Micah stood in front of the fireplace, arms crossed, as the group gathered around him—Lee, Clementine, Chuck, Omid, and Christa. His sharp eyes scanned them before he spoke.
"Found us a goldmine," he announced. "Place called Crawford. Walled-off, stocked up. Only problem? They don't take kindly to outsiders."
Lee's jaw tightened. He knew Micah was leaving out the part where Molly had saved their hides—and how he'd put a bullet in her skull afterward.
"You sure this is a good idea?" Chuck rumbled, rubbing his beard. "Sounds like a quick way to get shot."
"It's too dangerous," Omid said, shaking his head. "We don't even know how many people are in there."
Christa crossed her arms. "We're running low on food. Medicine, too. If they've got supplies, we need them."
Clementine opened her mouth to speak, but Micah cut her off with a dismissive wave. "Kid's got no say in this. Neither do any of you, really. We're goin'. If you don't like it, you're welcome to walk out that door right now."
A heavy silence followed. Then, one by one, they all stood.
—Crawford—
The group crouched beneath a kitchen window in a ransacked apartment, the stench of mildew thick in the air. Micah had decided brute force was the best way in—hence the shattered glass scattered across the floor.
"Check your guns," Micah ordered, pulling his revolver from its holster and spinning the cylinder.
Clementine tugged at his sleeve. "Can I have one of yours?"
Micah snorted. "Hell no. My guns are mine." He might've grown a little fond of the kid, but his revolvers? Those were sacred.
He laid out the plan—simple, reckless, his style. "We sneak in, grab what we can, and get out. I'd rather just shoot our way through, but since none of you can handle a fight like I can, we do it quiet."
Lee gave him a dry look. "Real inspiring leadership."
Micah smirked, then turned to him. "Follow my lead. Like always."
He climbed out the window, Lee right behind him. Movement ahead—a figure standing near a fence. Guard.
Micah crept forward, pressing his revolver to the back of the man's skull. "Make a sound, you're dead. Take us to your supplies."
The figure turned—rotted flesh, milky eyes.
BANG.
Micah's shot echoed through the empty streets. His mind raced. Crawford's fallen.
"Move!" he barked, sprinting back toward the others.
Dozens of walkers shambled into view, drawn by the gunshot.
"There!" Lee pointed to a nearby school—St. Felicity's Catholic Elementary.
They bolted inside, slamming the doors shut behind them. Omid and Chuck barricaded the entrance as the group rushed upstairs, bursting into a locker-lined hallway.
"Did they see us?" Omid panted, wide-eyed.
Micah laughed. "What do you think?"
Clementine shivered.
"Goddammit," Omid muttered.
"What the hell happened?" Christa demanded. "I thought this place was supposed to be secure!"
"Death always wins in the end," Micah said with a smirk. "But this is good for us. Walkers are easier to deal with than armed psychos."
Chuck nodded. "He's right."
Lee sighed. "Yeah. Still not great, but better."
"Enough talk," Micah said, moving down the hall. His eyes flickered over the lockers, the faded posters—never been in a school before. Strange place.
At the end of the hallway, he kicked open a door, revolver raised. "Clean."
The group filed into an abandoned classroom. Lee tried a door marked "Armory"—locked.
"Figures," Lee muttered.
Micah studied a hand-drawn map on the wall. "Nurse's station," he said, pointing. "Christa, Omid—go. Grab every damn pill and bandage you can. Fast."
His finger slid to another section. "Cafeteria. Lee, you're with me. Clem too." He glanced at Chuck. "You—get that armory open."
—Hallway—
The three moved quickly, Clementine sticking close to Lee.
"You ever been in a school before, Micah?" Clem asked, curious.
"Nope," he said, scanning the halls. "Never saw the point."
Lee raised an eyebrow. "You never went?"
"Didn't stick around long enough to care," Micah said with a shrug. "Learned what I needed on the road."
"Like how to be an asshole?" Lee muttered.
Micah smirked. "Like how to survive. Which, by the way, you'd be dead ten times over without me."
Clementine frowned. "You're mean, but… you keep us safe."
Micah glanced down at her. "Damn right, kid. And don't you forget it."
Lee shook his head but didn't argue.
Up ahead, the cafeteria doors loomed. Micah slowed, revolver ready. "Stay sharp."
Clementine gripped her small pistol tighter.
"You see anything?" Lee whispered.
Micah's grin was razor-thin. "Just dinner."
Micah kicked open the cafeteria doors with his usual swagger, his revolver loose in his grip. The sight before them was almost surreal—rows of canned food stacked neatly on shelves, unopened bags of chips, and sodas still sitting in their plastic-wrapped six-packs.
"Well, well," Micah drawled, holstering his gun. "Looks like we hit the jackpot."
Lee let out a low whistle. "No kidding. This is enough to last us weeks."
Clementine's eyes widened at the sight of the snacks. "They have Doritos!"
Micah glanced at the bright orange bag she was holding up. He had no idea what the hell "Doritos" were, but he wasn't about to admit that. Instead, he just grunted and grabbed a duffel bag off the floor. "Quit gawkin' and start packin'."
They worked quickly, stuffing canned beans, vegetables, and anything non-perishable into their bags. Micah even tossed in a few sodas—figured they might be worth something later.
Then—click.
The sound of a hammer being cocked echoed behind them.
All three froze.
"Hands where I can see 'em," a rough voice snarled. "Slow."
Micah didn't move. Lee and Clementine slowly raised their hands as they turned.
Three men stood in the doorway, rifles trained on them. Their faces were gaunt, eyes bloodshot—men who hadn't slept in days, who'd been surviving on desperation and violence.
"The fuck you doin' in here?" the lead man spat. "This is Crawford's shit. Who the hell are you?"
Lee opened his mouth to answer—
But Micah wasn't worried.
Time slowed.
For him, the world sharpened into perfect, lethal clarity—Dead Eye. Every breath, every twitch of the gunmen's fingers, the way their pupils dilated just before they pulled the trigger—he saw it all.
And then—
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Three shots, faster than a heartbeat.
The first bullet punched through the lead man's forehead before his finger could even tense on the trigger. The second took the man on the left through the eye. The third buried itself in the last man's skull before his body even registered the first two deaths.
They dropped like puppets with their strings cut.
Micah exhaled, holstering his revolver like he'd just swatted a fly.
Lee and Clementine stood frozen, staring at the bodies.
"How—?" Lee started, but Micah was already crouching beside one of the dead men, inspecting his rifle.
"M16," Micah muttered, turning it over in his hands. "Nice piece." He wasn't much for rifles—he preferred the precision of his revolvers—but it was a damn good gun. He tossed it to Lee, who fumbled but caught it.
"Here. You're shit with a pistol anyway." Then he picked up a sharp combat knife from another corpse and slid it across the floor to Clementine.
"And you—quit lookin' like a scared rabbit. Learn to use that."
Clementine swallowed but picked up the knife, gripping it tightly.
Lee was still staring at the bodies. "Micah, you just—"
"Saved our asses?" Micah finished, slinging a full duffel bag over his shoulder. "Yeah, I do that a lot. Now move."
And with that, he strode out of the cafeteria like nothing had happened.
Lee and Clementine exchanged a glance—one of shock, and disbelief. Lee was just reminded that Micah Bell was not a man you wanted to cross.
Then they hurried after him.