"We fight not so that the world will remember us, but so that there will be a world to remember"
- Captain John Price
Price trudged along the outskirts of the forest, keeping the railway track in his periphery. Not too close, not too far. It was the perfect balance—close enough to maintain his heading, far enough to stay concealed. His boots crunched lightly against the underbrush, his steps purposeful but quiet. "Never walk where you're exposed," he thought. It was an old lesson drilled into him, one he'd seen the consequences of far too many times.
The railway he followed was just one of many sprawling tracks, all leading to Terminus, or so the map claimed. Whether it would lead to salvation or another bloody fight was anyone's guess. Price didn't like unknowns, but he'd learned to deal with them.
As he walked, his mind wandered back to yesterday—to the two walkers he'd dispatched. Their slow, lurching movements made them easy targets, provided you kept your cool and aimed for the head. It was a lesson he'd learned quickly: the brain was the kill switch. Everything else was a waste of effort. Still, the thought lingered: how the bloody hell had this gotten so far out of control?
The United States—the so-called "most powerful nation in the world." A military unmatched in size, tech, and budget. Yet here he was, walking through what felt like the ruins of their empire. Price had fought alongside Americans before. Hell, he'd trusted them with his life. Their forces were sharp, well-drilled, and bloody terrifying when they needed to be. But this? This was failure on an unimaginable scale.
"Was it incompetence? No it couldn't be" he wondered, his mind chewing on the question like a dog with a bone. Or was it something deeper—some bollocks in the chain of command? Maybe orders got muddled, or maybe no one had the balls to make the hard calls when it mattered."
He thought of all the advantages they should've had. Satellites to track movement, air support to bomb choke points, tanks to crush the hordes. Yet none of it seemed to have worked. "A cock-up of this magnitude doesn't happen without someone dropping the ball. Maybe it was all of them."
Maybe the virus had been too quick. Too silent. It only took one domino to topple the rest. One infected person slipping past a checkpoint, one base overwhelmed, and suddenly the line of defense collapses like a house of cards. That's the thing about humans—they're predictable until they panic.
Price scowled as he pushed a branch out of his way. The walkers themselves weren't even formidable. Slow, clumsy, full of weaknesses. They weren't soldiers. They weren't armed. They were just... shells. But when the numbers stacked up, when panic set in, when people turned on each other? That's when the real danger began. And now, here he was, picking his way through the aftermath.
A flicker of movement in the distance snapped him out of his thoughts. He stopped in his tracks, crouching low behind a cluster of bushes. His sharp eyes narrowed as he scanned the area. There, just ahead—three silhouettes moving against the sunlight of the sun, walking in the middle of railway track.
Price advanced cautiously, his steps slow but efficient, minimizing noise. His breathing was steady, his senses sharp. The trio came into view: a black man in his thirties, lean and wiry, holding a baseball bat with a knife sheathed at his side. His tank top and ragged jeans told a story of survival—functional, not clean. A Latina woman stood next to him, probably mid-twenties, with a knife of her own and a backpack slung over her shoulders. Her long sleeves and shorts didn't exactly scream "prepared," but she carried herself like someone who'd seen her share of fights. Then there was the teenager, a white kid—backward Yankee cap, no weapons in hand, though he had a pack like the others.
Price watched as they faced off against a small horde of walkers—eleven by his count. The black man shouted something, his voice with a hint of fear, gesturing to the woman. She nodded, taking position while the boy hung back, nervous but not frozen. The man stepped forward with the bat, smashing one walker's head in a brutal swing. The woman was quick on her feet, jabbing her knife into the skull of another.
Price observed them silently, his mind dissecting every movement. "They've got coordination," he thought. "Not amateurs. The lad's green, but the other two know what they're doing."
It was the way they moved—the man issuing orders, the woman following without hesitation. They weren't bumbling idiots, and they weren't bandits either. Price had a knack for reading people, and his gut told him these three weren't the type to slit your throat while you slept. But that didn't mean they weren't a risk.
"Could slow me down," he muttered to himself. "Or worse, draw more trouble. But maybe…" He weighed the options. People could be liabilities, but they could also be assets.
The walkers had been reduced to eight by now, the pair working methodically to thin their ranks. Price decided to tip the scales. He drew his M1911 sidearm, carefully screwing the suppressor onto the barrel. No point in drawing half the forest to their location.
His hands moved with precision, years of training etched into muscle memory. The weapon came up, steady and aimed. One squeeze of the trigger, and a walker dropped. Another shot, another corpse. He worked quickly, each movement economical, each shot hitting its mark. Within moments, the remaining walkers were on the ground.
The group froze, startled by the sudden intervention. The man spun around, his bat raised defensively. The woman stepped in front of the boy, shielding him instinctively.
Price stepped out from the shadows, his pistol lowered but still in hand. His posture was calm, deliberate, but not threatening.
"Easy now," he said, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "If I wanted trouble, you'd already have it."
The man lowered his bat slightly, still wary but not hostile.
"Thanks," the woman said cautiously.
Price gave a small nod, his sharp eyes assessing them again. They weren't bad people—he was sure of that now. Whether they were worth the risk, though, remained to be seen.
"Reckon you lot can hold your own," Price said, gesturing toward the pile of walkers. "Not bad work, all things considered."
The man glanced at the others, then back at Price. "We're managing. What about you?"
Price smirked faintly. "I'm managing too," he replied. His mind was already turning, weighing the pros and cons of bringing them along. For now, he'd see where this went. After all, in this world, even a Captain needed allies.
Caleb POV
Caleb's chest heaved as he tried to stay calm, the weight of his backpack feeling heavier with every passing second. The three walkers were close—too close. Darius's voice cut through the tension like a knife.
"Izzy! Take position!" he barked, his tone leaving no room for hesitation but a hint of fear was evident in his voice.
Izzy moved quickly, slipping behind them with her knife at the ready. Darius, always the loud and commanding one, banged his bat against the side of the train track, drawing the three walkers toward him. The growls and snapping jaws felt louder than they had any right to be, making Caleb's skin crawl. He stood back, gripping the straps of his backpack tightly, his eyes darting between his friends and the eight walkers that were still shambling toward them from the front.
Darius swung hard, the crack of his bat against bone echoing in Caleb's ears as the first walker dropped. Izzy moved in a flash, her knife stabbed through the skulls of the other two with precision. They were messy, sure, but they got the job done. Caleb wanted to breathe a sigh of relief, but his attention stayed locked on the larger group of walkers that still loomed ahead. His pulse hastens as he scanned their slow, shuffling movements, his muscles taut and ready to warn his friends if the dead got too close, their growls and snarls loud, "Grrhh-chhkkk...!" "Rrrhhhhh...".
That's when he saw him.
A man moved through the trees like a shadow, silent and deliberate. Caleb froze, his breath catching as he got a better look. The figure wore a vest, gloves, and boots, with a boonie hat casting a shadow over his face. A rifle was slung across his back, and in his hands, he held a pistol equipped with a silencer. Every part of him screamed soldier. Not just in his gear but in how he moved—calm, controlled, and efficient.
Before Caleb could even process it, the man sprang into action. He raised the pistol, his movements fluid and precise. The faint hiss of suppressed gunfire followed, and in a matter of moments, the eight walkers were nothing more than crumpled, lifeless corpses on the ground. Caleb's jaw slackened. He'd never seen anything like it. Even he, just a teenager, could tell this wasn't just some random soldier. This man was a professional, just like in the show he watched about special forces. Every shot hit its mark with no wasted effort, no hesitation. It was like watching a machine—flawless, methodical, and terrifying.
Caleb's thoughts flashed to the military camp he'd been with a few months ago—the one overrun by a massive horde. Hundreds, maybe thousands of walkers had torn through their defenses, overwhelming the soldiers who'd tried—and failed—to hold their ground. Those soldiers weren't like this man. Caleb had seen them panic, their movements frantic and their coordination crumbling under pressure. But this guy? He was something else entirely. If the soldiers at that camp had been like him, maybe the camp wouldn't have fallen. Maybe things would've been different.
He tore his gaze away from the pile of freshly dispatched walkers to glance at his friends. Darius and Izzy wore the same expression he felt creeping over his face—equal parts awe and wariness. Izzy instinctively stepped in front of him, her knife held tightly in her hand, her body tense like a coiled spring. Darius kept his bat raised, his knuckles white as his grip tightened. None of them moved.
The man lowered his pistol slightly, his posture relaxed but still ready, his sharp blue eyes studying them. "Easy now," he said, his voice gravelly and steady, carrying a weight of authority that made Caleb's stomach flip. "If I wanted trouble, you'd already have it."
Caleb glanced at Darius, whose bat wavered in his hands before he finally lowered it. Izzy relaxed just enough to glance at Caleb over her shoulder, her protective stance still in place.
A tense silence hung in the air. Caleb felt his pulse quicken again, though not from fear this time. There was something about this man—his presence, the way he carried himself. Caleb couldn't explain it, but for the first time in a long while, he felt like they might actually have a chance.
The man finally broke the silence, nodding toward the pile of walkers at their feet. "Reckon you lot can hold your own," he said, gesturing toward the pile of walkers. "Not bad work, all things considered."
Darius straightened up, he first looks at them, then at the man. "We're managing," he replied. "What about you?"
The man's smirk returned, this time a bit sharper. "I'm managing too."
He reached up, adjusting the brim of his hat before meeting their gazes. "Price is the name. John Price."
Another silence followed, but this one felt different—less tense, more curious. Caleb exchanged a glance with Darius and Izzy. They didn't know much about this man, but one thing was clear: John Price wasn't just another survivor. He was something else entirely.