Glenn was completely flushed, cheeks burning a shade just shy of crimson. He wobbled slightly in his seat, giggling at nothing in particular, a bottle of wine gripped in one hand like a lifeline.
Daryl leaned back in his chair, boots propped against the base of the table, watching Glenn with an amused sneer.
"Keep drinkin', little man," he drawled, raising his own half-full glass in a lazy salute. "I wanna see how red you can get before you explode."
Glenn tried to raise his glass in return and nearly missed his own face. The table burst into another round of laughter.
At the main table, Dale poured a modest splash of red wine into Carl's glass. Carl looked up at him, surprised and wide-eyed.
"You know," Dale said with a warm grin, "in Italy, children have a little wine with dinner. Teaches 'em moderation."
Lori's gaze sharpened immediately. She leaned in, arms folded tight. "Well, when Carl's in Italy," she said coolly, "He can have some."
Rick chuckled softly, raising an eyebrow at her. "What's it gonna hurt?"
Carl hesitantly lifted the glass, sniffed it, then took a small sip.
His face twisted. "Ew!" he gagged, shaking his head violently.
The most of the group erupted into laughter once more. Even Lori cracked a reluctant smile.
Across the room, Dylan sat hunched over his tray, pushing lukewarm food around with his fork. The light chatter and bursts of laughter felt distant to him, muffled beneath a blanket of growing concern.
His eyes scanned the room again—faces blurred by fatigue and wine, all accounted for. Except one.
He leaned slightly toward Kyle, who was mid-peel on the label of his third beer bottle, lost in his own little world.
"Hey..." Dylan muttered, voice low. "Where's Casey?"
Kyle blinked, glanced up with unfocused eyes, then shrugged lazily. "Probably takin' a leak or something. Chill, man."
He took another bite of his food and went back to stripping his bottle.
Dylan didn't chill.
His gaze drifted toward the cafeteria entrance again. Still closed. No heavy boots. No signature clank of that sword Casey always kept slung across his back. Just the hum of overhead lights and the clink of cutlery.
He sighed, jaw tight. "Yeah... maybe," he muttered to himself, but the knot in his gut only tightened.
Next to him, Olivia gave him a curious glance. She said nothing, but the look in her eyes said she'd noticed too.
Dylan forced himself to go back to eating—slowly, mechanically—but his mind was already racing.
Something wasn't right.
Far below the CDC…
Casey padded silently through the darkened halls, Colt Python drawn.
He had found the staff quarters, dumped his pack inside a random room—and kept moving. Something itched in his instincts.
He crept down a stairwell, boots soft against the cold concrete, until he found a battered lab door. Blood smears stained the handle.
Casey pressed his ear to it.
Grrrrrr...
A low growl shivered against the wood.
He pulled back sharply, thumbed the revolver's hammer with a cold click, and twisted the knob.
The door creaked open.
Darkness.
He reached along the wall until he found a switch and flipped it.
CLUNK—the lights buzzed to life.
Inside, a walker lay pinned under a toppled metal shelf, its legs a mess of broken bone and blood. It snapped its teeth uselessly at the air.
Casey sighed, uncocked his revolver, drew his knife instead, and stepped forward.
With a grunt, he buried the blade into its skull—CRUNCH.
The walker spasmed once. Then lay still.
He wiped the knife on his pants and scanned the lab. Test tubes, shattered glass, overturned equipment. A world frozen mid-collapse.
Tucked in a corner, he spotted a heavy black Nanuk 935 case.
He pried it open with the butt of his knife.
Inside were rows of viles filled with ominous green liquid.
Casey's stomach twisted. He shoved the case back into the shadows, wanting no part of it.
He moved on, stepping deeper into the ruins.
Back up stairs…
Rick stood from the table, his chair scraping softly against the floor. He held his glass aloft, the amber liquid inside catching the sterile white light overhead.
"I don't think we properly thanked our host," he said, his voice steady but edged with gratitude and fatigue. He looked directly at Dr. Jenner, who sat slightly apart from the others, quiet, watchful.
The room stilled for a moment. A few heads nodded in agreement.
"To Dr. Jenner," Rick continued, raising his glass higher. "For opening the door when no one else would."
The others followed suit—glasses clinking gently, the motion solemn but sincere.
"To Jenner," murmured T-Dog.
"Yeah," Glenn added, raising his wine glass with a flushed grin. "Even if it took us yelling at your camera like lunatics."
A chuckle ran through the group.
Jenner slowly lifted his glass. His face didn't change, not exactly. But his eyes—the dull, world-weary eyes of a man who had seen too much—flickered with something like acknowledgment. Maybe even sadness.
"To... survival," he said softly.
They drank.
And in the silence that followed, the laughter faded into thoughtful quiet. For just a moment, they were people again—not scavengers, not soldiers—just survivors, clinging to warmth in a world gone cold.
After dinner, the survivors slowly rose from their seats, their spirits lighter, bellies full for the first time in days. Some were laughing, others yawning—basking in the brief illusion of safety. Dr. Jenner stood near the cafeteria doors, arms crossed, watching the group with a distant expression.
"All right," he announced, voice echoing slightly in the sterile hall. "Showers are through the east corridor. Rec room's open for the kids. Rooms are limited—some of you may have to double up."
"Fair warning," he added, looking over his shoulder, "don't waste water. Or power. You only get what's left."
A chorus of murmured agreement passed through the group. Carol guided Sophia by the hand. Lori called for Carl. Glenn stumbled after T-Dog, still red-faced and hiccuping. Even Daryl seemed more relaxed, rolling his shoulders as he wandered off toward the dorm halls.
But not everyone was eager.
Shane, jaw tight, peeled away from the group. He didn't speak to anyone. Just grabbed a bottle of brown liquor from the cafeteria shelf and disappeared down the corridor toward the showers. The bottle's neck clinked against the tile wall as he walked. Later, water would pour from the faucet, steam billowing—while Shane leaned against the wall with his drink, silent and simmering.
Andrea, meanwhile, stood motionless in the hallway before finally entering a private shower. The water hit her face, and she sat down beneath it fully clothed, hugging her knees. She didn't move, didn't cry. Just sat under the spray, numb.
As the group dispersed, Dylan hesitated.
He lingered by the cafeteria doorway, watching as people peeled off in pairs or small groups. Then he caught sight of Jenner retreating down a hallway, headed in the opposite direction of the dorms. Dylan called out, "Hey—Dr. Jenner!"
Jenner slowed but didn't stop walking. "Yes?" he answered without turning.
"Uh… Casey," Dylan said, stepping after him. "You know where he went?"
Jenner barely turned his head. "Told him where the rooms were. He's probably somewhere around," he said flatly, and without another word, continued walking.
Dylan blinked. "Right. Sure," he muttered, watching the doctor vanish around a corner. He rubbed his hand through his hair, frustrated and vaguely unsettled.
A soft giggle echoed from behind.
He turned to see Olivia standing by one of the dorm doors, her frame leaning casually against the wall. Her smirk was amused, maybe even smug, as if she already knew everything he was wondering about.
Next to her, Kyle was slouched against the doorframe, one arm lazily thrown over Charlotte's shoulder. He looked completely out of it, his eyes heavy-lidded and cheeks flushed, barely conscious of the fact he was being tugged toward the room like a sleepwalker. Charlotte was dragging him gently by the hand, holding back laughter of her own.
Dylan raised an eyebrow, his unease momentarily replaced by a tired smirk.
Olivia arched her brow. "Coming, Dylan?"
He looked at her, then at the barely-standing Kyle, and chuckled under his breath. "Looks like some people already picked their bunks."
He took a few slow steps toward her, sighing. "Still don't know where I'm supposed to sleep, though."
Olivia tilted her head. "Lucky for you, I happen to know a room that's not taken."
Dylan shook his head, smiling despite himself. "Right. And here I was thinking I'd be stuck in a broom closet."
She stepped back, opening the door wider. "Beats wandering the halls. Unless you want to go chase Jenner down and ask him for a floor tile."
Dylan didn't answer. He stepped inside, the door easing shut behind them.
Back underground…
Casey turned a tight corner, the flickering overhead lights casting eerie shadows along the corridor. His boots barely made a sound on the slick floor—but the silence didn't last.
THWUMP
Something slammed into him from the dark, and he hit the ground hard with a grunt, the air knocked from his lungs. He rolled, instinct already kicking in.
A walker snarled, its grotesque face inches from his, rotted gums snapping hungrily.
Casey barely managed to catch its chin with his left hand, holding it back from sinking its teeth into his throat. Its fetid breath washed over him like death. His right hand scrabbled at his belt—fingers fumbling for the handle of his knife.
But the walker was stronger than expected—its weight bore down on him. His arms trembled. The blade wouldn't come free.
It was winning.
Casey's face twisted with fury. With an abominable snarl, he shifted his grip and shoved his thumb straight into the walker's eye socket, forcing it in to the knuckle with brutal speed.
SQUISH
The walker gave a final twitch and collapsed. Warm, dark blood sprayed across Casey's face.
He gasped, panting, chest heaving as he shoved the corpse off him. Sticky, reeking gore coated his shirt and arms.
He blinked rapidly, wiped a hand down his face, smearing the blood, then scrubbed it against his pants with a grimace.
"Disgusting," he muttered, half to himself.
Shaking off the horror, he picked himself up and moved down the corridor, still catching his breath. A metal door loomed ahead with faded block letters:
WEAPONS STORAGE.
Casey pushed it open—and stopped.
Inside, an arsenal stretched across the room like a dream. Assault rifles. Submachine guns. Grenades. Ammunition stacked neatly. Even a rocket launcher tucked in one corner.
Casey's eyes widened.
"...Jackpot," he breathed.
He grabbed the nearest duffel bags from a side shelf and got to work, stuffing them full of whatever he could carry. He slung two bags over his shoulders and looped one around his chest like a sash.
With his arms heavy and his shirt still sticky with walker blood, he turned toward the corridor again.
And began the long, slow climb back to the surface.
Later…
The soft hum of servers and monitors was the only sound in the control room. Screens glowed dimly with data feeds and surveillance footage. Dr. Edwin Jenner sat alone at a workstation, his face drawn and pale in the low light, staring at something unseen—something buried deep in his thoughts.
Rick entered quietly, closing the door behind him. His boots echoed faintly against the tile floor.
"Doctor," Rick said softly.
Jenner didn't turn.
Rick hesitated a moment before continuing. "I just wanted to say... thank you. For letting us in. For giving us a roof, a warm meal. It's been a long time since any of us felt like people again."
Jenner shifted slightly but still didn't speak.
Rick stepped closer, looking around the room—the cluttered desks, the blinking lights, the quiet hum of machines that had outlasted most of the world.
"We were... we were close to giving up out there," Rick admitted, his voice quieter now. "When we got here... It felt like maybe there was still something left to hold on to."
At last, Jenner turned, his expression unreadable. His eyes were tired—too tired for a man who once bore the weight of humanity's survival.
"Hope is a dangerous thing, Sheriff," he said flatly.
Rick studied him. "So is giving up."
Jenner leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him. He looked at Rick for a long moment before turning back to the screens, as if searching for something that wasn't there.
"I let you all in," he said finally, his voice low. "Broke every protocol to do it. And now you're thanking me for giving you borrowed time."
Rick's brow furrowed. "Borrowed?"
Jenner didn't answer.
The silence between them stretched, heavy with something unsaid.
Rick glanced toward the monitors, one of which showed the countdown clock—still ticking.
And Jenner just stared.
Elsewhere, in the library...
Dim light flickered from wall sconces, casting shadows between the tall bookshelves. A hush blanketed the space—peaceful, almost eerie. The soft hum of the air system was the only sound. That, and the distant murmurs of survivors settling into their temporary haven.
Lori stood by a shelf, thumbing through the spines of old novels, seeking distraction. A moment of quiet.
But behind her, heavy footsteps approached.
"Didn't think you'd come in here alone," Shane's voice slurred, thick with wine and bitterness.
Lori turned sharply, startled, clutching the book to her chest. "Shane—what are you doing?"
He stepped closer, his eyes bloodshot, breath reeking of liquor. "Just wanted to talk," he muttered, but his tone was anything but calm.
"Talk? You've been drinking. You're angry," Lori said, backing a step away.
"Yeah, I'm angry!" he snapped. "I watched Rick die—or thought I did. And I protected you. I protected Carl. And the minute he shows up, what—you just pretend I never mattered?"
"Don't do this," Lori said, her voice rising, hands trembling as she clutched the book tighter. "You lied, Shane. You told me he was dead. You knew what you were doing."
Shane's jaw clenched. He stepped forward again. "I didn't know anything for sure! And even if I did... I gave everything for you."
Suddenly, he grabbed her arms—rough, desperate—fingers digging into her skin.
Lori gasped, struggling. "Let me go!"
"You owe me—" Shane began, voice cracking.
Lori's eyes flared. With a sudden cry, she slashed her fingernails across his neck, leaving angry red welts.
"Get away from me!" she screamed.
Shane staggered back, hand going to his throat, breathing hard.
Lori spun to run—and collided headlong with a shadowed figure entering from the hallway.
Casey.
He stood hunched, pale and streaked with dark gore. His shirt was soaked in drying blood—black and flaking—his eyes heavy, wild, unfocused. A duffel bag dragged from one hand, thudding softly on the tile floor behind him.
Lori shrieked.
"Jesus—Casey?" Shane said, his voice hoarse, frozen in place as the bloody figure loomed closer.
Casey didn't say a word.
His chest rose and fell with quiet exhaustion. His face was unreadable—distant, lost in some internal place far darker than the corridor he'd just emerged from. He glanced at them with glazed, unbothered eyes.
Then, slowly, he walked between them. His boots left faint streaks of blood as he passed. The duffel thudded with each step, weighed down with God-knows-what.
Lori pressed herself against the wall, shaking. Shane stared after Casey like he wasn't sure if he should be concerned or terrified.
Casey stopped at the dorm room door at the end of the hallway.
He turned the handle. The door creaked open.
Without looking back, he stepped inside and shut it behind him with a quiet click.
A long silence followed.
Shane rubbed the scratches on his neck. Lori didn't move.
"Somethin' ain't right with that guy," Shane murmured.
Lori didn't answer. Her breathing still hadn't returned to normal.
Later that night…
Rick slipped quietly into bed beside Lori, his body heavy with exhaustion. The sheets rustled as he settled onto the mattress, muscles aching from the long days of travel and tension. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, but Lori didn't shift. She lay on her side, back to him, motionless except for the subtle rise and fall of her breath.
Rick hesitated for a moment, then reached out and gently placed a hand on her shoulder.
"You awake?" he whispered.
Lori nodded slightly but said nothing.
Rick let his hand fall away. "Long day," he murmured, trying to ease the silence. "At least the showers were hot… food wasn't half-bad, either."
Still no answer.
He watched the outline of her form in the dim light. Something was off—her stillness too rigid, her silence too deep.
"You okay?" he asked.
Lori swallowed, voice dry. "Yeah. Just… tired."
Rick didn't push. He simply leaned back, staring at the ceiling, letting the quiet take over.
But beside him, Lori's eyes were wide open, burning with the memory of Shane's hands on her, the panic, the guilt, the fear—and the terrible question of whether she should tell Rick or bury it forever.
She bit her lip, holding back the tears that threatened to break free, and slowly turned her face into the pillow.
Rick lay still, completely unaware of the storm swirling inside her.
Down the hall, in a dark, quiet room lit only by a sliver of moonlight filtering through a high, narrow window, Shane sat at the edge of his bed. His elbows rested on his knees, hands clasped together, a half-empty bottle of liquor dangling between them.
The alcohol burned in his gut, but it couldn't burn away the shame.
He stared at the floor, jaw clenched, mind playing the scene over and over—the way he'd grabbed Lori, how her eyes widened in fear, how her nails raked across his neck. He could still feel the sting.
"What the hell's wrong with you?" he muttered aloud, voice rough, as if someone else had spoken through his body earlier.
He'd meant to talk. That was all. Just talk. To explain, maybe even apologize. But the drink, the rage, the bitterness—it had twisted everything. Again.
He ran a hand through his hair, then leaned back with a sharp exhale, staring up at the ceiling.
And then… his thoughts shifted. To him.
Casey.
The image burned in Shane's mind—the way Casey had just appeared after Lori ran, blood spattered down the front of his shirt, that dead, glazed look in his eyes. Walked right past them without a word, dragging those heavy duffel bags like it was just another Tuesday.
Like nothing happened.
Shane sat forward again slowly, the bottle resting against his knee.
Where had Casey been? Why was he covered in blackened blood—and why the hell was he carrying gear like that? Shane had seen how worn his boots were, how exhausted he looked… but there'd been something else. Not just fatigue. A distance. Like Casey had walked through something… and maybe brought it back with him.
Shane narrowed his eyes, the pain in his neck fading under the weight of suspicion. Something about that guy didn't add up.
Still gripping the bottle, he muttered, "You're hiding somethin', man…"
And that thought sat with him. Quiet. Cold. Unshakable.
The next morning…
The morning light filtered weakly through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the quiet cafeteria. The survivors shuffled in, each wearing the remnants of the night before: exhaustion, pale faces, heavy eyes, and the aftermath of too much alcohol and too many unspoken feelings.
Rick stepped inside, dragging his feet, his body sore from the tension that had held him in place for too long. His eyes scanned the room, briefly catching sight of the group. His gaze landed on Casey, standing by the counter, chatting quietly with Dylan and Olivia. He walked over slowly, a furrow forming on his brow as he studied the younger man.
"Casey," Rick said, his voice thick with exhaustion. "You alright? Where were you last night?"
Casey turned, giving a nonchalant shrug. His face was unreadable, a mask of cool detachment. "I'm good. I'll tell you later," he replied, his tone neutral, almost dismissive.
Rick nodded but didn't push further. He had learned that some people needed space, especially in moments like these.
Nearby, T-Dog was dishing out powdered eggs with a small sense of pride, humming a little tune to himself despite the somber mood. Glenn, however, groaned softly from the table, his hand pressed to his temple as the sound of eggs being served seemed like a cruel joke to his throbbing head.
Lori, ever the caretaker, slid a glass of water and some aspirin toward Rick. "Here," she said quietly. "Dr. Jenner sent it over."
Rick gave a small, appreciative nod and swallowed the pills dry. His head still ached, but it was better than yesterday.
Just then, Shane strode into the cafeteria, his gaze sweeping across the room. He made eye contact with Casey, who met his gaze for a moment before quickly looking away. Shane's lips curled into a tight, uneasy smile, but he said nothing. Instead, he headed straight for the coffee machine.
T-Dog, ever the curious one, shot a glance toward Shane. "Hey," he called out. "What's with the scratches on your neck?"
Shane waved it off with a flick of his hand, his usual cocky smirk taking over. "Must've scratched myself in my sleep," he said with a shrug, trying to dismiss the question.
Jenner entered the room then, his presence immediately drawing attention. As usual, there was a quiet authority to his every move.
Dale, always with the questions, spoke up immediately, his voice hesitant but direct. "Doctor, I don't mean to slam you with questions first thing..."
Jenner sighed, the weight of exhaustion in his eyes. "But you will anyway," he replied, his voice low and dry.
Andrea, who had just finished her meal, shot a look at Jenner and spoke up, her voice clear but sharp. "We didn't come here for the eggs."
Jenner's lips twitched slightly as he motioned for the group to follow him. "Alright, come on. Let's get to the control room."
INT. CDC – CONTROL ROOM – LATER
The group gathered around the long table, the dim light of the control room casting an eerie glow on their tired faces. Jenner stood at the front, his expression grim as he commanded Vi, the lab's AI, to bring up the video feed.
"Vi," Jenner said, his voice steady, "display TS 19."
Vi complied without a word, as it always did, and the screen flickered to life. A 3D brain scan appeared, showing the neural activity of a human brain. The image was a thing of stark beauty at first, showing a brain that pulsed with life, synapses firing in perfect harmony. But that harmony quickly gave way to chaos as the scan began to glitch. The synapses began hemorrhaging, blood pooling in the brain, and the body went still.
The room grew silent, the weight of the situation sinking in.
Jenner's voice broke the silence. "This is someone who was bitten... and we allowed the process to run its course so we could observe." His words were clinical, detached.
The group watched in stunned silence as the screen darkened. The once-living brain had ceased to function.
Jenner continued. "Right there," he pointed at the screen, "the brain hemorrhages. The infection spreads rapidly, and the body begins to shut down. Organ systems fail."
The video fast-forwarded, showing the brain going completely dark. Then, a flicker. A faint pulse in the lower brainstem.
Jenner's voice softened. "The brainstem... it comes back online. Just enough to restart basic motor functions. But the person they were is gone."
Lori's voice cut through the air, thick with emotion. "So... the virus... restarts the brain?"
"Just the stem," Jenner replied quietly. "The rest of the brain—the memories, the personality—it's all gone. All that's left is the body reacting. It moves. It kills. But it's not human anymore."
Andrea's eyes glazed over. She could see Jim's face in her mind. The way his eyes had gone distant. The way he had begged them to leave him behind. The way the light had drained from his body.
Shane looked down, his jaw clenched. Daryl, always the skeptic, stood motionless. Only Casey, standing near the back of the room, remained expressionless. His eyes, however, were hard, sharp—the only indication that he was feeling anything.
Jenner sighed deeply. "I don't know what caused it. It could be viral, bacterial, fungal—maybe something that was always there. Maybe it's man-made. I... I just don't know anymore."
Jacqui, who had been quiet up until now, spoke softly. "Maybe it's the wrath of God."
Jenner didn't flinch. His eyes met hers for a moment before he spoke, his voice weary. "I don't rule anything out anymore."
A heavy silence followed. Then, Dale broke it, his eyes drawn to a clock on the wall, counting down in bright red digits. "What's that clock counting down to?"
Jenner stiffened. "That's counting down to how much fuel is left for the lab," he said. "Once that runs out..." He trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid.
Rick straightened, his voice sharp. "What happens when the clock hits zero?"
Jenner turned away from them, his tone colder. "The building decontaminates."
"Decontaminates?" Shane barked. "What the hell does that mean?"
Jenner was quiet for a moment, his eyes dark. "You've all seen the locks. The reinforced doors. The air systems shutting down." He paused, taking a breath. "Once the clock hits zero, the building will trigger a complete decontamination."
The room fell into silence as Jenner's words sank in.
Rick stepped forward, anger rising. "And what happens then?"
Jenner's voice was almost hollow. "The building will be incinerated. Everything inside it."
Shane's face hardened. "Why the hell would the CDC have that kind of thing?"
Jenner met his gaze. "In the event of catastrophic failure. If an outbreak couldn't be contained. Or if someone tried to weaponize what's down here. The H.I.T.s are designed to sterilize the facility."
Rick blinked, still processing. "H.I.T.s?"
Jenner nodded grimly. "Vi, define."
Vi's voice, cold and clinical, filled the room.
"H.I.T.s—high-impulse thermobaric fuel-air explosives. Consist of a two-stage aerosol ignition that produces a blast wave of greater power and duration than any known explosive short of nuclear. The vacuum pressure effect ignites ambient oxygen between 5,000 and 6,000 degrees and is used when the greatest loss of life and structural damage is desired."
The room was silent as the implications of that statement hit everyone like a physical blow.
Jenner spoke again, quieter now. "It sets the air on fire. Instant. Painless. An end to grief... regret... suffering."
Daryl looked like he might be sick. Glenn took a step back, swallowing hard.
Casey's jaw clenched. He'd been here before—had seen enough of this kind of devastation but that was long ago. His hands were steady, but his mind was racing.
Suddenly, Daryl and Shane began battering the door with axes, trying to break out. They fired shots into the door, but Jenner just stood there, unfazed.
"They're blast-proof, nothing short of a rocket can penetrate it," he said softly. "You won't make it out."
Rick's voice was like steel. "Then what happens?"
Jenner's expression faltered. "It's too late... you should give up... the countdown's already started."
Casey's eyes narrowed. The air felt thick now, heavy with tension. Without a word, he reached for the duffel bag he had stashed earlier. He pulled it open, revealing a rocket launcher.
Everyone stopped in their tracks, staring.
Rick blinked, his eyes wide in surprise, but he said nothing. The group watched, spellbound, as Casey assembled the launcher quickly, the pieces falling into place with almost quiet clicks. No hesitation. No grand speech. Just cold, quiet determination.
Casey then stepped forward towards the front of the crowd, his gaze steady. He aimed. He pulled the trigger.
BOOM
The door exploded inward, sending shockwaves through the room. Dust and smoke filled the air, the survivors momentarily blinded by the chaos.
Rick was the first to move, running toward the opening. "We're not ready to give up," he said, his voice unwavering. "Not now. Not ever."
Rick stepped closer, extending his hand. "Come with us."
Jenner's eyes softened, but he shook his head. "This is where I end."
Jenner hesitated for a moment, then reached out to shake Rick's hand. He pulled Rick close, whispering something in his ear.
Rick froze, his face hardening. He didn't reply. He simply turned and motioned for the others to leave.
In the Lobby…
The survivors reached the lobby, but the doors were locked tight. The men pounded on the glass, desperation rising in their chests. Shane shot at the glass, but it did nothing.
Dylan shouted, "It's reinforced!"
Casey's eyes flicked to Carol who was holding a purse. "I've got something," she said, pulling out a grenade. "I found it in your clothes when I washed them." she explained quickly.
Rick didn't hesitate. He grabbed the grenade, ran to the glass, pulled the pin, and threw it at the glass.
BOOM
The glass shattered, sending Rick flying forward into the ground.
Casey was the first to reach him, helping him up.
Together, the group ran outside, their survival instincts kicking in as walkers closed in. They scrambled for the vehicles, driving away as the CDC behind them erupted in flames.
As the fire billowed in the distance, Casey glanced back, the thick black smoke curling upward like a living thing. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
And so ended the countdown to extinction.