Chapter 6
A month has passed since the motel.
The asphalt cracked under their boots as they walked, a jagged, faded line stretching endlessly ahead. The woods were behind them now — those suffocating trees that whispered with every gust of wind, shadows shifting like eyes always watching. Marcel was glad to be rid of them. The open road wasn't much safer, but at least you could see trouble coming.
Sarah kept pace beside him, her steps steady but cautious. A faint scar ran along her leg where the deep gash had once been, but she no longer limped. The stubborn girl had worked harder than he expected. Maybe harder than she thought she could.
"Weight on the balls of your feet," Marcel reminded quietly, eyes scanning the treeline to their left. "Keeps you ready to move."
Sarah adjusted her stance, gripping the small hatchet he'd given her with both hands. It still looked oversized for her, but she was getting better.
"I still think we should've kept the motel," she muttered, eyes drifting down the cracked highway. "We had walls there."
"We also had bodies piling up and a dozen ways for things to go wrong," Marcel replied, his voice calm but firm. "That place wasn't safe. Not really. Out here… at least we pick where we sleep."
Sarah didn't argue. A month ago, she would've. But after what happened at the motel… the dead coming in like a wave, she understood. Survival meant moving forward. Always.
The plan was simple — head east.
Her uncle was out there somewhere. She wasn't sure exactly where — somewhere near the state border, last she'd heard. Maybe still holed up with what's left of her family. Maybe gone like the rest. But it was hope. And hope, however fragile, keeps your legs moving.
The world around them was quiet, save for the crows circling high above and the distant groan of the wind. Empty cars littered the roadside like forgotten memories, most stripped bare by looters or decay. Here and there, a bloated walker slumped against a guardrail, its face a rotted mess — easy enough to avoid.
"Lesson three," Marcel spoke after a while, breaking the silence. "Never get comfortable."
Sarah frowned. "I thought that was lesson one."
"The Lesson one was 'don't freeze.' Lesson two — 'trust your gut.' This one's different." He nodded toward a distant gas station on the horizon. "Comfort makes you vulnerable."
She tightened her grip on the hatchet, eyes sharpening the way he'd taught her. Despite the dirt, the exhaustion, and the bruises of the last month, there was a quiet resolve in her now.
"I won't get comfortable," she promised.
Marcel nodded, adjusting the strap of his rifle across his back. He didn't say it out loud, but part of him was proud. The scared, uncertain girl from the motel was still there… but layered over her now was someone tougher. Smarter.
Then his tone shifted, just enough to catch her off guard.
"Lesson four," Marcel added, his voice low but serious now. "Most important one of all."
Sarah stiffened, eyes wide with attention, bracing herself.
"Loosen up sometimes."
She blinked, visibly confused, her tense posture faltering. "But… you just said—"
"If you're always uncomfortable," Marcel interrupted, the faintest smile curling at the corner of his mouth, "you lose yourself — to fear, to what-ifs, to all the shit you could do instead of what you should do."
His gaze lingered on the cracked road ahead, thoughtful.
"If you're always focused on what might happen, you'll forget what you can do — right here, right now. Which… is one of the reasons I opened my door for you that day."
Sarah fell quiet, her expression unreadable as they kept walking. But the gears were turning in her head — Marcel could tell.
And for now, that was enough.
______
The gas station loomed closer, its faded signage barely clinging to the rusted frame. One side of the canopy had collapsed entirely, concrete cracked and buckled under its own weight. The glass doors at the entrance were shattered, jagged edges glittering faintly in the sunlight.
Marcel slowed his pace, raising a hand to signal Sarah to stop.
"Rule?" he asked, eyes scanning the structure.
"Never get comfortable," she answered without missing a beat, fingers tightening around the hatchet handle.
A small nod of approval from him. "Good. Let's sweep it."
They approached quietly, boots crunching over bits of gravel and broken glass. Weeds sprouted between the cracks in the pavement, swaying gently with the breeze. The place smelled of old fuel, sunbaked rubber, and rot — faint, but present.
Marcel peered inside the station's convenience store, rifle at the ready. The shelves were mostly bare, but not completely. A few cans, scattered junk, maybe something worth taking. More importantly — no movement.
At least, not yet.
"Stay close," Marcel instructed, leading the way inside.
The floor was littered with wrappers, toppled displays, and a faint dark stain that trailed toward the back room. Sarah followed silently, her eyes wide, but her breathing steady. The last time they'd scavenged a building, she'd nearly lost it — the bloated walker stuffed in that closet had rattled her. But now… her knuckles were white on the hatchet, sure, but she wasn't frozen.
They moved the aisle by the aisle. Marcel pocketed a few dented cans of food, a half-used roll of bandages, even a working flashlight — rare find these days.
Then a faint thud echoed from the back room.
Both of them froze.
Marcel held up two fingers — two walkers, maybe. That's what the sound suggested. Shuffling weight, uneven.
Sarah nodded, swallowing hard, but didn't back down.
Marcel crept toward the door, easing it open with the barrel of his rifle.
Inside, the storage room was dim, dusty shelves casting crooked shadows along the walls. Slumped in the far corner, tangled in plastic wrap and spilled cleaning supplies, were two walkers — both pinned beneath a collapsed metal shelf. Their arms clawed weakly in the air, jaws snapping uselessly.
"Stuck," Marcel muttered under his breath. His eyes flicked to Sarah. "Your call."
She hesitated, but only for a second. Tightening her grip, she stepped forward.
The first swing was clumsy, but it connected — the blunt end of the hatchet cracking against the walker's temple. The second strike was better — cleaner, sharper — sinking into its skull with a wet crunch. The body went still.
The other walker writhed, snarling, pinned beneath the shelving. Sarah's breathing quickened, but she didn't look away. She adjusted her footing — weight on the balls of her feet, just like Marcel taught — and brought the hatchet down again.
Silence.
Only then did Marcel lower his rifle.
Sarah stood over the corpses, chest rising and falling, shoulders tense — but steady.
"Not bad," Marcel remarked, stepping closer. "Bit sloppy on the first one, but you corrected. That's what matters."
A faint, almost disbelieving smile tugged at Sarah's lips. "Thanks."
Marcel handed her a rag from his pack to wipe the blood from the hatchet. "Lesson five," he added casually as they exited the room, the sun creeping lower on the horizon.
Sarah tilted her head. "There's a fifth one now?"
"Always is." He offered a small, knowing smirk. "You're never done learning."
And with that, they stepped back onto the cracked highway, the endless east stretching ahead — uncertain, dangerous… but theirs to face.