"They're not people! They're dead! Ain't got to feel nothin' 'cause all they do, they KILL!"
-Carol Peletier
Dr. Marcus Holloway's POV
I never got used to the smell.
Blood, sweat, dirt—the stench of survival. It filled the air, clinging to my clothes, my skin.
But I couldn't let it get to me. Not now.
Bob groaned beneath me as I worked, his face slick with sweat. The bullet had gone clean through his side, missing anything vital, but he'd lost too much blood.
He was alive, but barely. For now, that was enough.
The lantern cast a weak glow over my makeshift operating table—just a wooden crate covered with a torn blanket.
Nothing sterile. Nothing safe.
But it had to be enough. "Bob," I said, voice low, steady. "I need you to stay with me."
He blinked up at me, barely conscious. "Ain't goin' anywhere, Doc." I forced a tight smile. "Yeah, well, let's keep it that way."
His pulse was weak, but steady. That was something.
Sasha hovered near the entrance, arms crossed, face tight with worry. I'd seen that look before—the one that people get when they're waiting for bad news.
She wouldn't leave. I didn't ask her to.
Carol was there too, handing me supplies when I needed them, eyes sharp, focused. She had steady hands. Stronger than most people realized.
Whipe I saw my daughter with Carl and Caleb who is holding baby Judith near Maggie, Eugene, and the priest Gabriel.
I reached for the bottle of Ciprofloxacin. "Bob," I said, tapping his cheek lightly. "You still with me?" He groaned. "Don't got much of a choice, do I?" "Good. Take these." I slipped the pills into his mouth, holding a canteen to his lips.
Antibiotics. Not a guarantee, but it gave him a chance.
Bob wasn't the only one hurt. Tyreese had a gash on his arm—a bullet graze, nothing serious. He barely flinched when I cleaned it. Caleb had a bruised rib from diving behind cover, but he waved me off, muttering that he was fine.
Nothing I couldn't handle. Nothing I hadn't seen before.
But Bob? Bob was different. He was the closest I'd come to losing someone since joining this group. And I wasn't about to let that happen.
Hours passed.
Sasha never left. She sat beside Bob, holding his hand, murmuring things I couldn't hear. I leaned against the wall, closing my eyes for just a second.
My hands ached from the work. My body was exhausted. But my mind? It wouldn't stop.
Wouldn't stop thinking about how much we would've lost in that ambush. Wouldn't stop thinking about how much more we'd lose in the days to come. Wouldn't stop wondering how many more I'd have to patch up before I lost one.
Because I knew, deep down—
One day, someone wouldn't make it. And I wasn't sure if I could handle that.
Maggie Greene's POV
The fire crackled low, casting shadows across the ground. The others sat in small clusters, some talking in hushed voices, others just staring into the flames. No one really slept tonight. Not until we knew they were back. They left hours ago. Rick, Daryl, Abraham, and Price.
No one said it out loud, but we all knew what this was. They weren't out there to negotiate. They were out there to end something. I looked across the fire at Glenn, sitting with Carol, Rosita, Darius and Izzy.
He was trying to stay calm, but I saw the tension in his hands, the way he rubbed his palms together like he was trying to keep them warm—except it wasn't cold. I knew what he was thinking.
What if they don't come back? What if this time, the fight was bigger than them?
Sasha stood near the tree line, rifle resting in her hands, watching the dark. I saw Bob near the fire getting his arm tended by Dr. Holloway.
Caleb, Carl with Sophie also sat close to the fire, Carl keeping his hand near his gun. No one spoke much.
We were waiting. Waiting for the men who had walked into the night like ghosts.
Then, finally— A branch snapped. Sasha turned, raising her rifle. More footsteps, then four figures emerged from the darkness. They moved smooth, unhurried, silent. Not like men coming home. Like men returning from the dead.
Rick.
Daryl.
Abraham.
And Price, leading them like a damn shadow.
I felt the air shift around the camp, the tension snapping tight. They were back. They stepped into the firelight, and that's when I saw it.
Blood.
Dark smears on their hands, their clothes, their boots. None of it was theirs.
They weren't wounded. They were just… marked. The blood of men they had killed.
Carol stood first. "It's done?" Rick nodded, voice quiet. "It's done." No other details. No need.
Price exhaled slowly, wiping his hands on a rag. Like he was cleaning off oil, not blood. Abraham stretched his neck, cracking it. "Drunk and high, just like their buddy said. Didn't even know we were there 'til it was too late."
Daryl sat down near the fire, pulling out an arrow, running his fingers along the fletching. He didn't say anything, just stared into the flames.
And then there was Price. He stood still, arms crossed, eyes scanning the camp, checking the perimeter. Checking us. He wasn't celebrating. Wasn't even relieved. Just making sure we were still secure.
Glenn stood, stepping up to Rick. "Did they suffer?" Rick's expression was blank. Price answered instead. "No."
I didn't know if that was the truth, or just what he wanted us to hear. But I didn't ask. We'd all changed since the world fell apart. We weren't just survivors anymore.
We were the ones who made sure people like those bastards never got the chance to hurt anyone again.
I looked at Rick—his shoulders heavier than before.
At Daryl—his silence thicker.
At Abraham—masking it with humor, but I saw the way his hands clenched.
And at Price—his face unreadable, his voice steady, as if tonight was no different than any other night.
I knew better. No More Words No one asked for details. No one needed to.
Rick looked at me, his voice quieter now. "Everything alright here?" I nodded. "Quiet. No trouble." He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. "Good."
The conversation ended there. No one needed a speech, no pats on the back. They had done what they set out to do.
And now? Now, we just had to keep moving.
Glenn Rhee's POV
The sun was barely up when Rick told me we were heading for the grocery store. The same one that bastard had begged for his life to tell us. While the others are going to loot the mayor's house.
Price, Sasha, Rosita, and I were going. Five of us. Enough to carry what we needed, enough to watch each other's backs. Everyone else would stay behind to fortify camp—didn't know what else was out there, and after last night? Couldn't take any chances.
I adjusted my pack, gripping the strap tight as we walked toward the road. Price was up front, leading as always. Daryl sat near the fire, checking his arrows. As we passed, he spoke without looking up. "Stay quiet. Stay fast. Don't get dead."
Rosita snorted. "Yeah, thanks for the advice." Daryl didn't smile. Just kept working.
I understood. We were all a little colder this morning. We moved fast, sticking to the backstreets, avoiding any open intersections.
The town was small—one of those places where everyone knew each other. Where people used to wave from their porches, complain about traffic that didn't exist.
Now? Now it was just silent. Dead cars, overgrown sidewalks, a few old skeletons left to rot where they fell. It wasn't recently hit. That was good. Meant there was still a chance the store had something left.
Price didn't talk much as we moved. Didn't need to. His eyes were everywhere. Watching windows, rooftops, side alleys. The man was a damn machine.
Sasha whispered, "Store's one block up." We slowed. Rosita and I moved first, hugging the buildings, checking for movement.
Nothing.
We crept up to the grocery store entrance. Glass doors were shattered, but the inside wasn't completely ransacked. That was promising.
Price gave a sharp nod. "In and out. Fast." We slipped inside. The place smelled stale. Dust and old rot, but not as bad as most places. No fresh corpses. No flies.
We spread out. Rosita checked the shelves. Sasha moved to the pharmacy section. Price and I headed toward the backroom storage. I stepped over a knocked-over display, scanning the aisles. Cans still on the shelves. A few bags of rice, some dried beans. Not much, but enough to matter. Rosita grabbed what she could, tossing food into a duffel bag. "Jackpot," she muttered, grabbing a pack of powdered milk. "Judith's gonna need this."
Sasha's voice came through the shelves. "Found some meds. Not much, but better than nothing." I nodded, glancing toward Price, who was scanning the ceiling. He wasn't looking for supplies.
He was looking for danger. He doesn't stop. Ever.
I exhaled, shaking off the thought. Focus. I headed for the storage room, stepping through a half-broken door. Price was ahead of me, stepping slow, rifle raised.
Then I heard it.
A faint scrape.
Then another.
Then—
A guttural moan from the darkness. Price snapped his rifle up just as the first walker lunged.
One silenced round to the skull. Another came out from behind a shelf stacked with expired snacks.
I moved fast, brought my knife up, stabbed it through the side of the head. It collapsed, dragging half a shelf with it. The noise was too damn loud.
More moans from the far side of the store. Sasha cursed. "They heard that." Price exhaled through his nose, lowering his rifle slightly. "Then we leave. Now."
We grabbed what we could and moved out. The moans were getting louder. Shadows shifted in the street.
More coming.Rosita swung her duffel over her shoulder, eyes scanning. "Route's clear back the way we came." Price glanced at me. "You see any runners?" I shook my head. "All slow ones." He nodded. "We move. Stay close."
We slipped into the alley, keeping low, keeping quiet. Behind us, the walkers reached the store, stumbling into it, blind and hungry. Too late. We were already gone.
The walk back was quiet. Too quiet. Rick met us as we stepped into camp, eyeing the duffel bags, the blood on our sleeves. "Anything bad?" Price shook his head. "Walkers in the backroom. Handled it." Rick nodded. Didn't ask for more details.
We dropped the supplies in the center of camp. Carol grabbed the cans immediately, sorting through them. Rosita handed the powdered milk to Maggie.
Sasha set down the medicine near Dr. Holloway with a sigh. "Not much, but it'll help."
Then Price walked over to Rick, lowering his voice. "We need to be ready to move. This town isn't empty." Rick nodded, his jaw tightening. He already knew.
I let out a breath, rubbing a hand down my face.
We got what we came for.
Price's POV
The sun's high in the sky—a clear, relentless blaze that makes the Virginia woods feel both vibrant and unnervingly silent. We'd finally arrived in Virginia, according to the map and Noah's word—he, a native of Richmond, confirmed we were near Shirewilt Estates. We pulled off at a safe clearing a good distance from the place. No point in charging headlong until we knew what we were up against.
I stood there, the heat baking the leaves and the ground rough beneath my boots, and took a moment to assess our surroundings. The woods around us were thick but still, unnaturally quiet. That quiet usually meant trouble. I pulled out my binoculars and swept over the area where Shirewilt should be. At first glance, there was nothing—no movement, no signs of life. It looked abandoned, deserted.
I handed the binoculars to Noah. He squinted through them, his face darkening. "This can't be," he muttered, almost to himself. "When me and my father left—excluding us—there should be eleven of them."
I felt a twinge of suspicion; something wasn't right. I passed the binoculars around to the rest of the team—Rick, Daryl, Sasha—and they all took their turns scanning the estate. We were a familiar face here, or so Noah claimed. His words, however, carried a tone of disbelief, of betrayal even.
Then Sasha, ever alert, spoke up. "I see three people," she said, her voice low and urgent. "One looks injured—being carried by someone. And there's another… firing at walkers."
I took the binoculars back and peered in closer. Sure enough, three figures moved in the distance. The injured one, cradled by a man whose arm trembled with the effort of carrying, and another man, steady with a rifle, engaged in a firefight with a small cluster of walkers that were starting to close in.
Sasha handed the binoculars back to Noah. His eyes widened as he stared at the figures. "I know them," he said slowly, the words laced with a personal edge. "They're my family—my father's side." His voice was barely above a whisper, thick with emotion I rarely saw in him.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, Noah's expression snapped to alarm. "They're being attacked! I need to help them!" he shouted, and without a second thought, he bolted from our position toward the estate.
Dammit. I cursed under my breath. That boy just gave our position away. Now, our cover's blown.
Rick didn't hesitate. "There's nothing we can do but help Noah!" he barked over the radio.
I didn't waste another moment. With practiced precision, we fell in behind him—Rick, Daryl, Sasha, and myself. As we moved out, we kept our weapons ready, our steps silent despite the adrenaline pumping through our veins. I kept a clear head. This wasn't the time for hesitation.
I caught sight of that hooded figure creeping in from the flank—a badtard too stealthy for his own good, clearly intent on getting the drop on Noah's kin. I steadied my suppressed HK433C and lined up the shot. A quick squeeze, and I sent a bullet ripping through his left foot. I followed it with another shot to the right foot—just enough to keep him from darting away. The man staggered, cursing in pain, his escape cut off then I saw a "W" symbol at his forehead.
Behind me, Rick and Daryl were already engaging the walkers. The air filled with the sound of suppressed shots and the guttural moans of the dead. Sasha's steady hands picked off any further threats from the shadows.
I pushed forward, my mind running through the possibilities—how much longer had it been since Noah and his family last occupied this place? Had the estate fallen to the walkers, or worse, been taken over by a hostile group? Each unanswered question stung like the echo of my own past regrets. But there was no time to dwell. Survival demanded swift, decisive action.
Catching up to Noah, I locked eyes with him. There was no time for reassurance now. We had a family to save. I motioned with a curt nod, and together, we surged toward the figures at the estate, every step measured, every shot deliberate.
Inside that silent, overgrown estate, our mission was clear—secure Noah's kin, and neutralize any threat.