Joe took a much needed rest after helping Rick into the bathroom with a change of clothes from the satchel. While waiting for Rick he loaded a Beretta, prepared for Rick.
Joe's stomach burgled violently, professing it's hunger audibly.
Rick came out of the bathroom minutes later and saw Joe holding a Beretta M9 to him. Rick took it while giving him a weary look, "What's this?"
Joe said simply, "Might need it." Joe stood up with a groan and peered out the doorway before walking out, Rick followed along awkwardly.
Rick observed the hospital, if you could even call it that anymore.His face became grim as he continued to observe the halls. Blood stains on the walls and floor.
Rick began to breath heavily, having a mild panic attack. Joe smacked him in the arm, causing a groan. "Quiet, we don't know if there are any on this floor!"
Rick asked, "Any what?"
Joe responded, "Walkers. Monsters that eat flesh and have insatiable hunger."
Rick nodded numbly, still unbelieving. That was until they turned a corner and saw a singular walker, only half a body crawling in the opposite direction.
Rick froze completely in shock and watched as Joe stepped forward and swiftly swung his fire axe into the head of the creature... no, walker.
Joe said, "The head, always aim for the head." Rick nodded with a blank look and then sped up to stay closer to Joe, his hand now resting on the pistol tucked to his side. He clutched it as if it was his only lifeline and technically it was.
Soon they reached the door to the stairwell, Joe pushed it open with a creak. The stairwell was cold and dim as Joe helped Rick down, one shaky step at a time. Neither spoke much. There wasn't anything to say that hadn't already died in their throats.
Rick limped, one arm around Joe's shoulder for support. Joe moved slow, axe in one hand, sidearm tucked at his hip, satchel on his back.
They reached the bottom.
Blood had dried in long, rust-colored trails leading out of the hospital doors.
Joe gestured for Rick to stay low as they crept toward the entrance.
"Stay quiet," he whispered. "Sound draws them."
Rick nodded, his face pale but focused.
They passed the reception desk—overturned, stained with old gore. The automatic doors hung open, one panel completely shattered.
Then they stepped outside.
And froze.
The parking lot beyond the hospital was filled with rows of bodies. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. Lined up like a mass grave with no dirt. Most were covered in tarps. Others were rotting in the open sun.
The stench hit them like a wall.
Rick covered his nose. "What the hell…"
Joe scanned the area. "Looks like they tried to quarantine the dead. Or maybe they gave up trying."
Farther down the lot, something out of place.
A helicopter.
Its paint was burned and melted. The side was torn open from the crash, and one of the rotors had buried itself into the hood of a burned-out ambulance. The insignia on the fuselage read.
> U.S. Army Medical Evacuation Unit
Joe's eyes narrowed. "Jackpot."
The two moved carefully across the lot, stepping between bodies, eyes scanning for any movement.
Crows perched on nearby lampposts took flight as they passed.
Joe reached the helicopter first and peered inside through the shattered cockpit glass. The pilot was still slumped over the console, helmet cracked, neck bent at an unnatural angle. Burnt to shit but still, he could here groaning.
The back was worse.
Three burnt bodies in tactical gear. Two had gunshot wounds. One had his throat torn out.
Rick reached in and carefully pulled a fire retardent duffel bag from beneath one of the soldiers.
Joe opened it swiftly, Rick scanning the area with his gun drawn.
Inside were:
Two M4 carbines
Four magazines
A combat knife
A first aid kit
One cracked radio
A sealed pouch labeled "CLASSIFIED – BIOHAZARD SAMPLE (DESTROY ON IMPACT)"
Joe swapped a mag for the one in his M4 and handed Rick one of the rifles. "You know how to use this?"
Rick nodded. "Trained at the academy."
Joe gave him a look. "Good. Let's stay sharp."
They checked the rest of the wreckage. Nothing else but shredded paper, bent gear, and a trail of dried blood leading away into the trees beyond the parking lot.
Someone had crawled away. Or something.
Joe scanned the horizon.
"We need to move," he said. "There's nothing left here but ghosts."
Rick was quiet for a moment, then spoke.
"I need to go home. It's not far from here," he said, eyes locked on the horizon like he could see it. "You coming?"
Joe looked at him, expression unreadable.
Then nodded. "Lead the way."
Rick took one last glance at the field of corpses, at the broken helicopter and the silent hospital behind them. Then he turned and stepped onto the cracked asphalt road, rifle slung, head on a swivel.
Joe followed.
Behind them, the world they knew was already gone.
Ahead, whatever was left of it.
...
The sun beat down hard as Rick and Joe made their way along the broken back roads of Georgia.
Asphalt cracked beneath their boots. The world was still, like it had been drained of life and left behind for the flies.
Every mile, they passed the same signs of collapse, burned-out or abandoned cars, lawns now overtaken by weeds, and the occasional walker shambling across the road in messy, grotesque loops.
They didn't talk much.
Until one appeared.
A walker staggered from behind an abandoned truck,bloated, its jaw slack, intestines dragging like a leash behind it.
Rick froze. Joe raised his hand to stop him. "Quiet," he whispered.
Joe stepped forward and buried his axe in its skull with a practiced swing. The walker dropped like a bag of cement.
They moved on.
Two blocks later, another one, this time Joe pushed Rick forward gently. Rick crept behind it, gripped the kabar combat knife Joe had given him earlier, and hesitated for half a breath.
Then. Shink!
The walker slumped to the pavement, like a puppet with cut strings.
Rick stood there, panting.
Joe gave a nod, a look of recognition on his face.
---
It was late afternoon when they finally turned the corner onto Rick's street.
His breath caught in his throat.
The familiar rows of houses. Trees with yellowing leaves. Bicycles left to rust on the side of his house. His mailbox, still standing.
He ran ahead.
Joe hung back, scanning the rooftops and porches as they approached the house.
Rick burst through the front door and froze.
"Lori?" he called. "Carl?!"
The house was dark. Dust danced in the rays of sunlight cutting through the windows.
A photo album sat open on the coffee table. His badge was still on the counter. But no one was home.
Joe entered quietly, eyes sweeping each room with his rifle up.
Rick's voice cracked from upstairs. "Carl?!"
Nothing.
Joe checked the kitchen. Empty. Clean. Too clean. Like someone had recently been here—and left in a hurry.
Then came a noise.
Thump.
A small shuffling sound. Then a voice.
"Hey, mister?"
Joe spun around quickly, shocked that someone had managed to sneak up on him. Rick was already turning the corner into the hallway.
At the end stood a young boy, maybe ten years old. Dark skin. Wide eyes. Dressed in a hoodie too big for him.
Rick raised his hands slowly. "Hey there… I'm not gonna hurt you."
The boy's eyes darted to the side. "Dad!"
Rick barely got a word out.
"Wait, no, I—"
WHAM.
The flat end of a shovel cracked against his head.
Rick dropped instantly.
Joe rushed in from the other room, weapon up. He saw Rick unconscious on the floor. The boy standing frozen. And the man, was lean, wary, holding the shovel ready to swing again.
Joe stepped forward, sidearm raised. His voice was like gravel.
"You better pray he's fine," Joe growled. "Because if he's not…"
He leveled the gun at the man's chest.
"…you won't like your fate."
The man froze.
The boy stepped behind him, clutching his hoodie.
Silence hung heavy, like the air itself was waiting to see who twitched first.