"Pain doesn't go away...You just make room for it" - Andrea
Captain Price's POV
We had just finished saving Noah's kin. Our plan was to get some answers from the man we'd captured. He'd lost blood from the shots to his feet "he shouldn't have died that fast" but when I took a closer look, it was clear he was already too weak. His body just couldn't handle it anymore.
I ordered the interrogation, but as the man slumped there, barely hanging on, it was obvious he wouldn't last much longer. No use in dragging it out. I signaled for us to move on.
Noah, meanwhile, was having a reunion that softened even a hardened soldier like me. He met his relatives with a mix of relief and sorrow. "They're at the house," he said, voice thick. We headed over to the residence, expecting to see the eleven he'd spoken of before. Instead, we found only five people there – including the three we'd rescued.
Inside the house, the survivors told us their story. They explained that a group called The Wolves – a brutal band of survivors marked with a "W" on their forehead – had attacked. They'd not been the first community to fall. The Wolves had slaughtered others before, and the group that had been with them was wiped out, leaving only these five.
Noah's eyes were fixed on his uncle. "What about my mother?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. His uncle, a man with tired eyes and quiet strength, replied simply that she was gone. It wasn't a full explanation, but it was enough.
They then introduced themselves:
Elijah Warner, Noah's uncle – his mother's older brother, steady and scarred by loss.
Darius Warner, a cousin in his early twenties, with a guarded look and a rifle by his side.
Melina Warner, his cousin – a young woman around twenty-three, tough but with sadness behind her eyes.
Sarah Warner, Elijah's wife, who held herself together even when her eyes betrayed her grief.
Abigail Warner, their seven-year-old daughter, clinging to her teddy bear like a lifeline.
Before long, one of them asked if we'd eaten. Rick answered on our behalf "we had, thanks to a recent supply run". The brief moment of normalcy was short-lived.
Suddenly, Sasha called out over the radio that there were four people coming toward our position. Sasha had spotted four men moving in, a couple of blocks away. I didn't need to guess who they were. One of them had a faded "W" carved into his forehead. The Wolves.
Rick looked at me. "What's the call?"
"I'll handle it."
Rick's eyes narrowed. "You sure?"
I gave him a look. "I've faced worse than four crazy bastards."
No arguments after that. The others stayed back, keeping Noah's kin safe while I moved out.
I kept low, moving between rusted-out cars and overgrown bushes. The Wolves were coming in slow, checking their surroundings, but they weren't expecting trouble. Amateurs.
I got within range, took a deep breath, and raised my suppressed HK433C.
First target—a lanky guy with a machete strapped to his back.
I lined up my shot and fired.
The bullet punched through his chest, and he dropped instantly. No scream, just a soft thud as his body hit the pavement.
One down. Three left.
The others reacted fast, pulling weapons—one had a pistol, another a shotgun, the last one a knife.
I fired again.
Second shot went through the one with the pistol—straight in the head.
He fell before he even knew he was dead.
The one with the shotgun panicked, raising his weapon.
Too slow.
I squeezed the trigger, two quick bursts to the chest. He stumbled back, gasping, then collapsed.
Three down. One left.
The last one—the guy with the knife—froze. He looked between me and the bodies of his friends.
Smart enough to know he didn't stand a chance.
"Drop it," I said, keeping my gun steady.
His hands shook, but he didn't let go of the knife. Fear can make people do stupid things.
I stepped closer. "I won't ask again."
His grip tightened. I shot him in the leg.
He collapsed with a scream, the knife clattering to the ground.
I grabbed him by the collar and shoved him onto his back, my knee pressing down on his chest. He struggled, gritting his teeth in pain, but he wasn't going anywhere.
I pulled out my radio.
"Three dead. One alive. Bring a rope."
Daryl arrived with the rope I'd asked for over the radio. He didn't say anything, just went to the guy and crouched down, grabbing the bastard's arms and tying them behind his back. The guy winced, breathing heavy, but he knew better than to fight it.
I wasn't planning on letting him bleed out. Not yet. I tore the shirt off one of his dead mates and pressed it hard against the wound in his leg. Crude, but effective. He groaned in pain, but I wasn't interested in sympathy. If he died now, he'd take what he knew with him.
Once he was patched up just enough to survive, we dragged him back to the house.
Inside, I kicked his legs out from under him, forcing him to kneel. He groaned, but I ignored it.
I kept my voice even. "You're going to die."
His breath hitched. Fear settled in.
"But it's up to you how it happens," I continued. "You can go peacefully… or you can suffer."
He didn't hesitate. "I'll talk."
I nodded. "Good. Where's your base?"
"A few miles out," he gasped. "But… they're moving. Somewhere in Virginia."
I glanced at Rick. He was listening, arms crossed.
"How many are left at your base?" I asked next.
The bastard licked his lips, nerves eating at him. "Not many. Maybe four."
Elijah, who had been standing to the side, stepped forward. His voice was tense. "Then why weren't they with you?"
The guy swallowed. "I'm new," he muttered. "This was my initiation."
Elijah's jaw clenched. Then he punched him.
The bastard's head snapped to the side, blood trickling from his lip. He let out a laugh, low and twisted.
"You don't get it," he said, grinning despite the pain. "We're freeing people."
I exhaled slowly. Here we go.
"People don't belong in communities," he went on. "That's not how we're meant to live. That's why the world ended—because people got too soft, too reliant on their little systems, their technology. It made them weak. We live like we're supposed to now. We survive the way we were meant to."
He looked up at me, eyes wild. "And so will you. Eventually."
I'd heard enough.
I raised my HK433C and put a bullet in his head.
Silence.
I looked at Rick, Daryl, Noah and Sasha. "We got what we need."
Rick nodded, then turned to Elijah. "You and your family are welcome to come with us."
Elijah took a moment, then gave a firm nod. "We'll pack our things." with Noah helping them pack up.
Rick looked back at me. "We head back to the others soon."
I gave a simple nod and turned away.
Another job done.
We made it back to the convoy, and the lot of them were already on edge, waiting for answers. Rick stepped up first, laying it all out—some of Noah's family were alive, but they'd been attacked by a group calling themselves the Wolves. A bunch of savages. He explained what we knew about them, how they slaughtered survivors and didn't believe in communities. The way he said it, you could tell he wasn't just informing them—he was warning them.
I scanned the area. Off to the side, I spotted Dr. Holloway tending to Elijah's people. Good thing I didn't put him down when we first met. A proper doctor was hard to come by these days, and with the way things were going, we'd need one.
Once Rick was done, I spoke up. "We know where their base is. But there aren't many left." I let that sit for a moment before adding, "They're relocating somewhere in Virginia."
Carol crossed her arms. "Do we know where exactly?"
"No," I said flatly. "The bastards we ran into were just initiates. They didn't know."
That was the end of that. No point in wasting time guessing.
I looked at the group. "I'm taking Daryl with me. We're gonna finish what's left of them." I let my eyes pass over everyone. "The rest of you, get ready. Soon as we're back, we move."
No one argued. No one questioned it.
They knew this had to be done.
We moved in close, me and Daryl. We'd tracked the Wolves' camp a few miles away. The plan was simple: take out three of them and leave one alive for interrogation.
I kept my HK433C steady while Daryl readied his crossbow. In the open daylight, there was no hiding. We crept up to the edge of the camp and opened fire.
My first shot went straight into the chest of a man standing near a pile of gear. He went down instantly. Daryl then fired a crossbow bolt into another, who dropped without a sound. The third one tried to run, but I caught him with two quick bursts – one shot to his leg, one to his torso. He collapsed, barely alive.
We left one man standing. I expected him to drop his pistol when Daryl shouted at him from our position. Instead, the guy looked around in panic. Before anyone could stop him, he pulled the trigger on his own pistol and shot himself in the head.
"Bloody hell," I muttered, shaking my head as I holstered my HK433C.
Then, I called out, "Come out!" My voice carried clear across the camp. Daryl looked confused, but I repeated, "Come out!" while pointing my gun at the spot where the man had been.
After a few tense seconds, a clean-shaven man stepped forward. He had no dirt on him, wore a neat jacket, and had a backpack slung over his shoulder.
"Who the hell are you, and why are you following us?" I demanded.
The man met my gaze calmly. "I'm Aaron," he said with closed smile at his face. "I'm recruiting good, capable people for our camp."