The van rolled through the pre-dawn haze, headlights dimmed to slits, engine throttled so low it barely registered above the wind. Inside, tension coiled like wire. Rick drove with both hands tight on the wheel, eyes flicking between the road and the shadows beyond. Glenn sat rigid beside him, map trembling slightly in his grip, voice hushed but urgent as he called turns. Daryl rode backseat, crossbow across his lap, finger resting near the trigger, scanning every alley mouth. Alister occupied the rear bench, armor reassembled and oiled, the machete sheathed at his waist, fire axe strapped across his back. Every metallic creak of his plates felt amplified in the silence.
They had been on the road less than an hour when Daryl raised a fist stop.
Ahead, a herd of walkers fifty, perhaps sixty shambled northward along the highway, their movements slow but unnervingly purposeful. Not milling. Not wandering. Migrating.
Glenn's whisper cut the air. "They're all going the same direction."
Daryl peered through his scope. "Ain't random. They're following something."
Rick's knuckles whitened on the wheel. "Food. Atlanta's been stripped bare for months. No bodies left in the open, no fresh kills. The dead don't starve they follow the scent when the city runs dry."
Alister leaned forward, voice low. "In my time, even wolves moved when winter left the land empty. The city has become barren to them. They seek life elsewhere. Northward. Toward us."
The words landed like stones in still water. Glenn swallowed hard. "That means the horde we ran into yesterday wasn't the end. It was the front edge. If they keep coming…"
Rick finished the thought. "The quarry's in their path. Eventually."
Daryl's jaw tightened. "Then we don't waste time. Get the guns, get back, warn 'em. We may need to move camp sooner than we thought."
They skirted the migrating group at a distance, moving on foot when the road narrowed. Every rustle of leaves, every distant moan felt magnified. Alister moved with seasoned precaution, each step placed to avoid the faint metallic scrape of his plates against one another. The silence between them was not calm it was taut, stretched thin, ready to snap at the first mistake.
They reached the street outside the department store just after sunrise. The bag lay where Rick had dropped it half-buried under debris, straps tangled in broken glass, untouched. Walkers shuffled nearby, fewer than expected, but close enough to make every movement feel like a gamble.
Daryl signaled: two fingers two walkers. He raised the crossbow. The first bolt took one through the eye, silent and clean. The second turned at the faint thud of the body hitting pavement. Alister stepped forward, machete already drawn. One fluid motion blade through the neck, head spinning away without a sound. The body crumpled.
Rick retrieved the bag, slinging it over his shoulder. "We're clear. Move."
They retreated to the van, hearts hammering. The city, for once, had granted them mercy but the mercy felt temporary. The dead were moving. The clock was ticking.
Meanwhile, back at the quarry, the day unfolded under a deceptive calm.
The sun rose fully, burning away the mist. The camp stirred with the routine of survival: water fetched, fires stoked, children kept close. Lori worked beside Carol, folding blankets, their conversation quiet and careful. Carl practiced knots under Dale's patient instruction, the boy's concentration a small anchor in the day's uncertainty.
Shane patrolled the perimeter alone, rifle slung low. The quiet gnawed at him. No distant groans, no sudden movement in the trees. The absence of threat felt wrong, as though the world were holding its breath. He paused at the treeline, staring into the shadows. Rick's plan was bold too bold. Leadership demanded caution, not heroics. Yet the group had followed. Again.
Merle sat by the fire, sharpening a knife with slow, deliberate strokes. The tin man Alister had earned a grudging respect; holding that basement alone took spine. Merle wasn't one for sentiment, but he recognized strength when he saw it.
Ed Peletier had been sulking near the edge of camp since morning, nursing a cigarette and a bottle of scavenged whiskey. He had been warned repeatedly to stay within sight, but Ed never listened. Today, he wandered farther than usual, following a narrow deer trail into the woods, muttering under his breath about "weak men" and "soft women."
Carol noticed his absence first. She searched quietly, calling his name. She heard him screaming, grueling screeching.
Ed lay sprawled on the ground, blood soaking the leaves beneath him. A single walker slow, decayed, but relentless had pinned him against a fallen log. Its teeth had torn into the meat of his forearm, ripping through muscle and tendon. Ed thrashed, screaming, trying to shove the creature away, but the bite was deep and final.
Carol's cry shattered the morning. Shane arrived first, rifle raised. He fired once clean, precise dropping the walker. T-Dog followed, pulling Carol back as she stared in horror.
Ed clutched his arm, blood pulsing between his fingers. "Get it off me!" he shouted, voice cracking. "Get it off!"
Shane knelt, assessing the wound with grim efficiency. The bite was unmistakable deep punctures, torn flesh, arterial flow. No amount of cleaning or antibiotics would change what had happened.
Everyone had made one clear rule in this new world: bites were fatal. No exceptions.
Shane stood slowly. "We have to do this quick."
Carol shook her head, tears streaming. "No. No, please—"
Shane's voice was low, almost gentle. "He's already dead, Carol. We let him turn, he'll come for us. For Sophia. You know that."
Ed's breathing grew ragged, eyes wild with pain and fear. He looked at Carol with disdain and fear on his eyes. "Don't… don't let them…"
Shane drew his sidearm, aimed carefully. One shot. The sound echoed across the quarry, sharp and final.
Silence followed.
Carol collapsed to her knees, sobbing quietly. T-Dog placed a hand on her shoulder, offering what comfort he could. Shane holstered the pistol, expression hard but eyes shadowed. He had done what was necessary. Again.
The camp gathered slowly, drawn by the gunshot. Dale descended from the RV, face pale. Lori shielded Carl's view, whispering reassurances. Merle watched from a distance, arms crossed, face unreadable. Andrea stood beside Carol, offering silent solidarity.
No one else had been lost. The bite had been Ed's alone his carelessness, his refusal to heed the rules. The camp mourned quietly, but the loss was contained. No herd had followed. No massacre had occurred. The quarry remained secure.
Shane turned away, cleaning the blood from his hands with a rag. The weight of the act settled on him, heavy but familiar. Leadership meant making the hard calls. Rick wasn't here. Someone had to.
In the distance, the city waited for the returning team. The day was far from over.