The horse's hooves clopped hollow against the pavement as they crossed the cracked overpass. Ahead, New Orleans rose like the bones of some dead giant, steel and glass jutting against the sky. Vines strangled skyscrapers, windows shattered like jagged teeth, and whole streets below were drowned in silence.
Arthur slowed the horse to a careful trot, scanning every alley, every shadow. "Easy now… real easy." His voice was low, almost a whisper.
Rory leaned close from behind him, eyes wide as he took in the wreckage. "It looks… empty."
Arthur shook his head. "Empty don't mean safe. City like this? Gotta assume every damn corner's hidin' somethin'."
They crossed down the ramp, the horse's steps echoing too loud for Arthur's liking. His hand never left the reins, the other close to the Cattleman revolver at his hip.
As they reached the base of the overpass, Arthur caught sight of movement. He raised a hand, stopping the horse.
Down the boulevard, maybe a hundred yards ahead, shadows swayed and twitched. At first, Rory thought it was just wind tugging on vines. Then one turned its head.
Arthur's jaw tightened. A cluster of infected, half a dozen of 'em, just milling in the street. Not runners, not clickers — just slow, rotting shapes dragging themselves between abandoned cars.
Rory whispered, "What do we do?"
Arthur narrowed his eyes, studying. "We don't fight. Not unless we got to. Big place like this? Fightin' brings the whole damn hive on you. We slip past, quiet-like."
He dismounted, leading the horse by the bridle now. His boots were near soundless on the cracked asphalt, years of hunting and trailing teaching him to move like a shadow. Rory followed close, crouched low.
They edged along the sidewalk, weaving between rusted-out cars. One infected staggered close, too close — Arthur gently raised a hand, signaling Rory to freeze. The thing groaned, sniffing the air, then shambled away, oblivious.
Arthur exhaled slow through his nose. "Close one," he muttered.
As they pressed deeper into the city, the silence grew heavier. Every broken window, every darkened storefront seemed to watch them.
And then they turned onto a side street — and Arthur stopped dead.
Before them stretched an avenue thick with infected. Dozens. Maybe fifty. Some leaned against walls, twitching, others crawling, some simply swaying in place. The air was thick with the sickly smell of rot and fungus.
Rory's throat tightened. "Holy hell…"
Arthur just stared. His fingers tightened on the bridle, his revolver hand itching but staying still. "We ain't gettin' through here. Not like this."
Rory's whisper cracked, "So what now?"
Arthur's eyes scanned the buildings — fire escapes, broken stairwells, second floors wide open like dark mouths. He tipped his hat back, thinking hard. "Now… we start climbin'. Quiet. And pray we don't wake the whole city."
The boy swallowed hard, nodding, as Arthur led them toward the shadows of a ruined brick building.
Arthur tugged the reins, leading the horse into the hollow of an old parking garage, vines and steel beams swallowing the structure. He tied it down firm, giving the mare a pat on the neck. "You sit tight, girl. Don't you go screamin' if things get ugly."
From the strap on the saddle, Arthur pulled free the machete Joel had given him. The edge was worn but sharp enough to split bone. He slid it into a loop on his belt, then glanced back at Rory.
The boy was clutching a sawed-off shotgun like it was life itself. Arthur frowned. "Kid…" His voice dropped low, steady. "That thing goes off in here, we'll have the whole city pourin' down on us. Keep it put away. You stay behind me, quiet as a mouse. Understand?"
Rory hesitated, then nodded, sliding the shotgun onto his back. "Got it."
They crept into the ruined building, their boots muffled against the debris-coated floor. Dust motes drifted like ghosts in the shafts of morning light cutting through broken windows. Arthur led them toward a cracked stairwell, careful not to make the rusted steps creak too loud.
By the time they reached the third floor, Arthur paused at a shattered window, glancing out. The skyline stretched beyond — towers of steel and glass, scarred but still clawing at the heavens. He tipped his hat back, brow furrowed, taking it in.
"Damn…" He muttered under his breath. "Back in my day, tallest thing you saw was a church bell tower or some big-city hotel. These here…" He shook his head slightly. "Like giants holdin' the sky. If they weren't rottin' away, reckon they'd be somethin' worth lookin' at."
Rory glanced at him, surprised at the softness in his tone, but before he could speak—
—click… click… click…
Arthur froze. His hand slid to the machete hilt, jaw clenching. That sound. Joel had burned it into his head back in Jackson.
He raised a hand, signaling Rory to stop cold. The boy obeyed instantly, holding his breath.
From the end of the hallway, it came into view. A Clicker. Its skull split open by the fungus bloom, teeth snapping in blind spasms, claws raking at the air as it stumbled forward, listening, hunting.
Arthur's chest tightened, but he kept his breathing slow. Joel's lessons echoed in his skull: Don't run. Don't talk. Don't shoot. Quiet steel's the only thing that saves you.
Arthur leaned down, whispered so faintly Rory could barely catch it: "Stay. Behind. Me."
The boy nodded, knuckles white around the strap of his shotgun.
Arthur drew the machete slow, the blade catching a faint glint of light. He crouched low, each step measured. The Clicker twitched, jerking its head toward the faint crunch of plaster beneath his boot. Arthur froze. The creature hissed, then swayed, its distorted screeches bouncing off the walls.
Rory's heart hammered, but Arthur's eyes were cold, steady. He waited, patient as a hunter, until the Clicker turned slightly away.
Then he moved.
One swift step, his arm snapping forward, and the machete bit deep into the fungal skull. The Clicker thrashed once, a guttural cry muffled in its throat—then went still, collapsing with a dull thud.
Arthur exhaled slow, yanking the blade free, wiping it against his coat. "Ugly sons'a bitches."
Rory finally breathed again, eyes wide. "Jesus…"
Arthur gave him a look, calm but sharp. "Now you know why I said keep that scattergun put away. One bang, and we'd be swimmin' in 'em. Best to keep quiet steel close at hand."
The boy swallowed hard, nodding.
Arthur glanced down the ruined hallway, where shadows stretched deep into the building's guts. He adjusted his hat, machete still dripping faintly. "C'mon. We ain't through the worst of it yet."