The hallways turned into a gauntlet of shadows and spores.
Arthur and Rory crept floor by floor, but the deeper they went, the more of them there were. Not just one Clicker — but three, then five, their guttural clicks echoing like morse code through the ruined rooms.
Arthur stopped Rory with a hand on his chest, whispering barely a breath: "No fightin'. Not now. We move… silent."
They hugged walls, stepping over broken glass and fallen plaster. Every sound felt deafening — the creak of wood, the rattle of an empty can under Rory's boot. One Clicker snapped toward them, shrieking, its arms swinging wild. Arthur grabbed Rory by the collar, yanking him flat behind a splintered doorframe until the creature staggered past.
Minutes dragged like hours, but finally they reached the stairwell. It groaned with every step, but upward was the only choice. By the time they pushed open the rooftop hatch, both of them were dripping in sweat, hearts pounding.
Arthur stepped into the cold air, pulling his hat down low against the glare. The city sprawled beneath them — a graveyard of steel and glass. Skyscrapers loomed like broken teeth, their windows gutted, vines crawling up their sides.
Rory came up behind him, breathless. "Safer up here…"
Arthur grunted. "For now. Don't get cozy."
They moved across the rooftop, then to the next — Arthur testing planks and collapsed bridges of rebar and wood that raiders had left years before. Rory followed, nervous but learning.
Arthur paused once, looking back at the skeletal skyline. "Damn shame. All this buildin', all this strivin'... an' look what it came to. World eats itself no matter how tall the walls get."
He whistled, sharp and low. From three blocks down, faint but steady, his horse answered, a whinny echoing through the streets. Rory looked amazed. "You trained it to follow you?"
Arthur smirked faintly. "Horse don't need trainin'. You just… earn its trust."
They crossed another roof when Rory froze, pointing downward. "Arthur… look."
Arthur crouched, peering over the edge.
Below, in the broken street between rusting cars and weeds, a convoy was setting up. Not scavengers. Not Jackson folk. These were organized.
Three jeeps, one with a mounted machine gun. Men and women in old fatigues, patches of a faded Firefly emblem on their shoulders. Heavy rifles, crates of ammo, spotters scanning the buildings.
Arthur's eyes narrowed. "Well, hell…"
Rory whispered, nervous. "Who are they?"
Arthur spat to the side, low and mean. "Ain't sure yet. But I don't like folk who set up ambush guns in a dead city. Looks like soldiers, but… Joel never mentioned no army still runnin' around."
Rory's voice shook. "We can't fight that. Not with just us."
Arthur leaned back from the ledge, thinking, jaw tight. "Ain't plannin' to. Not yet." He tapped his satchel. "I could make a fire show down there, sure… but we don't even know what they're after. That's somethin' worth findin' out first."
He pulled the bolt-action from his back, scanning through the scope. Faces came clear — scarred, hardened, too organized to be just stragglers. The Firefly symbol was painted on their crates, bold and fresh.
Arthur muttered under his breath. "Joel ain't gonna like hearin' this one bit…"
Rory swallowed, keeping low. "So… what do we do?"
Arthur stayed crouched, watching the convoy below like a wolf sizing up a campfire.
"We stay sharp. We keep high. An' we figure out just what in God's name these folk want in a dead city."