From the narrow gap between the truck wheels, Thomas's world narrowed to a vibrating sliver of asphalt. The sound of horse hooves grew closer, an impossible yet undeniable rhythm. Disbelief battled with the evidence his ears provided, and a cold fear gripped him. Then, he saw it.
A brown horse emerged from around the bend in the road, galloping with desperate power. Astride it, a man in a filthy, dust-covered sheriff's uniform, his face pale with exhaustion and terror. For a bewildering moment, Thomas's mind froze. A sheriff. A symbol of law, order, and a world that was lost. A wild, unexpected spark of hope ignited in his chest. He wasn't alone. There was still civilization.
That hope lasted less than three seconds.
Behind the sheriff, from the same road entrance, a sea of death spilled forth. Not a small group like he usually saw. This was a horde. Hundreds of the undead, perhaps thousands, shambling along, filling the entire width of the highway. They moved like a single hungry organism, a slow but unstoppable river of decay. Their symphony of low groans swallowed all other sounds, turning the air into a blanket of terrible noise.
Hope in Thomas's chest died instantly, replaced by pure terror that made it hard to breathe. He flattened himself against the hot asphalt, trying to become one with the truck's shadow. The sheriff and his horse were now running straight towards him, and behind them, the tidal wave followed. He was trapped. Running meant instant death. Staying still meant waiting to be engulfed by the wave.
The man on the horse looked desperate. His horse whinnied in fear at the sight of the dead sea before it, its steps beginning to falter. They would soon be surrounded, right near Thomas's hiding spot. In his panic, Thomas shifted his body a little further under the truck. His aimless fumbling hand touched rough wood. An old, open military crate, lying in the bed of the truck. His eyes darted inside, and among the folds of a dirty green tarp, he saw it.
An olive-green metal object, with the iconic pineapple shape. A grenade.
Time seemed to stop. The groans, the horse's whinny, and his own frantic heartbeat, all faded into the background. There was only him and the object in the crate. His mind, which had been paralyzed by fear, now raced at full speed.
Leave it. A cruel logical voice whispered in his mind. It's not your problem. He's dead anyway. Save yourself. If you stay still, you have a chance. If you make a sound, you're dead for sure.
But then, his eyes caught the sheriff's face again. A human face. Sweaty, terrified, but still fighting. Still alive. Letting him die felt like pulling the trigger on the last remnants of his own soul.
What can you do? Throw the grenade? Logic scoffed. That's suicide. The explosion will attract every Walker for miles. You'll be the center of attention. You'll die.
The horse stumbled. The first Walker managed to grab the sheriff's pant leg. The man screamed, a hoarse sound filled with terror.
The image of the sheriff being pulled from his horse and torn apart by dozens of decaying hands flashed through Thomas's mind. The image felt so real, so horrific. The feeling overwhelmed logic. Empathy, a luxury he should no longer possess, exploded with irresistible force.
With a suppressed groan, he made a decision.
He reached out, grabbing the cold, heavy metal of the grenade in his sweat-soaked palm. His fingers trembled violently as he fumbled for the safety pin. I have to be able to do this, a silent scream echoed in his head. Instantly, the tremors in his hand lessened slightly, a sharp, unnatural focus taking over amidst the panic.
He pulled the pin. The small click it made sounded like an explosion in his ears.
Without further hesitation, Thomas swung his arm. He wasn't aiming for the horde near the sheriff. That was too close, too dangerous. His eyes fixed on a more distant, more strategic target. A fuel tanker truck crushed between two cars, about fifty meters ahead.
With all his might, he threw the grenade. The green object soared through the air, a small arc cutting through the orange evening sky, flying towards its destiny. For an eternal moment, the whole world seemed to hold its breath, waiting.
Time seemed to crawl as the green grenade reached the apex of its arc, then fell with terrifying speed towards its target. It hit the side of the tanker truck with a barely audible metallic clang, then fell to the asphalt below. For an eternal split second, nothing happened.
Then, the world exploded.
A blinding white light devoured everything, forcing Thomas to squeeze his eyes shut, yet its searing afterimage still burned through his eyelids. The roar that followed wasn't just a sound; it was pure physical force that slammed into his body, shaking every bone within him. The ground beneath him vibrated violently. A tremendous wave of heat swept over his hiding place, carrying the smell of ozone and burning fuel.
When he dared to open his eyes, a hellish scene greeted him. A gigantic fireball billowed into the sky where the tanker truck had been, engulfing the surrounding cars and sending hot metal shards in all directions. The wall of fire effectively split the horde in two. Dozens of Walkers closest to the explosion vanished, integrated into the burning inferno.
Amidst the chaos, the sheriff and his horse, thrown by the force of the blast but otherwise unharmed, managed to get up. The man didn't hesitate. He spurred his horse away from the fire, away from Thomas, and disappeared among the abandoned rows of cars. He was safe.
But Thomas had just created a much bigger problem. The explosion was a beacon, a giant dinner invitation visible and audible for miles. His ears rang violently, and he knew he only had a few minutes before every Walker within earshot started moving towards him.
He forced his stiff body to move. Adrenaline flooded his system, masking the pain and confusion. He crawled out from under the truck and ran. Not back to the highway, but sideways, down the steep earthen embankment at the side of the road. His feet slipped on the loose gravel, and as he landed awkwardly at the bottom, a sharp, piercing pain shot through his calf. A hot metal shard from the explosion had ripped through his pants, leaving a gaping laceration.
Blood began to seep, but he had no time to care. Behind him, the symphony of undead groans began to grow in volume, a terrifying chorus drawing closer. He pushed himself into the dense forest, branches scratching his face and arms. I have to keep moving, a desperate mantra echoed in his mind. As he ran, he felt the familiar warmth of his power flow into his injured leg, dulling the sharp pain to a distant, bearable throb. It wasn't healing, but it was enough.
He ran aimlessly, just away from the highway, deeper into the dark silence of the woods. The dense trees swallowed the sounds of fire and groans behind him, replacing them with the sound of his own ragged breaths and his pounding heart in his ears. Finally, after his lungs felt like they would burst, he collapsed at the base of a large oak tree, his body trembling uncontrollably.
For several minutes he just lay there, panting on the damp layer of leaves. As his adrenaline receded, the pain from his wound returned with full force. He was alone, lost, and wounded. He gritted his teeth, trying to sit up and assess the damage to his leg.
CRACK.
The sound of a snapping twig nearby froze him. His hand reflexively moved to the screwdriver at his waist, every muscle tensing. He assumed a Walker had managed to follow him.
However, what stepped out from behind the shadows of the trees was not the undead. It was a woman. Her clothes looked practical, faded jeans and sturdy boots, topped with a striking red leather jacket against the green of the forest. Her face showed an alert expression, and in her hand, a pistol was raised steadily, its muzzle pointed directly at Thomas's chest.
"Don't move," the woman said. Her voice was calm, clear, and left no room for negotiation.
Thomas, exhausted and in pain, could only slowly raise his hands, showing his empty palms. "I don't want any trouble," he said, his voice hoarse from dehydration and fatigue.
The woman's eyes swept over Thomas's condition, from his soot-stained face to his torn, bloody pants. Her gaze then shifted towards the thick black smoke still billowing high above the trees, towards the highway.
"That explosion," she said, her gaze returning sharply to Thomas. "Was that your doing?"
Thomas hesitated. The truth could make him seem like a threat. A lie felt futile. He just stared back, unsure what to say. The woman seemed to see his hesitation and exhaustion. She lowered her pistol slightly, though she didn't put it away. Clearly, she was assessing the situation, just as Thomas was.
"Are you out here alone?" she asked.
The question was simple, yet in this silent world, it felt heavy, hanging in the air between them, waiting for an answer that could determine everything.