The horse's breath came hard and fast beneath her...
Hooves pounding through the woods like a war drum. Maggie leaned low, gripping the reins tight, urging it forward.
"Come on… come on…"
Branches whipped past her face. Leaves slapped her arms. She didn't care.
Carl had been shot. There wasn't time.
She broke into a clearing and spotted the deer. Half of it was already torn apart by walkers, twitching as they chewed.
Her stomach flipped. She gagged, but pushed on, turning the horse away and continuing along the path Rick had described.
Minutes later, she burst out of the trees onto a road.
A dozen people turned to look. Guns were up... rifles, pistols, crossbows. All aimed at her.
Maggie yanked the reins, pulling the horse to a halt. Her heart thundered in her ears.
"I need Lori," she said quickly, raising one hand.
An older man stepped forward, calm but firm. "Why? What's your purpose?"
"Carl's been shot," Maggie snapped. "Rick sent me. I need Lori... Now."
There was a beat of silence.
Lori stepped forward without hesitation, already climbing up behind Maggie.
Daryl narrowed his eyes. "You're just gonna go with her? We don't even know who the hell she is."
Lori opened her mouth, but Maggie cut in. "I get it, okay? I'd question me too. But there's no time for a Q&A."
Glenn stepped forward, anxious. "Where are you taking her?"
"Greene Family Farm," Maggie said quickly. "You'll hit Chestlehurst Road, it's about three miles back. Follow it until you see a plaque, "Greene Family Farm". That's us."
And with that, she turned the horse and galloped back into the woods.
No more time to waste.
...
The horse hadn't even stopped before Lori was dismounting, boots hitting dirt, hands trembling as she rushed toward the farmhouse.
"Where is he?" she demanded.
Maggie led her through the door and to the room without a word.
The house was quiet, too quiet for a place with so much life and death hanging in the balance.
Then she saw him.
Carl.
Pale face, white as paper. Lying completely still. A bloodstained sheet covering his lower half. Hershel stood nearby, arms folded, his face was grim.
Rick was at Carl's bedside, holding his hand, whispering something only a father would say to a son on the edge.
Lori froze in the doorway. The tears came instantly, pouring down her cheeks as she stared at the boy who still wore the same sneakers she tied for him this morning.
"You son of a bitch," she choked.
Rick looked up, stunned.
"You did this!" she snapped, stepping forward, finger pointed at his chest.
"You're the one who brought him out there. What kind of father lets his son..."
SLAP!
The room went dead silent.
Rick's hand lingered midair for a moment before he pulled it back slowly.
Lori stared at him, stunned into silence. Her mouth parted slightly, eyes wide, as if trying to process what had just happened.
Rick's voice was low but hard as iron.
"How dare you."
He turned his back and sat down beside Carl again, squeezing his hand, lips pressed in a tight line.
Lori stood there a moment longer, heart pounding, blood roaring in her ears.
Then she stepped forward... quiet, shaking. She sat on the opposite side of the bed.
Her hand trembled as she brushed Carl's hair back from his forehead, careful not to disturb the bandages.
Her tears fell silently onto the pillow.
No words.
Just the sound of the boy's shallow breathing.
...
Maggie stood frozen in the hallway, one hand still on the doorframe.
From the second they'd arrived, it hadn't made sense.
The way Rick had looked at her... "Get her. Now." There was panic in his eyes, sure.
But urgency. Desperation. As if Lori was the only one who could ground him.
So Maggie had ridden like hell to get her here.
And now?
Now she watched as Lori blamed him.
Watched as Rick hit her.
Maggie's brow furrowed. Her jaw tightened. This wasn't what she expected.
Not even close.
She stayed in the background, letting the argument wash over her. She didn't know these people well, but there was history there.
Something raw, something rotten.
When Rick turned his back and sat beside Carl again, it looked like shame.
When Lori walked silently to the other side of the bed and stroked her son's hair, it looked like guilt.
Maggie had seen a lot since the world went to hell but whatever this was, she didn't understand it. Not fully.
She stepped back from the doorway quietly, giving them space.
But the image lingered.
Rick with blood on his hands.
Lori with tears in her eyes.
And Carl's pale face. Caught in the crossfire of whatever war still lingered between his parents.
...
Joe and Otis pulled up to the high school in Otis's old blue truck.
Joe raised his rifle and peered through the scope. Behind the FEMA fence, a herd of walkers milled aimlessly.
One section of the fence had collapsed but the dead hadn't strayed far.
"Stop here," Joe said.
He hopped out. Otis followed, heavy-footed.
"Sorry, dude," Joe said, turning to him. "You're just too loud."
Otis frowned, unable to react as the butt of Joe's rifle cracked into his face. It didn't do much damage, but it was enough to knock him out.
Joe dragged Otis back into the truck, slammed the door shut, and moved on.
He crept toward the FEMA warehouse, stopping behind a dusty police cruiser.
He opened the driver's door quietly and pulled the shotgun from the rack. Then he popped the trunk.
Inside, he found a couple of flashbangs and a few flares. He grabbed it all, clipped them to his belt, then lit a flare and tossed it far across the parking lot.
As the walkers staggered toward the flickering red light, Joe sprinted for the warehouse.
He stayed low, slashed at a few stragglers with his machete, and slipped through a side door, locking it behind him.
Inside, he found a duffel bag and stuffed it with anything that looked useful. A respirator, tubing, medical supplies, etc.
Bag packed, he peeked outside. The walkers were still clustered around the flare.
He stepped out, then froze. Movement. A shape on the rooftop.
Bang!
Joe flinched, but the bullet still ripped through his shoulder. Pain flared.
He dropped behind a car, eyes scanning the roof. A man in black.
Joe didn't hesitate. He fired back, rapid and brutal. His shots tore through the shooter, dropping him.
Joe turned to run but the walkers had already encircled him.
He blasted heads with the shotgun until it clicked dry. Slinging it over his back, he yanked a flashbang from his belt and threw it behind him.
It went off as he sprinted for the school's main entrance, slashing any walker that got too close.
His shoulder throbbed, but he didn't slow down.
Inside the school, he locked the glass doors just as multiple shots rang out.
He dodged, raised his rifle, and returned fire. Taking out two more black-clad figures.
The glass behind him cracked under the weight of pounding fists.
He ran.
Down the hall. Sliding under a machete swing, barely ducking in time.
He fired his glock into the attacker's knee, then finished him with a bullet under the chin.
No time to breathe.
Joe sprinted through the corridor, the horde chasing him, some peeling off to feed on the fresh body he had left behind.
At the far end, a staircase.
He charged up, two steps at a time...
Crashing into a man at the top.
The man reached for his sidearm.
Joe twisted the weapon away and shot him point-blank through the mask. He grabbed the pistol and kept moving, heading left.
An open window at the end of the hall. Across the gap was a rooftop. Probably the gym.
Joe sprinted.
A cluster of men in black blocked the hallway. Joe didn't slow down, he sped up.
He raised both pistols and opened fire, stunning them with armor shots, one lucky shot hit a head.
He leapt through the window.
Landed hard.
Rolling to negate some of the force.
Joe shot up from his roll and slammed into a man mid-turn. Without thinking, he grabbed the guy and spun him into the line of fire.
Automatic rounds shredded the man's body armor. Joe kept moving, dragging the dying shield with him as bullets tore into flesh and ceramic.
"Who the hell are these bastards?!"
Still using the body as cover, Joe backed up toward the rooftop door. He kicked it open without looking, let the corpse drop, and rushed inside.
Stairs.
He barreled down them, boots thudding against concrete. He hit the ground floor, straight into the gym.
It was crawling with walkers. Dozens. Maybe more. Cots were scattered everywhere, half-eaten bodies strewn across them.
Joe yanked a flashbang from his belt and hurled it into the crowd.
Pop!
The walkers shrieked, blinded. Joe sprinted through the chaos, dodging grasping hands and open jaws, pushing through until he burst into the locker room.
He paused for half a breath. Just enough to get his bearings.
He scanned the room... no hostiles. But he wasn't going to wait for any.
He rifled through the locker room. Nothing unusual.
He spotted a high window near the back. Big enough for him and the supplies he somehow safeguarded.
He climbed up and dove through, falling eight feet to the alley below. He landed hard, ankle twisting beneath him.
"Shit," he muttered, limping forward.
He pushed past the pain and headed for the alley's exit.
Only to freeze.
A masked man stood ahead, back turned, rifle in hand.
Joe rushed forward and drove his machete clean through the man's spine, the tip punching out his chest.
The man gurgled and dropped.
Joe took the rifle.
He followed the perimeter fence, sticking close, ducking low behind abandoned cars.
Eventually, he spotted a breach. Clean cut, like someone had used a torch, not brute force.
He slipped through without hesitation.
Covering ground quickly now, Joe moved from car to car, glancing back toward the school.
No one followed.
He exhaled, the first full breath he'd had in what felt like hours.
Then he doubled back to the truck.
It was still there. So was Otis... what was left of him. The man was slumped inside the truck, throat slit, half-turned into a walker.
Joe stared at him for a second. A flicker of guilt. Then... nothing.
"He would've gotten killed anyway."
He turned his back on the scene and walked off into the dead town, disappearing between broken buildings, rifle in hand.
The sky had gone black. Joe could feel the weight of time pressing down... Carl wouldn't last much longer.
Ahead, in the glow of the full moon, he spotted it. A black Harley, half-buried behind an abandoned sedan.
He ran up, slammed his rifle stock into the ignition, snapping it open. Black and red wires twisted together.
He thumbed the push start.
The engine roared to life.
Joe swung onto the bike, popped the clutch, and tore off into the night.
---
A masked man lay prone on a nearby rooftop, rifle aimed. Eyes behind the scope.
"Target moving. Permission to fire?"
A voice crackled through his earpiece.
"Take the shot."
He squeezed the trigger.
---
Joe heard the hiss of air... a shot, high velocity.
He jerked left.
The round missed. Only raising his side.
Joe raised a middle finger behind him, grinning as he tore around a corner and vanished into the dark.
---
The sniper watched him go, lips curling under the mask.
"Sly bastard," he muttered, rolling off the scope and returning to his objective.
---
Joe kept the throttle open, eyes scanning the road.
He checked behind him every few minutes, waiting for headlights, drone lights, anything.
Nothing.
Gradually, his grip loosened. Not relaxed, not really. But he was less on-edge.
He rode through broken towns and burned-out suburbs, dodging walkers, weaving between rusted wrecks, dirt and gravel kicking up behind him.
The road turned rural. Familiar.
Joe leaned into it.
The farm wasn't far.
And Carl was waiting.
...
HIGH SCHOOL – FEMA WAREHOUSE
Walkers stagger aimlessly through the gym, moonlight flickering across their rotting faces.
Through a side door, two Crows enter... silenced pistols raised.
They move like ghosts, helmets matte black, night-vision lenses glowing faint green.
They don't waste ammo. Every shot is a whisper of air and blood.
Crow 1 (comms):
"Warehouse secure. Package located."
They step over bodies. Some were fresh, others long gone.
In the corner, lay a sealed steel container. It was half-buried beneath a collapsed cot.
Crow 2 knelt beside it and popped it open. Inside were three glass vials suspended in a foam case. One glows a pale blue under the emergency lights.
Crow 2:
"Got it."
Crow 1:
"Copy. Prep for exfil."
They slip out just as another group enters from the north hall, more Crows. Dragging what's left of a FEMA scientist.
The man's legs are chewed down to the bone, but his upper half is still intact, barely alive.
Crow 3 (coldly):
"Tagged him last week. Immune strain confirmed."
Crow 1:
"Useless now."
Without hesitation, Crow 3 pulls a suppressed sidearm and ends the man.
They regroup at the stairwell, moving up fast, coordinated. A clean sweep.
---
HIGH SCHOOL ROOFTOP – MOMENTS LATER
The team emerges from the rooftop access door, silhouettes against the night sky. The school starting to burn behind them.
One of them plants a black signal flare. It hisses to life. Green smoke spiraling upward.
Crow 4 (comms):
"High school clear. Payload acquired. Resistance neutralized. One variable escaped."
Crow 1:
"We'll find him."
Crow 2:
"If he's smart, he'll run. Far."
They stand in silence for a beat, watching the horizon. Then...
Crow 3:
"Bird inbound."
Above them, a dark shape cuts through the sky. A silent rotorcraft, lights off, just shadows and wind.
As the exfil chopper descends, the Crows vanish into it like smoke.
Behind them, the school burns. Walkers swarm the courtyard below.
Mission complete.