Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Walsh, you copy?”

The radio crackles. Then nothing, just a hiss, thin as breath in the cold.

Sonia sits in the passenger seat, posture too perfect to be comfortable. Her golden hair is pulled into a tight braid, tucked against the collar of her jacket.

Her face is pale and unreadable, elegant in the way statues are, with hazel eyes that don’t blink enough. She watches the road like it owes her something. The compound bow slung behind her creaks with the sway of the vehicle.

There’s no softness in the way she moves. Everything about her is efficient, stripped of excess. The kind of control that comes from habit, not instinct.

Outside, a wet wind cuts through the cracked seams of the Humvee. Patches of fog drift low along the shoulder of the road. The trees are mostly bare, just the faintest trace of new buds fuzzing the branches. Everything’s gray. Sky, dirt, bark, breath.

The Humvee lurches, a hard cough beneath them as the tires roll over a body sprawled across the road. The crunch is brief, muffled, like bones giving way under the weight. Sonia braces a hand against the dash. The engine catches again. Barely.

David grips the wheel like he’s bracing for impact. His dark hair is still parted neatly, combed back like routine might still matter. His jaw is tight, but not from fear, he’s just holding too much, too quietly.

He’s good-looking in a clean way. The kind of man who still keeps his sleeves rolled just right. Not out of vanity. Out of discipline.

He hasn’t stopped moving since the world fell apart, but never away from them.

Behind them, Sophie leans against the window, legs folded under her, her stuffed rabbit trapped under her chin.

She looks like a ghost of a ballerina: long limbs, blonde hair tangled at the ends, face too still for a child. Her eyes never rest.

She hasn’t spoken since Fort Redwater. But she sees everything.

The radio hisses again. False hope.

Sonia turns the dial with her knuckles, slow and methodical. She’s been chasing fragments for three days, snatches of Shane’s voice buried in the static.

“...quarry... east ridge...”

 “...survivors... clean water...”

Not much. Just enough to point a direction. Just enough to follow.

David glances over. “Signal’s worse today.”

“Drifting south,” she replies.

He doesn’t ask how she knows. Doesn’t need to. He’s let her chase it without pushing back.

The road is cracked and wet, puddles catching broken reflections of the sky. Every few miles, a bloom of daffodils punches through the mud near old fences. Jarring, almost.

She shifts. Something pulls low in her abdomen, a dull reminder she doesn’t acknowledge.

In the mirror, she sees the second vehicle: a battered Ranger coughing smoke, barely clinging to the lane behind them. Milo drives. Brianna’s beside him. Max sits in the back, head down, rifle across his knees.
Broad shoulders, dark skin, quiet eyes, Milo handles the wheel like a man who used to command more than just an engine. Brianna leans against the window, her deep brown face pinched in thought. Her braids are tied back in a no-nonsense wrap, but a few strands have come loose. Max slumps low in the back seat, hoodie pulled up, skin the same rich tone as his mother’s. The kind of family that’s already lived through too many storms before this one.

Sonia mentally counts them, again.

Two families. Six survivors.

She presses the radio again. Her thumb stays on the button longer this time.

“Walsh, if you’re out there, Fort Redwater’s gone. Six survivors. Respond.”

Nothing.

She exhales through her nose and lowers the handset.

Still no answer. But that voice is out there somewhere.

The radio hisses. Again. Just noise.

Sonia’s about to lower it when—

A click.

Then a voice, low and broken through the static, but unmistakable.

“...copy, Sonia? Sonia, this is Shane Walsh. You out there?”

For a second, no one breathes.

The world narrows.

Sonia’s hand tightens around the receiver. The words sink through her like a stone in water. Heavy. Sudden. Impossible.

She doesn’t speak right away.

David turns his head, just slightly.

Even Sophie shifts.

“I copy,” Sonia says finally, voice low, sharp, alive. “Shane, it’s Sonia. Fort Redwater’s gone. We have six survivors.”

She doesn’t explain the pause in her voice before “six.” Doesn’t explain why her chest feels too tight all of a sudden. David glances over, just once, but doesn’t say a word.

Shane’s voice cuts in again, clearer now. “Damn. Figured as much. You okay?”

“Not really. But we’re breathing.”

Behind them, the Ranger backfires. Hard. A loud metallic crack like a rifle shot. Sonia glances in the mirror. Milo manages to keep it steady, but the engine’s coughing again. Black smoke trails behind them like a fuse burning down.

Shane’s voice continues. “We’re set up northeast of Atlanta. Rock quarry off Highway 20. Look for the old water tower, then turn east just past it. Stay on the gravel trail until the trees thin out. Two clicks in, you’ll see the ridge.”

Sonia’s already reaching for the map folded in the console. “Copy that. We’ll get there.”

“You got wheels?”

“Running on fumes.”

“Shit. How far out?”

“Close enough,” she says. “We’ll make it.”

Behind her, Sophie hasn’t moved. Still pressed against the window. The rabbit is pinned under her chin now, clutched like a lifeline.

David eases his foot off the gas just slightly, listening to the Humvee’s engine wheeze. “We’re not getting another ten miles out of this thing.”

Sonia nods. “Doesn’t matter. We’re not pushing it to empty.”

The static rises again. Shane’s voice breaks up mid-sentence.

“...be careful. Terrain’s… open in spots. Watch your six…”

Then nothing. Just hissing.

Sonia lowers the radio. “We head in on foot.”

David exhales, jaw tight. “We stopping now?”

She nods. “Pull off soon. Before we lose both engines.”

He doesn’t argue.

The Ranger’s getting worse by the minute. They’ll be lucky if it even rolls into the clearing without choking out.

Sonia opens the glove box, digs for the compass, and folds the map tighter. The weight in her chest hasn’t gone away. But at least now it’s pointed somewhere.

They have a place to go.

The Humvee pulls off the road, gravel crunching under the tires. The engine wheezes once, then dies like it’s relieved to stop.

Behind them, the Ranger shudders and stalls out in a cloud of oily smoke. Milo climbs out and slams the door hard. Everyone knows it’s done for.

Sonia steps out of the vehicle without a sound. She doesn’t fumble, doesn’t pause, just unfolds like she’s made of wire and intention. The bow settles against her back with a thump. She doesn’t adjust it. It’s already in place. She steps out into the cold March air, damp and sharp, the kind that settles in your sleeves. Fog slips between the trees like smoke off a fire not quite dead. The trees ahead are bare-limbed but dusted with the first hints of green. Daffodils bloom defiantly near a split fencepost.

She opens the back door. Sophie blinks but doesn’t speak. Sonia adjusts her pack, tightening the straps so they won’t cut. “We’re walking from here.”

No reaction. Just a rabbit held tighter.

David unloads from the back. He passes Sonia a water bottle, then gives one to Sophie. She takes it without looking at him.

The Ranger’s door creaks. Brianna steps out, pulling her coat tighter. She eyes the engine as it ticks and hisses.

“Well, shit,” she mutters. “That sounded expensive.”

Sonia doesn’t respond right away. She’s checking the map, refolding it with deliberate precision. The sky is pale and colorless overhead, the kind of washed-out gray that never fully turns into sun.

“I reached him,” Sonia says finally, quiet but firm.

Brianna looks up. “Shane?”

She nods. “He’s alive. Broadcasting from a quarry northeast of here. Said there’s water, shelter, terrain. He gave me a path: Highway 20, past the old water tower. Two clicks in.”

Milo comes around the hood. “You sure it’s him?”

“I know his voice.”

Brianna whistles low under her breath. “That’s more than anyone’s managed in two weeks.”

Max shifts beside the Ranger, watching Sonia like she just turned the world back on. There’s something in his posture. Half defiant, half hopeful. Sonia sees the cadet in him, the boy he used to be before the world turned mean.

David adjusts the strap on his pack. “We’ll have to go fast if we want to beat the light.”

“We will,” Sonia says.

They start pulling gear from both vehicles. Max hops down from the Ranger’s bed, rifle clumsy in his hands. His pack’s hanging too low. His foot slips in the mud and he swears under his breath.

“Max,” Brianna warns. “Fix your gear before you shoot your damn foot off.”

He sighs, tightens the strap. She pulls it taut for him anyway, then flicks mud off his collar.

“You’ll thank me later.”

Sonia watches the exchange, quiet. Brianna glances her way, and after a moment, walks over.

“You still think he’ll take us in?”

Sonia adjusts her quiver. “If he’s still broadcasting, he means it.”

“And you’re sure it’s not just desperation talking?”

Sonia meets her eyes. “It’s Shane. I knew him before. He doesn’t say ‘safe’ unless he’s ready to make it real.”

“And you trust that?”

Sonia doesn’t answer right away. Then:

“Yeah. I do.”

Brianna nods once. That’s all she needed. Not new information. Just confirmation.

Milo slams the hood down.

“Truck’s toast.”

Brianna calls back without turning. “Figured.”

Max finishes with his gear and edges closer to Sonia. His strap’s twisted again. She fixes it without comment. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t ask how she knows.

Sophie waits beside her mother, rabbit tucked under her arm. Silent.

The group falls in around Sonia. There’s no speech. No signal. Just motion.

She glances once at the tree line.

The group falls in behind Sonia, the morning light barely filtering through the canopy above. Fog lingers along the ground in ghostly ribbons, swirling around their feet with each step.

Crunch.

Boots press against frostbitten leaves and brittle twigs.

Snap.

A branch gives under someone’s foot, and everyone flinches.

The only other sound is the whisper of fabric as packs shift and breath hitches.

Sonia moves like a shadow; quiet, alert, every motion purposeful. Her fingers stay close to her compound bow, eyes darting through the underbrush, scanning for shapes that don’t belong. Her breath is controlled, her jaw tight. The silence feels unnatural, too still as if the forest itself is waiting.

The wind picks up slightly, brushing cold fingers across their faces and rattling dry leaves overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a flock of birds takes flight, their wings beating like a warning drum in the choked sky.

David breaks the silence. “We’re too exposed here. We need cover.”

Sonia glances back, nods once. “We’ll head toward the trees. Keep moving.”

They shift course, angling toward a thicker patch of woods where the trunks grow close together and the ground softens with pine needles. Every movement now feels too loud, too slow. 

Then it comes.

A low, guttural groan—wet and dragging—cuts through the silence like a blade.

Sonia freezes mid-step. One hand lifts instinctively toward her weapon. Behind her, Sophie lets out a trembling gasp, and her mom reaches for her shoulder, pulling her gently behind herself.

The sound comes again, closer now. 

Groooooan.

Not the wind. Not the trees.

Something alive. Or close enough.

David’s head snaps toward the trees. Another moan follows, closer now, throatier, wet like something gurgling through blood. His grip tightens on the revolver in his hand.

Milo shifts beside him, stepping into a readied stance with his handgun drawn, his eyes flitting through the trees. The forest has gone utterly still, the silence now watching them back.

Max hurries to Sonia’s side, trembling as she instinctively shields both him and Sophie with her body. Sonia’s compound bow is up, already tracking the noise.

Brianna is off to the side, rifle in hand, but slack, gripped like a tool, not a weapon. She’s still adjusting to the idea of shooting something that looks so much like a person.

Then… they appear.

Two figures break through the underbrush.

The first—once a man, maybe in his late forties—still wears the remnants of a red gas station uniform, the faded name tag reading “DENNIS” barely hanging onto his chest pocket. His belly is sunken now, ribs pressing against the fabric, and one eye is missing, just a blackened hole with flies orbiting lazily around it. His arms hang loosely, as if the tendons inside gave up. But his teeth, still intact, click and snap at the air as he stumbles forward.

The second was clearly a woman in her early thirties. You can tell from the delicate silver hoop earrings still in her ears, the smudged mascara trailing dark lines down her pale, bloodless cheeks. Her once-curly brown hair is matted to one side of her face, stuck there with something dark and congealed. She wears a tan blazer over a floral blouse—a secretary, maybe—but one heel is broken, making her limp drag uneven. A strip of flesh hangs from her jaw, exposing muscle and shattered teeth, but her eyes… they still glisten. Not alive, not truly, but enough to make you hesitate.

Their groans aren’t just noise. There’s grief in them. Or maybe that’s just what the mind hears when it’s trying to hold onto humanity.

David lunges forward, gun raised. “Don’t think! Just do it!”

He fires too low.

The bullet tears through Dennis’s abdomen, ripping open rotted flesh and spilling what’s left of his guts but the walker keeps coming. Sonia doesn’t even flinch. She’s told David a hundred times: you aim for the head. The head, David. But he always panics.

Dennis lurches toward him, teeth bared, breath like rot and copper. David stumbles back, fumbling for the trigger again. Too slow, too scared.

Milo steps in. His hands shake as he lifts his pistol, eyes wide, muttering something like a prayer. He fires. Misses. Fires again: hits the walker’s jaw, snapping it sideways. It’s the third shot, barely controlled, that finally finds Dennis’s skull and drops him like a stone.

The silence lasts a second too long.

Another shape moves, heels clicking unevenly.

The woman shuffles forward, blazer flapping open to reveal a scabbed-over claw mark slashing across her torso. She survived the first attack. Not the second. Her face is sunken, her skin grey and splitting at the edges. Her blackened fingers stretch toward Milo, almost tender.

Sonia watches.

She watches even though her fingers are already curled around the familiar grip of her bow. An arrow is nocked. Her breathing is steady. Every instinct screams to act. Clean, swift, efficient.

But she doesn’t.

Her eyes lock on the woman’s. Something about the expression… it isn’t hunger. It’s… something quieter. Something that drags Sonia down into the moment. Her grip tightens, but the arrow stays drawn.

Milo screams and fires again, this time point-blank. The bullet shatters the woman’s skull in a spray of red and bone.

And then someone else screams.

Raw, human, alive.

Brianna.

Sonia turns sharply.

The third walker is already on her. It came from behind the trees. Silently. Fast. Its teeth are buried in the soft flesh of Brianna’s arm. Blood sprays across the nearby birch trunks.

This one is younger, a teenage boy, maybe sixteen, wearing a torn letterman jacket. The school crest is faded, but you can still make out the “C” patch on his shoulder. His face is barely touched, save for the bite marks on his throat and the pitch-black rot blooming across his jaw. His mouth clamps tighter around Brianna’s arm, chewing, grinding.

Brianna’s rifle hits the ground. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

Sonia draws her bow in a single breath. No hesitation.

Thwip.

The arrow drives straight through the boy’s left eye. His body slumps, still latched to Brianna, until David kicks it off her.

Max is crying. Sophie’s frozen.

Brianna stumbles back, clutching her arm.

There’s too much blood.

And it’s too late.

She’s staggering, blood soaking through the sleeve of her jacket, sticking to her skin like wet glue. Her hand presses against the bite as if pressure alone might undo it. But it’s already too late. The skin around the wound is blooming into an unnatural gray, veins darkening beneath the surface like poisoned roots.

Milo catches her, arms instinctively reaching to steady her. But his hands are trembling.

“No... no, no, no,” he stammers, stepping back as he catches a glimpse of the bite. His face crumples, panic overtaking him. “Bri, we... we can fix this. We’ll get you to camp—”

“No.” Her voice is flat. Steady. Final. “You can’t. I’m already gone, Milo. You know that.”

He shakes his head, desperation surging up his throat. “Don’t say that. Please. We’ve survived worse—we can still—”

“I’m not gonna make it,” she interrupts. No softness, no room for illusion. Just truth. “You need to get Max out of here. Don’t waste time on me. You can’t afford to.”

Behind her, Max stands frozen. His face is pale. Sonia’s arm stays firm in front of him, protective, instinctual.

Brianna’s eyes flick toward him, then back to Milo, softening, barely.

“You need to go,” she says again, quieter this time. “You need to run, Milo. With Max.”

Milo’s mouth opens to argue, but Brianna lifts a hand, bloodied, shaking. “No. I’m not asking you to stay. I’m asking you to protect him. You promised me.”

The words cut through him like a blade. He nods once, silent tears already running down his cheeks.

Then Brianna turns her gaze to Sonia.

It’s not David she looks to. It’s Sonia.

And that… Sonia doesn’t understand. But Brianna’s stare is sharp, unwavering. Not a request. A passing of duty.

“Promise me,” she rasps. “Promise me you’ll get him out. Somewhere safe. Somewhere far from this.”

Sonia hesitates for only a breath. Then: “I promise.”

Brianna’s shoulders fall slightly, the tension giving way to pain. She turns to Max, who hasn’t moved.

His rifle strap dangles from his clenched fists. He takes one step toward her.

“Mom…” His voice breaks on the word.

“No, baby,” she says, and now her voice trembles. “This is the only way.”

Max shakes his head. “We’ll find a way. We always do.”

But Brianna steps forward, cups his face with both hands, and kisses his forehead. Her tears land on his cheeks before her lips do.

“You’re not staying with me,” she whispers. “You’re walking out of this. You hear me? You’re going to live.”

He doesn't respond. His mouth trembles, his eyes blur. She lets go.

“You have to stay with Sonia. She’ll keep you alive. She knows how.”

Max’s face crumples. “Don’t make me leave you.”

“I love you, Max. Always.”

“I love you too,” he whispers.

Then Brianna reaches blindly for Milo’s hand.

“Milo…”

“I’m here,” he chokes out.

“I love you. Please… take care of him. Promise me.”

He nods. He can't speak. His throat is too tight.

Gently, he lowers her to the forest floor. She lies back, face tilted toward the canopy, blinking up at the light. Her lips try to form more words, but they don’t come. She exhales slowly, her breaths thinning. Milo brushes her hair from her face, his touch reverent.

Then he stands. Turns.

“I can’t…” he murmurs. “I can’t watch her die like that.”

He doesn't wait. He just walks, aimless, vanishing into the trees.

David watches him disappear. His jaw clenches.

“I’ll take Sophie,” he says, voice low. “We’ll keep ahead.”

Sonia nods. Sophie reaches for David’s hand without a word, her eyes glued to Max. Then they’re gone.

Sonia kneels beside Brianna. Her breath is shallow now, her lips parted, eyelids fluttering. Max hovers behind her, silent, fists clenched.

“She’s gonna turn,” he whispers. “And I don’t want her to.”

Sonia touches Brianna’s hair, brushing it gently. “She asked me to keep you safe. That starts now.”

Max swallows, then: “Please. Don’t let her come back.”

Sonia doesn’t answer. Just a slow nod.

She stands, guiding Max with a hand on his shoulder. “Come on.”

They walk. A few steps. The forest is painfully quiet.

Then Sonia stops.

Light filters through the trees, casting gold across the forest floor. Brianna lies still beneath it, her chest twitching once. Then again.

Sonia exhales.

She draws her compound bow from her back. The motion is smooth, familiar. But it feels heavier now. As if the weapon, too, understands the cost.

She nocks an arrow with practiced precision. Left foot forward. Shoulders square.

Her hands are steady. Her heart is not.

Brianna’s body jerks. Just once. Sonia’s breath catches.

She sights the small space between her brows.

A final gift.

She releases.

The arrow whispers through the air.

Thunk.

Stillness.

Sonia lowers the bow, slow and deliberate. Then turns back to Max, her face unreadable.

They walk on.

Chapter Text

The trees finally break open into pale rock and scorched dirt.

Sonia slows as they crest the ridge, her boots sending loose gravel skittering downslope. Below, carved into a shallow basin, lies the quarry. Ringed in rust-colored stone and haze. Wisps of smoke rise from scattered fire pits. Makeshift tents and patched tarps form a rough circle. Laundry lines stretch between tree trunks, clothes flapping in the wind. A child’s bike leans against a boulder.

David shifts the rifle on his shoulder. “We found it,” he says, almost to himself.

Sophie walks close to Sonia, nearly pressed against her side. Max rests a hand on her back, steadying her. No one speaks. They’re too tired to feel safe. Too hollowed out to believe this might actually be over, at least for now.

Then:

“SHANE!”

Lori Grimes’ voice rings out as she barrels up the slope barefoot, skirts of her long tee fluttering around her legs. Her shirt’s wrinkled, her dark hair tangled in loose waves, half fallen from a ponytail. She looks like she hasn’t slept in days, sun-pinked skin, dirt at her ankles, but her face is open, stunned with hope.

“When Shane said you were coming…” she gasps as she reaches them, “I didn’t believe him.”

She doesn’t hesitate. She pulls Sonia into a hug.

Sonia stiffens for half a second. Not from surprise, she expected this. But Lori’s arms close around her middle, and there’s nothing there. No curve. No weight. Just absence.
Lori freezes for the briefest moment. A breath caught in her throat. Then she presses in harder, her voice quieter when she says, “You’re really here.”

Sonia’s arms come around her, slow and careful. One hand hovers a moment near the small of her back, just above the holster she’s hidden under the jacket. She doesn’t relax.

Lori pulls back and studies her face. Her eyes are wet, but she doesn’t cry. “God, Sonia…”

David exhales beside them, long and low.

Shane is the last to join, boots crunching over gravel. He’s grown leaner in the face, sweat catching at his temple, but his presence fills the space. Confident. Loud. Familiar.

He stops in front of them, eyes locking with Sonia’s. For a second, he just looks. Silent. Searching.

Then he turns to David with a grin and pulls him into a rough, back-thumping handshake. “Damn good to see you, man.”

“You too,” David says, breathless.

Shane turns back. “Still standing,” he mutters to Sonia, like he’s not sure whether to believe it or salute it. “Not gonna lie. I figured if anybody was gonna drag herself and two extras up that slope, it’d be you.”

Sonia’s expression doesn’t shift. “You were right.”

Shane gives a sharp, crooked grin. Then he steps forward and throws one arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a one-armed, hard-knuckled hug. “Shit, it’s good to see your face.”

Sonia lets him. Doesn’t lean in, doesn’t push away. Just endures it like she’s been enduring everything else. But she doesn’t flinch, and that’s enough.

When he pulls back, he looks over her shoulder. Taking stock. Sophie. Max. Milo.

“You said six on the radio,” Shane says. “I count five.”

Sonia’s gaze is flat. “We lost someone this morning.”

Shane’s jaw tenses. But he just nods. “I’m sorry.”

His attention lingers on Max and Milo. “Friends of yours?”

Sonia’s tone is final. “Good people.”

Shane nods again, slower this time. “Alright.”

He jerks his thumb down the hill. “Dale cleared out space in the RV. Figured you’d need it. Ain’t luxury, but it’s dry. Got a heater too, if it decides to work today.”

David exhales like the words themselves are relief. “That sounds incredible.”

Shane shrugs. “Food’s tight. Water’s tighter. But we’re upright. That’s something.”

He starts walking. “C’mon. We’ll sort the rest after you’ve sat down and thawed out.”

Sonia checks for Sophie without thinking. Shane watches it happen. His voice drops as she passes him:

“Kids’ll be safe here. You will too.”

She doesn’t look back.

They follow Shane over the ridge, where the camp sprawls beneath the trees: tents in loose clusters, tarps strung between branches, smoke curling from a low fire. It smells like damp canvas and overcooked rice. A woman stirs a pot with the distracted rhythm of exhaustion.

Then, from the middle of it all:

“…Sophie?”

Carl Grimes steps forward before anyone can stop him. His hair’s longer, shaggier than Sonia remembers, and his face is all elbows and cheekbones now, stretched just enough to look not quite like a kid anymore. He squints, blinking as he stares at the girl beside Sonia.

“It is you,” he says, voice cracking slightly at the edge. “I didn’t think—I mean, I hoped, but…”

He trails off. His eyes flick between Sonia, Max, and back to Sophie.

Sophie doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But her eyes find his. Wide and glassy.

Carl clears his throat and tries again. “Remember that one time we filled up the sinks with bubbles at the library? Ms. Hart almost called my mom.” A half-laugh. “You said it was my idea, but I’m pretty sure it was yours.”

Sophie doesn’t answer. Her fingers tighten in the fabric of Sonia’s coat.

Carl shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “You still hate lima beans?”

Nothing.

“I brought my comics. Just in case.”

Sophie just looks at him. Her mouth doesn’t move.

But her eyes… God, her eyes are saying something.

Carl stands there for a long second. He rubs his palm on his jeans and clears his throat. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. Just glad you’re here.”

Then, with a quick glance at Sonia, he adds, “I can show her around later. If she wants.”

He turns away before waiting for an answer. Just walks back toward the fire, head ducked, like the weight of what he just said finally caught up to him.

Sophie’s hand slips into Sonia’s without a word.

She squeezes it.

Camp isn’t chaos, but it’s not far off. Tents of all shapes and colors—some military-issue, some torn from suburban backyards—form a rough arc along the far wall of the basin. Laundry lines sag between trees. Shoes and socks hang like strange fruit. Someone’s made wind chimes out of broken forks.

Sonia scans everything. Out of habit. Out of instinct. The ridgelines. The slope angles. The way the tents are positioned, where the blind spots are. There’s one watch posted, a thin-faced lookout up on a rusting RV with binoculars and a scoped rifle, but she notes the gaps faster than he does.

Children’s voices echo faintly near the water. No laughter. Just voices. Controlled chaos in miniature.

Max stays close to Sophie as they descend. David lags slightly behind them, his posture stiff, not from fatigue, but from the kind of tension that doesn’t know where to settle yet. He keeps glancing around like he’s not sure whether to be relieved or on edge.

Shane leads them toward the central fire, where logs and busted lawn chairs form a loose ring. A handful of people are already there, bowls in their laps, murmuring low. The talk dies as the newcomers arrive. Eyes flick up. A quiet spreads.

They settle near the fire, spread out along scorched logs and sun-bleached lawn chairs. Around them, the camp stirs with low movement, canvas creaking, branches shifting overhead. 

Sonia lets her eyes move, reading the place the way she was trained to.

The ridge: tents strung too close, tarps breaking the line of sight. East slope wide open, no watch posted. The only lookout sits on top of a rusting RV, binoculars glued to his face, scoped rifle propped within reach. He’s scanning, but she’s already noted the gaps faster than he has.

Closer in, faces blur against firelight until she starts picking them apart.

A tall, gray-haired man leans forward, nodding silently to Shane: steady, listener’s posture.
Beside him, a younger blonde tilts toward the flames, straight hair slipping from a bun too fine to hold. She watches Sonia with open curiosity, hesitance tucked beneath it.

Across the circle, a woman shifts a toddler on her hip, eyes glassed with exhaustion, stirring the fire like her body’s on autopilot.

Farther back, a gaunt man hugs his mug as if it might vanish if he lets go, eyes darting between pot, strangers, and ground, anywhere but another person’s face.

And right at the pot, an older man in a sun-faded fishing hat stirs slow, deliberate, unhurried. Like nothing could make him rush.

Beyond the firepit, the camp itself shows its cracks. A blonde near the tents tugs at her sleeves, nervous energy leaking through a brittle smile. Roots showing dark against dye, like she’s clinging to something that doesn’t belong anymore.

A thickset man sprawls too close to a woman who shrinks from his touch, his hand heavy on her knee like an anchor she can’t move.

By the laundry line, a woman with sharp eyes and a tight bun stops folding to watch — not nervous, not smiling, just cataloguing.

Down by the water, two children argue over a toy, their voices cutting through the dusk. A taller boy stands guard above them, silent and stiff, trying not to take up space.

They’re not threats. Not yet.

But this is a camp full of civilians learning to survive by accident.

And she didn’t survive Fort Redwater by accident.

The smell is sharp, beans boiled down to paste, something meaty and metallic beneath. Sonia doesn’t flinch when a bowl is handed to her, but she doesn’t eat. Max accepts his silently. David offers a polite nod and takes his without hesitation.

He studies it. “This looks like something I packed once for a hiking trip,” he says, mild. “Color’s the same. Smells... slightly more lived-in.”

The old man doesn’t glance up. “You want jokes or calories?”

David gives a quiet laugh. “Can’t I have both?”

“Not unless you’re cooking.”

Shane snorts. “Don’t encourage him, Dale.”

Somewhere deeper in the shadows, a baby cries out once, then hushes fast.

David watches the flames, bowl cradled in his lap. “You all been here long?”

“Fifteen days,” Shane says. “Found the quarry early. Set up camp while we could still choose where to put our backs. We were twelve at first. We’re a lot more now.”

“Thirty-seven,” Dale mutters without looking up. “For now.”

David nods slowly. “It’s held together well.”

Shane gestures toward the cluster of tents behind them. “We got some canvas from a ranger station a few miles out. Tied it up between trees. Started trading off jobs from there.”

“We got snares running on the ridge,” Dale adds. “Potable water, if you know how to boil it. And no one’s shot anyone yet.”

David doesn’t react, just sips from a spoon and says, “That’s a solid start.”

Shane flashes him a tired grin. “Better than the alternative.”

Sonia hasn’t touched her food. Her eyes flick from the ridgeline to the tents to the people clustered in twos and threes. She notes blind spots. Gaps in the perimeter. The east slope’s got no watch post. Just brush and a line of sagging tents, easy cover for anything crawling in. From the fire pit, you can’t see the trail fork. Too many tarps breaking line of sight. Anyone could walk up with a smile and a machete.

Milo sits farther off, barely touching his food. But his eyes keep drifting to Sonia. Sharp. Unreadable. She feels the weight of it, the bitterness crawling under her skin like static.

Sparks drift from the fire like fireflies with nowhere to go. The pot rattles quietly as Dale shifts its lid, checking without comment.

Shane leans forward, elbows on his knees. “We’ll talk about the vehicles in the morning,” he says, voice low. “Not sending anyone out after dark, not with the slope like that.”

David gives a quiet nod. “There’s gear we didn’t want to leave behind… MREs, blankets, water filtration, fuel.”

“The Ranger’s still holding two cans,” Max adds. “One sealed.”

Shane looks at him, eyes narrowing slightly. Not suspicious, just curious. “You were driving?”

Max nods, sitting close to Sophie like he means to guard her as much as the vehicle.

“She asked him to,” David says. That’s all.

Shane studies him a moment longer, then just nods. “You did good.”

Max doesn’t answer, but his shoulders ease a little. Sophie presses into his side, her bowl untouched.

Sophie leans subtly against Sonia’s side. Her small hand curls in the fabric of Sonia’s jacket, and Sonia lets it stay there.

No one fills the silence.

The fire pops. Somewhere beyond the tents, metal clatters—sharp, sudden, like a threat.

Sonia’s hand is already halfway to the bow on her back when Dale calls out, calm as anything, “Just bowls, fell off the crate.”

The tension bleeds from her shoulders a moment later.

But she doesn’t take her hand off the bow. Not yet.

Dale watches her for a beat. Not rude. Just interested. “You hunt?”

Sonia doesn’t look up. “Since I was eight.”

When she speaks, Milo looks away like the sound offends him.

Dale nods once. “That explains the grip.”

Shane leans back slightly, voice casual. “We’ve been burning through canned meat faster than we can scavenge. Snares ain’t bringing much lately.”

“I’ll go in the morning,” Sonia says simply.

No one argues.

Dale just says, “Start on the ridge. Tracks there sometimes.”

Max glances at her, half surprised, half impressed, but says nothing.

Sonia finally takes a sip from her bowl. She doesn’t react to the taste.

Dale watches her a moment longer than polite. Then he says, not unkindly, “You come from Redwater?”

David doesn’t wait this time. “Yeah,” he answers, even, measured. “It fell.”

Dale nods slowly. “We heard some static on the ham. That signal cut out six, seven days ago.”

Sonia’s fingers tighten just once around Sophie’s hand.

Dale eyes them both, then glances toward Max. “One of you army?”

Max doesn’t react. Sonia doesn’t move.

David gives a small, tired smile. “Max was training.”

That, at least, is true.

Dale lifts a brow. “Still seems a long way from the main road.”

David shrugs. “We were there for the hospital.”

It lands quiet and flat, but final. Truthful enough to pass inspection.

Dale doesn’t press. He gives a small grunt, thoughtful, maybe even a little regretful, and returns to his slow stirring.

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. Just full.

Sonia stares into the fire like it’s the only thing she’s willing to look at. But she can feel Milo’s gaze, thick with something darker than grief… something resentful. It doesn’t touch her face, but it itches between her shoulder blades.

Lori eases down beside her like she’s been meaning to all day. Doesn’t say hello. Doesn’t say sorry.

Just, “Carl’s been watching that ridge for a week.”

Sonia doesn’t look up. “He’s got good instincts.”

“He said if anyone was gonna come walking out of those woods, it’d be you.”

“Well,” Sonia says, flicking ash off her pant leg, “I do enjoy a dramatic entrance.”

Lori huffs a breath. Not quite a laugh. More like release.

They sit in the firelight, shoulder to shoulder. Sonia doesn’t fidget, but there’s a tautness in her posture that wasn’t there years ago. Not even in court.

“You look different,” Lori says.

“It’s the blood, sweat, and malnutrition. Real backwoods spa treatment.”

“Is she eating?” Lori nods toward Sophie.

Sonia’s jaw tics. “What I give her, yeah.”

“She hasn’t said anything.”

“She doesn’t need to.”

Lori doesn’t push. She watches Sophie for a few seconds, then glances back at Sonia. Her eyes drift, just for a beat, toward Sonia’s middle.

Then away again.

Sonia sees it. She lets it hang there, in the space between sentences.

“Still get phantom kicks,” she says after a moment. “Sometimes when I’m standing still too long.”

Lori swallows hard, but says nothing.

“She was already gone,” Sonia adds, quieter now. “I just didn’t know until it was too late.”

Lori’s voice is gentle, but not pitying. “I’m glad you came.”

“I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

Lori shifts her weight, pulling her sleeves over her wrists. “Kids mostly stick to the shallows. We set some rope to mark the edge they’re not supposed to cross.”

Sonia’s eyes follow the vague direction of the water. “You trusting kids to obey rope now?”

“We’ve got a whole village now… Carol, Miranda, plus a couple more. You’d think someone would’ve gotten a handle on crowd control.”

A beat. Sonia cracks a smile. Barely.

“Carl’s trying to teach one of the other boys how to skip stones,” Lori continues. “It’s… tragic.”

Sonia snorts softly. “Who’s the victim?”

“Kid from a family that came down from Dahlonega. They’ve got two little ones and a backseat full of dented cans. Real team effort.”

Sonia nods slowly. “Dahlonega,” she repeats, filing the name away without thinking.

They sit in silence for a beat. The wind picks up, carrying the smell of smoke and boiled something. Behind them, a metal pot clangs as someone lifts the lid and drops it again.

Sonia glances sideways. “And that guy by the tents? Beer belly. Dirty hat. Keeps squinting like he’s memorizing everyone’s face so he can recite it to Satan later.”

She clocked him earlier. Loud posture, louder mouth. The kind of man who talks big and grabs harder. Small in all the ways that matter.

His wife hadn’t said a word.

Lori doesn’t look. “Ed Peletier. That’s just his… face.”

Sonia lifts a brow. “Mm. What’s he like?”

“Drinks too much. Grumbles a lot. Makes everything sound like a complaint.”

“He a problem?”

“Not yet.”

Sonia exhales slowly. “Hope he stays not yet.”

Lori finally looks over. “You really don’t trust anyone, do you?”

“Can’t afford to,” Sonia says, eyes still scanning the camp. “Besides. Ed’s the type to say ‘it’s just stress’ while dragging his wife by the elbow.”

“That’s a hell of an accusation.”

“It’s not,” Sonia says. “It’s pattern recognition.”

Lori doesn’t argue.

The fire’s burning low now. Embers pulse in the ash like coals behind glass. Most of the camp has gone quiet. Shapes dimming under tarp shadows, the world softening around them.

Lori stares into the flames. Her voice, when it comes, is steady. Final.

“Rick’s gone.”

Sonia doesn’t move.

“Shane waited with him,” Lori says. “Until the power went. Until there wasn’t anything left to wait for. He told me… Rick didn’t make it.”

Sonia doesn’t respond right away. Just watches the fire twist in the wind.

“Shane saw it?” she asks at last.

Lori shakes her head. “No. But he knew. He said he knew. And I believe him.”

Sonia nods once. No argument. No comfort.

The silence isn’t awkward, it’s just heavy.

Lori exhales slowly. “Carl still asks about him sometimes. Not out loud. But I can tell.”

She doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t need to.

Sonia’s eyes stay fixed on the coals. “The world’s got its own timing now.”

Lori doesn’t answer. Just pulls her sleeves over her hands and sits a little closer to the fire.

Later, inside the RV, it’s warmer than expected. Stale, but not unpleasant. The space smells like old upholstery and canned beans, like too many lives have passed through too quickly.

Sonia shrugs out of her jacket and drops it over the back of a folding chair. Her bow comes off next. She doesn’t unstring it, just sets it down within arm’s reach of the bed, leaned upright against the wall. Her fingers linger on the grip a second longer than necessary.

David watches her. He’s already kicked off his boots, already pulled a blanket over Sophie. His eyes track her in the low light, and when she sits beside him, he says quietly, “You don’t have to go tomorrow.”

Sonia doesn’t look at him. She reaches for her belt instead, unfastening the knife at her hip, then the spare one at her ankle.

“I know,” she says.

David waits a beat. “Just one day,” he tries again, softer. “We’re safe now. Sophie’s safe.”

Sonia glances over. Sophie’s small form is nestled between their blankets, curled tight, her hand tucked near her face.

She’s almost thirteen. Too old and too tall to look this small.

“She will be,” Sonia murmurs. “Lori’s here.”

That seems to settle him. Not fully, but enough. He touches her hip, just a thumb, a light press and leans back on the thin mattress.

Sonia lies down last, between them. She curls around Sophie protectively, her body molding to the girl’s back. David’s arm comes over her waist, looping them together.

But Sonia doesn’t relax.

Her breath mimics sleep. Her body doesn't. Knees bent just enough to spring upward. One arm loosely around Sophie. The other free. Ready.

Her bow is still within reach.

Chapter Text

It’s morning.

The kind that holds onto the chill of night just a little too long. The earth is soft beneath her boots, damp and forgiving. Light splits through bare branches in long, clean streaks, shadows drawn out like lines of tension. A single bird calls somewhere in the distance.

Then silence.

Sonia moves through it like smoke.

She doesn’t step on branches. Doesn’t rustle the underbrush. Her presence is permissioned, boots brushing quiet paths, breath syncing to the rhythm of the woods. Her compound bow hangs low in her grip, casual, but not careless. Like it belongs there. Like it grew out of her arm.

The only sounds: the wind, her breath, and the faint creak of her leather guard as she draws back once. Testing tension, feeling the smooth resistance. Muscle memory. Ritual.

She doesn’t speak when she finds the first snare.

Doesn’t need to.

The loop’s set too low. The bait’s been taken, clean bite, no trigger. A few tufts of fur nearby, like the rabbit paused just long enough to prove a point.

She crouches. No sigh. No complaint.

Just observation.

Her fingers move with quiet purpose. She resets the wire, lifts the loop to the right height, adjusts the tension like it’s instinct. Smooth. Efficient. She packs in the earth again, brushes dry leaves over it without disturbing the trail line.

She moves to the next.

It’s the same story. Rushed work. Misplaced hope. Not malicious, just untrained.

She kneels again.

When the last one’s fixed, she stands. Pauses. Eyes the treeline.

Then moves on.

She doesn’t need the traps anyway.

This time of year, the rabbits are smarter: tense, sharp-eared, never still for long. But Sonia is sharper. She spots the first through a jagged curtain of branches. Barely visible. Just a flicker of movement. A twitch of the nose. Almost nothing.

She drops low.

Knees soft. Shoulders loose. Breath smooth. Her fingers wrap around the grip of her bow. Her draw is silent. The cams glide like breath. She anchors at the cheek. Exhales.

Time folds inward.

She draws the bow slow. Steady. Muscle memory.

The string hums against her fingers, and just for a second…

it’s not a rabbit she’s aiming at.

It’s Brianna.

That last breath.

That stillness.

The weight of the promise.

The sound of the arrow breaking it.

She exhales. Realigns.

One ear flinches.

She releases.

A whistle through the air.

Then thud.

A perfect pass-through. The rabbit drops in a twitch. One kick, then stillness. Dead before the nervous system finishes the signal.

Sonia rises slowly. No reaction on her face. No smile. No thrill. Just the quiet precision of someone who’s done this a thousand times.

She walks to the body, kneels. Brushes dirt aside. Checks the entry, the exit. The arrow’s intact. Shaft clean, fletching perfect. No meat ruined. She wipes it against her thigh and slides it back into the quiver like she’s holstering a memory.

By the time she circles back, she’s collected three rabbits and a small game bird. The final rabbit—broad chest, winter fat—gave a clean shot, but the arrow didn’t hold. The shaft is cracked, split along the grain.

Her return to camp is wordless.

She walks like someone who doesn’t need to announce her skill. There’s blood drying on her hands. Game slung neatly by the legs. Bow still steady in her other arm. Her pace is unhurried. Her posture relaxed. No wasted motion.

This is who she is when no one’s watching.

Something lean and old and precise, born for the silence between heartbeats.

Sonia Evergreen isn’t civilized out here.

She’s dangerous.

By the time she steps back into camp, the sun’s high enough to burn the mist from the treetops. The quarry is already awake, restless with the usual shuffle of bodies. A grey haired woman hauling laundry to the river, someone hammering scrap into shape near the fire pit, kids chasing each other between coolers like the world didn’t end two weeks ago.

She scans automatically, her gaze sweeping across the scatter of tents and tarps. Her boots crunch dry leaves as she moves past the parked truck toward the central table they’ve set up beneath the old sycamore.

That’s when she sees him.

Milo.

Lurking by the side of Dale’s RV, his arms crossed, back to the wall like he’s trying to merge with the aluminum. His eyes track her, unblinking, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

Sonia doesn’t give him the satisfaction of stopping.

She walks past, shoulders tight, boots deliberate.

At the table, stained wood warped with age and weather, she sets down the game. There’s already dried crimson on the surface proving that someone skinned here before. Good. Less mess to explain.

She peels off her gloves, fingers cracking slightly as she flexes them. Her knife comes out of the belt sheath with a quiet shff. The blade’s already sharp, but she tests it against her thumb anyway.

Satisfied, Sonia reaches for the first rabbit.

With a practiced motion, she pinches the skin above the hind legs and makes the initial incision.

The camp hums around her. Voices, footsteps, a baby crying somewhere near the tents.

But for Sonia, the world shrinks again. The same way it did in the woods.

Just hands. Blade. Meat.

And Milo, still watching.

Her sleeves are rolled to her elbows. Sunlight catches in the stray blonde strands that fell from her braid. She doesn’t flinch when someone approaches.

"Hi," a voice says, tentative but not afraid. A girl.

Sonia lifts her eyes.

Early twenties, maybe. Ginger braid slung over one shoulder, skin sun-warmed, big brown eyes trying not to look directly at the half-skinned carcass. Her hands are tucked into the sleeves of a faded hoodie two sizes too big.

“I’m Grace,” she offers. “I, uh… I tried talking to Sophie earlier. She didn’t answer, but… I said hi anyway.”

Sonia nods once, returns to her work. “She’ll come around. Maybe.”

Grace shifts her weight. “She’s your daughter, right?”

Sonia hums affirmative.

"I was pre-med," Grace says suddenly, like she needs to explain herself. "At Emory. But I was more into psychology. You get to study how people fall apart before they even know it’s happening.”

That earns her a faint upward twitch in Sonia’s brow.

“I know that sounds morbid,” Grace adds quickly. “Sorry. I talk too much when I’m nervous. You just seem…”

“I’m elbow-deep in a rabbit,” Sonia says dryly. “And you're the one apologizing.”

Grace smiles. It’s a good one: awkward, sincere. “Can I help?”

Sonia glances at her, then at the mess on the table. “You know your anatomy?”

“Better than average,” Grace replies.

Sonia flips the rabbit. “Then grab that leg. If you cut too deep, you’ll hit the semimembranosus. It ruins the whole clean.”

Grace blinks. “Wow. Okay. Specific.”

“You said pre-med.” Sonia passes her a knife.

Grace braces the rabbit’s leg, mimicking Sonia’s movements with cautious precision. Her fingers are steadier than expected. She hesitates only once, at the first slice, then presses forward.

“You’ve done this before?” Sonia asks, watching without watching.

“No,” Grace says, focused. “Dissected a cadaver once. Professor said I was too clean with the scalpel. Creeped him out.”

Sonia snorts. “Bet he’s dead now.”

A beat. Then Grace says, “Yeah. Probably.”

They work in silence for a few minutes. The wet sound of skin separating from muscle fills the space between them. Then Grace speaks again, softer.

“I was gonna be a pediatrician.”

Sonia doesn’t react, but something in her posture shifts barely.

“Four more years of school,” Grace continues. “Residency, fellowship. All of it felt so far away. My fiancé and I… we were gonna get married right after I matched into a residency program. Two kids. One dog. White coat on the back of the kitchen chair. You know?”

Sonia nods, still slicing.

“He went to visit his family in Florida,” Grace adds, voice thinner now. “His mom had surgery. I was supposed to pick him up from the airport on the fifth. Communications went out on the third.”

Quiet again. The rabbit’s skin peels back under Grace’s blade. She’s good, she listens.

“I keep thinking,” she says, “if I’d made him stay… if I’d picked the flights. I used to joke about needing control over everything.”

Sonia finally looks at her.

“You can still want that,” she says. “Even now.”

Grace laughs under her breath. “Yeah? How’s that working out for you?”

Sonia doesn’t answer. Just gestures to the next rabbit.

Grace shifts to the second rabbit, wiping her hands on her jeans first. Sonia doesn’t comment, just slides the carcass over.

As Grace rolls up her sleeves, something catches the light. A slim medical bracelet, silver, worn smooth. The engraving is faint but Sonia’s eyes catch the word immediately:

TYPE 1 DIABETES.

Her hand stills.

Grace notices too late. She follows Sonia’s gaze, and for the first time since approaching the table, she looks… guarded.

“How much do you have left?” Sonia asks flatly.

Grace exhales through her nose. “Didn’t think you’d spot it that fast.”

“I read faster than I talk.”

Grace sets the knife down. Her voice is calm, but her jaw’s tight. “Not enough. Two vials. Maybe. I’m already stretching doses.”

Sonia doesn’t blink. “That’ll last you what, a week? Ten days?”

“If I ration. Twelve.”

“You won’t survive off rationing.”

“I know.”

Sonia leans her hip against the edge of the table. “That’s it? You just accepted it?”

“What else am I supposed to do?” Grace gestures around them. “There’s no supply chain. No pharmacies that haven’t already been picked clean. I rigged my car battery to a mini fridge, but it won’t last forever.”

She lets out a breath. “It’s math. And I always sucked at hope.”

Sonia studies her. “You tell anyone?”

Grace shakes her head. “They’ll just start treating me like a ghost before I’m even gone.”

“You’re not a ghost,” Sonia says. “You’re a fucking resource.”

That pulls Grace up short. “Excuse me?”

“You’re pre-med with a psychology background. You have surgical hands. You can keep a kid still while stitching their face. We’re not losing you over something fixable.”

“It’s not fixable.”

“It’s survivable.”

Grace stares at her. “You're serious.”

“I’m always serious,” Sonia says. Then picks up the knife. “You’re not dying on my watch.”

They fall into silence. Not heavy, just still. The kind of stillness that settles after something important has been said. Grace nods once, almost to herself, and resumes her work beside Sonia.

The rhythm returns: knife, skin, muscle. Breath.

Then the engine roars through the trees: deep, guttural, unmistakable.

Sonia goes still, knife halfway through the rabbit’s thigh joint. A muscle in her jaw jumps.

The camp perks up all at once. Kids shriek in delight, bare feet slapping against stone as they race toward the noise. Grace startles, nearly dropping the skin she was folding.

“Is that…?” she breathes, already stepping back from the table. The humvee crests the quarry’s curve in full military glory, sun glaring off its hood like it belongs on a warfront. Grace grins wide. “Shit, that’s a humvee!”

Sonia says nothing.

The vehicle growls down into camp, oversized tires kicking up gravel. Shane is driving, his elbow out the window like he’s some hotshot from a car commercial. The guy riding shotgun pumps his fist, grinning. David’s half-hanging out the back seat, waving like it’s a parade float.

Children swarm. Carl, of course, is first, dragging Sophie by the wrist like she’s his personal guest of honor. She stumbles after him, silent as ever, but her gaze is wide. The girl with the cautious eyes leads the way. A few smaller kids trail her with the kind of awe kids reserve for dinosaurs and tanks.

Grace lets out a soft laugh. “Damn. I need to see that thing.”

She wipes her hands on her jeans and jogs off, leaving Sonia at the blood-slick table.

Sonia doesn’t follow. Just stands there, still holding the half-skinned rabbit, watching the men climb out like conquering heroes.

Her lips press into a line. Tight. Almost invisible.

Nobody looks her way.

She lowers her gaze and gets back to work.

The second Shane kills the engine, the whole camp seems to shift toward the noise. It’s like a ripple, adults craning their necks, kids outright running. A few of the tents flap in the sudden breeze the thing kicked up, and the dust hasn't even settled before Carl is already knocking on the side like it’s a damn spaceship.

The man still inside is honking the horn like he’s ten, while his son climbs up on the back bumper, shouting gleefully.

Shane laughs, calls over his shoulder, “Morales, cut the horn before Dale has a stroke.”

“Is it bulletproof?” the boy asks, wide-eyed, half-shouting over the chatter.

Shane grins as he hops out of the passenger side, brushing road dust off his jeans. “Armor plated. You could throw a grenade and barely chip the paint.”

“Cool,” Carl breathes.

David emerges last, dusting off his cashmere sweater like he just came from brunch. “It’s not a military Humvee,” he says loudly, as if correcting someone. “It’s civilian spec. AM General. Probably… 2004?”

Shane doesn’t even blink. “It’s military. ’97. You can tell by the axle spacing.”

David falters. “Oh. Well… sure. But it’s in excellent condition. We—uh—we figured it’d be best to bring back the bigger vehicle first. For utility.”

No one asks about the other one.

The kids continue to swarm it, peeking through the dusty windows, poking at the big side mirrors like they’ve never seen anything so sturdy. Which, in fairness, they probably haven’t.

From her place by the tables, Sonia doesn’t move. She watches it all, jaw tight, the muscle just beneath her cheekbone ticking as David starts pointing at the fuel gauge like he has any clue what he's talking about.

A few paces away, someone whistles low under their breath. “Damn thing’s a beast.”

Sonia just lowers her gaze back to the half-skinned rabbit. Her knife slides deeper, precise and unbothered. She doesn’t need to say anything, not yet.

The whole camp might be celebrating, but she’s already doing the math. One vehicle. Not the one that mattered.

And David should’ve known that. She told him.

The last rabbit’s already hanging, skinned and clean. Sonia’s wiping her hands on a rag when Shane sidles up, elbow hitting the table with a practiced lean like he’s easing into a bar.

“You’re the only one not grinning like a kid on Christmas,” he says, eyeing the camp behind her.

Sonia doesn’t look up. Just folds the rag slowly. “Not really a Christmas person.”

Shane chuckles once, low and short. “C’mon. Humvee’s got the whole place buzzin’. Hell, even Dale cracked a smile.”

Her eyes flick toward the clearing. Max stands just off to the side, next to Milo. He’s stiff, his jaw tight, red-rimmed eyes staring past the camp like he’s not really there. Sonia watches him a moment, her tone cool.

“You should’ve brought the Ford.”

Shane glances at her. “The pickup?”

“It was his,” she says, nodding toward Max. “Sixteenth birthday gift. From Brianna.”

Shane’s expression shifts. “Didn’t know that.”

“I told David,” Sonia says, voice flat. “Told him it mattered. That we had the fuel. That the kid might need something left to hold on to.”

Shane doesn’t answer right away. He follows her gaze, jaw tight.

“He’s been through hell,” he mutters.

“Yeah,” she says, folding the rag once more. “So maybe don’t take the one thing that was still his.”

She doesn’t sound angry. Just tired. And sharper than steel.

Shane’s eyes drift over the strung-up rabbits. Clean kills, clean lines, every movement behind them precise. He whistles under his breath.

“This ain’t just ‘weekend hunts with Daddy’ level, y’know.”

Sonia’s already shifted, arms crossed now, leaning against the table beside him. She looks where he looks. Not at the rabbits, but past them. At the people. The noise. The moving parts of a camp still pretending things might go back to normal.

“I never said it was,” she says lightly.

Shane snorts. “No, but David did.”

Sonia hums. Something unreadable flickers in her jaw.

Shane tips his head, watching her sidelong. “Why don’t you tell people?”

She doesn’t answer right away.

“Which part?” she finally says, casual like it costs her nothing.

Shane shrugs, but it’s not dismissive. “Take your pick.”

Sonia exhales through her nose, silent for a beat. Then: “People don’t want to be reminded of what they’re not.”

Shane studies her, that old sheriff’s gaze sharper than most give him credit for. “That why you’re holding back?”

She doesn’t answer. But she doesn’t need to.

They stand there a moment longer, watching the camp breathe and stumble forward. A thousand little stories pretending they’re not all fractured.

“She’s type 1 diabetic, y’know,” Sonia says after a while, her voice low. Still watching the camp, like it’s easier than looking at him.

Shane frowns. “Grace?”

Sonia nods once. “Medical bracelet. Hiding it under her sleeve, but I saw it while she was helping with the rabbits.”

“Shit,” Shane mutters, jaw ticking. “Didn’t know.”

“Figured,” she replies. No accusation in her tone. Just fact.

Shane rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not exactly… keepin’ tabs on folks like that.”

“You kinda are, though.” She glances at him. “Even if you don’t want the job.”

He doesn’t argue. Just huffs a breath, looks away. “Yeah, well. I ain't Rick.”

“No,” she says, soft. “You’re not.”

Another beat passes. The wind shifts. Somewhere behind them, someone laughs too loud. It sounds out of place.

“You think anyone here has a map?” she asks, like she’s asking about the weather.

Shane narrows his eyes. “You plannin’ on goin’ somewhere?”

Sonia lifts a shoulder. “Not the worst thing I could be doing.”

He scoffs. “We barely leave camp. Few folks check the snares. That’s it.”

“They’re all set up wrong,” she mutters.

He glances at her sideways. “‘Course they are.”

Then, with a grunt, he says, “Maybe Dale. He’s got that RV packed like a damn fallout bunker. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s sittin’ on an atlas collection.”

Sonia nods once, already thinking ahead.

Shane pushes off the table and gives her a look. “Just don’t go savin’ the world on your own.”

“No promises,” she says, lips twitching faintly.

He huffs a breath, heads off toward the humvee, and Sonia lingers a moment. Watching the camp, the kids, the ones still pretending this place is enough. Then she turns, rolls her sleeves back down, and crosses to the fire.

Lori takes the pot from the flames and peeks inside, steam rising with the scent of rabbit and wild onion. “This might actually taste like something,” she says, half-smiling as Sonia steps up beside her with the skinned rabbits.

Sonia hands them over wordlessly. Her sleeves are still damp with blood, but her hands are steady.

Lori glances at the Humvee where five kids are crammed into the front seats, playing with the dials and pretending to drive. “They’ve been in there since it arrived. I don’t have the heart to tell them to stop.”

Sonia’s eyes find the cluster of small bodies inside the massive vehicle. Carl’s in the driver’s seat, both hands on the wheel, making engine noises loud enough to wake the dead. The Morales kids shout instructions from the back. Another girl watches from the passenger side with a cautious kind of awe, as if waiting for the moment she’ll be asked to leave.

And Sophie… Sophie is laughing.

She’s wedged between Carl and the Morales boy, both of whom are arguing over the imaginary map they’re now pretending to read. Her smile is crooked, the kind that’s only half-formed from disuse, but it’s real.

Sonia hadn’t seen her daughter smile in sixteen days.

A tightness in her chest loosens, just slightly.

“Let ’em have it,” she murmurs. “Let ‘em drive to Disneyland.”

Lori grins, but Sonia doesn’t notice. Her gaze stays locked on the Humvee, soaking in the absurd normalcy of it all. Kids playing like kids. Pretending like pretend could still exist in this world.

The muscle in her jaw that’s been tight all day finally relaxes. The humvee isn’t the problem. Not when it’s giving Sophie this.

Across camp, a few men start unfolding canvas and clearing a spot near the tree line. Sonia recognizes David’s voice among them, talking too loud, directing like he knows what he’s doing. Probably explaining how military-grade tents work, even though he’s never set one up in his life.

Sonia exhales, slow. For now, she lets it go.

She steps away from the fire, rubbing her hands clean on her thighs, eyes lingering one last time on Sophie’s laugh.

It’s the first good sound she’s heard in days.

By the time the adrenaline fades and the last gear’s unloaded, dusk has already bled into night.

Fires crackle. The smell of rabbit fat and pine smoke hangs low.

Sonia checks Sophie, gives a short nod to Shane, then slips past the tents and into the trees.

She only meant to piss.

Just a quick step off the trail, boots crunching frost-slick leaves.

She’s barely ten paces from the treeline, adjusting her belt, when something crashes into her from behind.

Sonia hits the ground hard, shoulder jarring, breath knocked clean out of her. The impact stuns her for half a second longer than it should.

She’s not at full strength yet.

Her core’s still rebuilding. Muscles she used to trust feel just a hair slower, just a little soft. It’s only been two weeks.

Milo doesn’t give her time to recover.

He comes down like a freight train, screaming, “You let her DIE!”

His fist smashes across her cheek. Her head snaps back against the earth. She tastes blood, hot and fast.

She catches his wrist before the second hit lands and drives her thumb into the hinge of his jaw, wrenching it sideways. He grunts, but doesn’t stop. She slams her knee into his ribs, twice, enough to throw him off balance.

She draws her boot knife. Slashes up.

The blade rips across his chest, not deep, but enough to cut through fabric and skin. Blood spills instantly.

He doesn’t stop.

He tackles her again. The knife flies from her grip, lost in the brush. They hit the ground hard. She lands on her back this time, his weight crushing down.

Her body screams.

Her abs, still healing, threaten to give under the pressure, but she grits her teeth and forces a shift. Her instincts fire, even if her body isn’t keeping up the way it should.

“I gave her everything. Everything! You gave her a look and she followed you like a dog,” Milo snarls. “You stood there with your perfect little bow and your perfect little silence while she bled out in the dirt… she was mine, mine, she was—”

His hand clamps around her throat.

“You owe me her. You owe me a second chance. Give her back.”

Sonia chokes.

She claws at him, legs shifting, trying to turn, if she can just get a knee between them. Just one clean movement. But her muscles pull weird, the scar tissue still tender.

She’s not scared. She’s pissed.

Almost there…

“DAD!”

The voice punches through the trees.

Milo freezes.

Sonia twists her neck enough to look.

It’s Max.

He’s standing ten, maybe fifteen feet away. Gun in both hands. Arms locked. Face blank with terror and fury.

“Get off her!” Max shouts.

Milo doesn’t move.

Sonia shifts. Her leg's finally under him, braced. She can roll him. Just one more second…

Milo tightens his grip.

She’s already moving to counter… already halfway into the motion…

But then the shot rips through the woods.

CRACK.

Milo jolts.

And slumps.

All that weight collapses onto her. Hot blood splashes across her neck.

She freezes beneath him, panting, throat raw, her limbs buzzing with leftover adrenaline.

Across the clearing, Max stands rigid.

Still aiming.

Still shaking.

But he never missed.

Sonia doesn’t flinch as the echo of the shot fades.

Her ears ring like sirens. Her throat is burning. Milo’s body is still slumped across hers—still warm, blood soaking into her collar, the weight of him heavier than it should be now that the fight is over.

His skull is half-gone.

The exit wound blew the back of his head wide open. Bone fragments are scattered in the underbrush like broken shells. Brain matter clings wet and grey to a tree trunk nearby. The stink of blood, piss, and ruptured bowels crawls through the clearing.

His face—what’s left of it—is slack. The eye that’s still intact, filmed over, mouth parted just enough to show cracked molars and a line of blood running from nose to chin.

She slides out from under him, carefully, like unhooking from a trap. The meat of his shoulder splits wider as he rolls, a tendon snapping audibly, exposing raw muscle underneath. Something wet pulls apart with a sucking sound.

Max’s knees give.

She’s already there, arms wrapping around him before he crumples.

The pistol is still in his hands. It’s warm from the shot, slick with sweat and blood from where his grip slipped. His knuckles are bone-white. His fingertips tremble.

Wordlessly, Sonia pries his fingers from the weapon, one at a time. His hands don’t fight her, but they don’t help either. She eases the gun from him like it might explode again.

Max doesn’t look up.

His face is blank, drained of everything, but his chest is heaving like someone drowning on dry land. Each breath sounds like it might break him.

Sonia pulls him into her arms.

Tight.

Fierce.

The kind of hold that says: You’re here. You’re safe. I’ve got you.

He doesn’t hug back at first. Just stands there, shaking, eyes fixed somewhere behind her. At the body, probably. But after a few seconds, his arms wrap around her waist, small and desperate. A ragged sob catches in his throat. Then another. Then more.

She presses his head to her shoulder, blood smearing into her shirt, and lets him cry.

She keeps one hand on his back. The other slowly clenches, then unclenches, streaked red up to the elbow.

Shane approaches from the trees, faster than usual, his boots crunching soft over pine needles and bone. His usual bravado is gone. His jaw is tight. He crouches beside them, glances briefly toward what’s left of Milo…

…and then looks away.

The body’s barely recognizable. Blood pools around the shattered back of the skull, mixing with fragments of scalp and hair. One of Milo’s arms is bent underneath him at a grotesque angle. 

David stumbles into view behind Shane, a few steps behind. He’s pale, grey. His eyes fix on Milo for half a heartbeat… then he turns, gagging.

He bends over and vomits into the grass. Loud. Wet. One hand braced against a tree, the other over his mouth, shaking.

He doesn’t look up again.

Shane doesn’t comment. Just keeps his gaze on Sonia.

“You good?” he asks, voice low.

“No,” she rasps. Her voice is gravel and broken glass.

“Need me?”

She nods.

One short, silent nod.

He moves beside her, takes the pistol from where she set it on the ground, and slides it into his waistband. His hand pauses on her back, steadying. Grounding.

Sonia holds Max tighter.

No one says anything more.

A gust of wind slips through the clearing. It carries the stench with it. Blood and bile. Gunpowder and shit. Somewhere in the trees, a flock of birds lifts into the air, startled into flight.

The world, indifferent as ever, keeps turning.

Chapter Text

The water’s freezing.

It bites at her hands as she scrubs, red and raw, knuckles scraped from too many passes. Milo’s blood is stubborn: caked beneath her nails, dried into the creases of her palms from the night before. She didn’t get it all then. Couldn’t.

Now, under daylight, she’s not letting it stay.

The creek runs quiet around her. Just the current and the rhythmic rasp of skin on stone.

Footsteps crunch behind her. Slow. Deliberate.

Shane.

He stops a few feet back. Doesn’t speak.

She doesn’t look up.

A moment passes.

Then:

“I told them he turned.”

Sonia exhales through her nose. Not surprise. Just pressure releasing.

“They believe it?”

“Some do. I said it was dark, you tried to stop him, he came at you… the kid panicked. Shot a walker.”

A pause. “Close enough to true.”

Sonia doesn’t respond. Her thumb is digging into her palm, the nail cutting deep.

“They didn’t see much,” Shane adds. “But they remember he was fine yesterday. Talking. Walking around. No bite.”

Sonia keeps scrubbing.

“They don’t know how it works,” he says. “Not really. Not yet.”

She mutters, “Neither do we.”

Shane steps closer. Leans on the boulder beside her, arms crossed.

“What the hell do we do with a kid who just killed his own father?" he asks, voice low.

She doesn’t answer.

“I mean,” he says, quieter now, “you’re the prosecutor. The moral compass. Right?”

That makes her glance up. Her face is blank, eyes tired.

“You really wanna talk morality,” she says quietly, “after everything we’ve seen?”

He doesn’t flinch. “No. I wanna talk about him. Max.”

Sonia shakes her head, looks back to the water. Her voice is quieter now. “He’s just a kid. He was trying to protect someone. That used to matter.”

“It still does,” Shane says. “But not everyone’s gonna see it that way. Some of these people barely know his name. They’re scared. Hell, David looked at him like he was a monster.”

“David vomited.”

“Yeah. And then he backed away like Max pulled the damn trigger on him.”

Sonia’s jaw ticks.

Shane straightens, tone softer now. “You’re the only one that kid’s got. So I’m asking… what are we gonna do?”

Sonia dries her hands on her shirt. The fabric's ruined, more blood than water, but she doesn’t care. She crouches again, arms braced on her thighs, watching the creek flow like she’s trying to cross-examine it.

“If this were still the world we knew,” she says, voice even, “Max would be in handcuffs right now. Booked on second-degree murder. Voluntary manslaughter if I could argue extreme emotional disturbance. Which I would. He’s sixteen. Old enough to be tried as an adult, especially in Georgia.”

Shane raises his eyebrows. “Adult?”

“Legally? In a murder case?” She nods once. “They’d try. Hell, I would. Dead father, shaky motive, only witness is the one he saved. Prosecutor would say it was rage. Defense would argue trauma. If I had the case, I’d push for juvenile court, but it’d be an uphill battle.”

She exhales through her nose, not quite a sigh.

“He’d probably get time. Maybe ten years, maybe less if he kept his head down and got a decent therapist behind bars. But he’d have a record. That’s the thing. The system doesn’t care how right the moment felt. It only cares about the shot.”

Shane kicks a stick into the water, jaw tight. “That ain’t right.”

“No,” she agrees. “It’s the law.”

They fall quiet for a beat. Then Sonia rises to her feet and looks back toward camp.

“In this world, though? No court. No process. Just scared people trying to make sense of something they didn’t see. And the second someone decides Max snapped, it’s over.”

Shane follows her gaze. Max is sitting on a stump, hands tucked under his arms, head down.

“You really think they’ll come for him?”

“They won’t need to come with pitchforks,” Sonia mutters. “They’ll just avoid him. Whisper about him. Treat him like he’s dangerous. And that’ll do the damage for them.”

Shane’s quiet. Then he mutters, “So what, we lie?”

“We tell the truth,” Sonia replies. “He saved my life.”

She turns to go.

He catches her arm. “That’s it?”

Her voice softens, but only slightly. “That’s what matters.”

Shane stares at her, eyes narrowing. “Still playing the ‘just a prosecutor’ card?”

Sonia just looks at him. Says nothing.

Then:

“They’ll know when they need to.”

She doesn’t wait for a response. Just turns and walks.

Shane follows.

They cross the camp in silence, past early risers warming canned beans and shaking out blankets. A few kids chase each other barefoot through the gravel. The air smells like smoke, earth, and the faint sourness of old sweat and panic.

They find Dale near his camper, hunched in a folding chair, sipping something that smells faintly herbal. A pair of binoculars rests in his lap, forgotten. He sees them approach and straightens up.

“Morning,” he greets, eyes flicking between the two. “How you doing, Sonia?”

“I’m fine,” she replies. Her voice is calm, practiced. She doesn’t look fine, but she’s good at saying it like it’s true.

Dale gives a slow nod, then glances at Shane. “That was your kid yesterday? The one who…?”

Shane shakes his head. “No. That was Max. His mom didn’t make it.”

Dale exhales through his nose. “Damn.”

Sonia crosses her arms. “We’re trying to get ahead of what comes next. We need a map.”

He blinks. “Map?”

“There’s a girl in camp,” Shane says. “Grace.”

“She’s diabetic,” Sonia adds. “Type 1. She didn’t tell anyone.”

Dale’s entire expression shifts. “Wait… what?”

“She ran out of insulin days ago,” Sonia says. “She has maybe two vials left. Maybe.”

He stares at them, mouth half-open. “Jesus Christ. She’s been walking around camp. She helped me drag water yesterday. And she didn’t say anything?”

“Nope,” Shane mutters. “She figured she was just gonna die.”

Dale looks genuinely rattled. He sets his mug down on the camper’s step and goes digging into a crate just inside the door. “I’ve got an atlas. It’s old. Pre-GPS era.”

He pulls out a thick spiral-bound book and hands it to Sonia.

She accepts it, flipping through pages. Her brow furrows, thoughtful, already scanning for routes.

Dale watches her a moment longer. “That hunting yesterday. The three rabbits. You just pick that up from weekends with your dad?”

Sonia looks up. “Something like that.”

There’s the faintest twitch at the edge of Dale’s mouth, like he’s trying to connect dots but hasn’t quite got the full picture. “Well, good thing you’re here.”

She closes the map. “Yeah.”

“Let me know what you find,” Dale says quietly. “If there’s anything else I can give you.”

“We will,” Shane nods, then follows Sonia as she turns back toward the others.

Behind them, Dale looks down at the untouched coffee in his mug and exhales like the wind’s been knocked out of him.

The camp is already stretching awake when Sonia and Shane make their way back down from Dale’s RV. Smoke curls up from the fire pit, and the smell of old coffee mingles with damp pine. Sophie sits cross-legged near the logs, peeling bark off a stick. One of the Morales kids—the girl, probably ten—is braiding something into another girl’s hair. The boys are off near the Humvee, talking loud and too fast, still thrilled from yesterday.

Sonia’s eyes drift toward a woman she hasn’t seen before. Young, maybe late twenties, with thick arms and her hair tied in a tight bun. She’s got a toddler on her hip and a baby bundled to her chest, both quiet for now. Sonia slows slightly. The woman doesn’t notice her watching, she just keeps swaying in that unconscious mother rhythm, rocking side to side while talking to another adult.

Shane splits off without a word, heading toward Morales.

Sonia turns to keep moving, but someone steps in her path.

David.

He must’ve heard them from the fire. His jaw is tight. He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t even frown. Just says, low:

“You’re going?”

Sonia doesn’t answer at first. She looks past him, like she might keep walking anyway. But she stops.

“Yeah,” she says.

“Alone?”

“It’s faster that way.”

He studies her. Her collar’s a little askew. The bruises still bloom faintly at her throat.

“You were strangled yesterday.”

Sonia exhales through her nose. “And now I’m breathing. What matters is that I can shoot.”

David’s eyes flick toward Sophie, then back to her. “Just don’t want to wake up tomorrow without you.”

Sonia softens a bit.

“She’ll be safe here. I trust Lori. And I trust you.”

David nods. But his hands stay at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

Sonia reaches out, quick and quiet, and touches his arm. Not long. Just enough.

“Come back,” he says quietly.

“I will.”

She steps past him, only for someone stepping in her path, again.

He’s young. Skinny, kind of wiry, with a mop of black hair and an expression like he’s still getting used to being alive. Not more than twenty-two, if that. Hoodie, torn jeans, Converse. An old messenger bag slung crossbody, duct tape barely holding the flap closed.

“Hey,” he says.

Sonia lifts a brow.

“I heard… you saying you’re heading out. You’re Sonia, right?”

She narrows her eyes slightly. “Depends.”

He hesitates, then sticks out a hand like they’re meeting at a fucking orientation.

“I’m Glenn.” A beat. “I think I can help.”

Her eyes flick down to his hand. She doesn’t shake it.

Instead: “You think wrong.”

Then she steps past him.

Glenn catches up. Of course he does. Sonia doesn’t stop, but she hears his footsteps fall into rhythm beside her.

“I know Grace,” he says. “From before.”

She gives him a sidelong glance. “Before what?”

“Before the world ended.”

Sonia exhales slowly through her nose.

Glenn keeps talking. “We went to the same college. I was poli-sci for like a second before switching to psych. She was pre-med but used to come to all the behavioral lectures anyway. Said she liked hearing how people work.”

“She still does,” Sonia mutters.

“She told me about her diabetes back then. Type 1.” Glenn slows a little. “If she didn’t say anything here… then it’s worse than I thought.”

They walk in silence for a beat. Sonia doesn’t look at him, but she doesn’t walk faster either.

“She’s not gonna make it without insulin,” Glenn says. “You know that.”

Sonia stops.

Turns.

“Why the hell do you think I’m going?”

Glenn meets her eyes. “Then let me come with you.”

She stares at him hard. Like she’s peeling him apart without touching him.

“You’re what, twenty?”

“Twenty-three.”

“You ever shot a gun?”

“A few times.”

“You ever killed anything?”

He swallows. “No.”

“Then sit your ass down.”

“I know the area,” Glenn says quickly. “I used to deliver pizzas all over Atlanta. I know shortcuts, side alleys, gas station layouts, which parts of the city are garbage for traffic. And since none of that changed much except the rotting corpses, I can probably keep us alive long enough to find a working pharmacy.”

Sonia blinks.

Just once.

Then: “You deliver pizzas.”

“Yeah.”

“And you think that qualifies you to go into a hot zone with me?”

Glenn shrugs. “No offense, but you’re a lawyer. If you can do it, I can do it.”

Sonia tilts her head, expression unreadable. Then she turns away.

“I’m going with or without you,” Glenn adds, following.

“I didn’t say yes.”

“You didn’t say no either.”

Sonia exhales sharply, one hand lifting to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Хоть кол на голове теши,” she mutters under her breath. Then:

“Fuck.”

She unclips the shoulder holster and hands him her sidearm, grip-first.

Glenn freezes. “Seriously?”

“Don’t wet yourself. It’s not a gift.”

He takes it, careful. “It’s… a Glock?”

“Kimber Custom II. Not a toy.”

“Oh. Right.”

She watches him fumble it a bit. “Finger off the trigger.”

He corrects his grip.

Sonia nods, once. “Ever fired one?”

“Yeah, my buddy had a—”

“Fired. Not held.”

“...Once.”

She squints at him. “You’re lucky I like desperate people.”

Glenn offers a weak smile. “Is that what I am?”

“No,” she says. “You’re Grace’s friend.”

That seems to quiet him.

Sonia steps past him, heading for the tent. “Keep up, pizza boy.”

Glenn falls into step beside her, careful not to trip over a root or bump into her bow. He’s quiet at first, watching, absorbing, but after a minute, he speaks up.

“You’re really gonna do this alone?”

“I’m not alone,” she says. “Unfortunately.”

He huffs a laugh. “Right. Forgot. I'm backup now.”

They cross a patch of gravel, boots crunching. Sonia moves like she’s done this a hundred times, which, Glenn’s realizing, maybe she has. She doesn’t check her footing. Doesn’t glance around nervously. She just walks. Eyes forward. Confident.

“So,” he says, after a beat, “what’s your story?”

She flicks him a look. “You think I’ve got time for small talk?”

“No,” Glenn admits. “But I figured I’d try before we get surrounded by geeks and I never get the chance again.”

Sonia’s mouth quirks. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s the first sign of something human.

“My story is: we get there, we find the pharmacy, and we get back before sundown. That’s all that matters.”

Glenn nods. “Cool. Tight. Emotionally distant. I get it.”

She shoots him a sidelong glance. “You always talk this much?”

“Only when I’m nervous.”

“Then shut up,” Sonia mutters, “you’re making me nervous.”

They push through a narrow break in the trees, the woods stretching wide ahead.

They stop near a bent road sign. Sonia crouches behind a guardrail, map balanced across her knee. Her eyes flick over the paper, then sweep the tree line.

“Two more turns,” she says. “Pharmacy should be between a clinic and a dental office.”

Glenn crouches too, holding the Kimber like it might detonate. “You think it hasn’t been hit?”

“Probably has. But it’s a medical plaza, not a CVS. People hit chains first.”

He nods, like that makes sense. “Still think they’ll have insulin?”

“If they had any in the first place and no one knew how to get to it, yeah.” She taps the map. “Places like this usually have coded locks and backup generators. Refrigeration might still be running.”

Glenn squints. “How do you know all that?”

She doesn’t look up. “Had to prep for a trial once. Fake clinic pushing expired meds. I spent three days buried in generator specs and pharmaceutical storage regs.”

Glenn blinks. “Right. Prosecutor.”

Sonia finally glances at him. “What, you think we just shout ‘objection’ and go home?”

He laughs, a little embarrassed. “Kinda, yeah.”

She folds the map and rises. “Stick close. Don’t touch anything unless I say.”

They move on, the silence between them taut, the air starting to hum with tension.

The building rises out of the trees like it doesn’t belong. Glass doors intact, windows unbroken. A single-story strip of concrete and stucco, faded sign above the entrance reading Trinity Pointe Medical Plaza. The pharmacy is the third door in. No signs of looting. No busted windows. No blood.

Jackpot.

Sonia slows her steps, eyes narrowing. The silence is too clean. No scuff marks on the sidewalk. No smashed glass glittering in the sun. Even the trash bins near the curb are upright, undisturbed.

Glenn exhales behind her. “Is it weird that I’m nervous it looks this perfect?”

Sonia doesn’t answer. Just lifts her hand for silence, then gestures toward the side entrance: an emergency access door with a keypad lock, still intact. A sticker on the window reads Cold Storage On Premises — Emergency Generator Equipped.

Jackpot. Again.

She turns to Glenn, mouth pulled in a line. “Stay behind me.”

The doors are locked.

Sonia checks the handle, then leans back. Glass. Standard. Thin. She sighs through her nose, already reaching into her pocket.

The rag she pulls out is stiff now. Dried blood soaked into the fibers, faded from crimson to rust. She wraps it tight around her forearm, ties it off once, twice. Glenn watches, wide-eyed.

Without hesitation, Sonia drives her arm through the glass.

It shatters with a clean, brittle crack. Spiderwebs shoot through the pane, then collapse inward. Shards clatter to the tile floor inside. She doesn’t flinch.

A few small cuts bloom along her skin, but the rag took most of it.

Glenn’s jaw slackens. “Holy shit.”

Sonia just reaches in, unlocks the door, and pushes it open.

The second they step inside:

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

A piercing alarm blares to life.

Sonia doesn’t flinch. She’s already moving, boots skidding on linoleum as she darts past toppled displays and half-stocked shelves.

“Generator’s in the back,” she says.

Glenn blinks and rushes after her. “That’s not normal lawyer knowledge!”

“Neither is this.” She rounds a corner, spots the humming gray box, and slams the emergency kill switch without hesitation.

The alarm cuts off in an instant. Silence floods back in.

Glenn stares at her.

Then: “Oh. Is that all?”

Sonia shoots him a look as she shakes glass from her sleeve. “You want a medal, pizza boy, or are we getting the insulin?”

Glenn heads for the refrigerated cases, guided by the soft hum that’s still fading from the shut-down generator. Sonia veers toward the shelves lining the side wall: bandages, antibiotics, anything not nailed down.

“Think this’ll hold her?” Glenn calls, scanning labels as he starts stuffing vials into a black backpack.

“For a little while,” Sonia answers, crouched low as she checks expiration dates with practiced fingers. “Long enough to buy her time.”

She finds a few blister packs, swipes a bottle of iodine, grabs a crumpled box of syringes.

Glenn glances over. “You think we should leave some behind?”

Sonia pauses. Straightens. Her eyes flick over the still-stocked shelves. It’s tempting. It always is. But…

“Yeah,” she says. “We do this right. Someone else might need it.”

Glenn nods. “Cool. Just didn’t wanna sound like a sap.”

“You are a sap,” she mutters. “But you’re a good one.”

He grins, almost bashful. “You say that like there’s bad ones.”

“There are.” She moves past him, her voice dry. “They don’t leave medicine behind.”

They work in practiced silence for the next few minutes. Sonia finds a padded cooler bag beneath the pharmacy counter, probably meant for transporting vaccines. The lining is still cold. She shoves a few ice packs inside from the still-cool fridge unit and tosses Glenn a nod.

“Load the vials in here. Carefully.”

Glenn transfers the insulin, one by one. He tucks them between the gel packs, arranging them so they won’t clink together.

“They’re not exactly hiker-friendly,” he mutters, zipping the soft cooler shut and sliding the strap over his shoulder. “Feels like I’m babysitting a carton of eggs.”

“Don’t drop it, then.”

Sonia finishes sweeping antiseptic wipes and gauze rolls into her pack. One last glance around.

“Got what we need?”

“I think so.”

“Then let’s move.”

They step out, the bag of insulin slung tight across Glenn’s chest, the weight of it fragile and loud.

They don’t make it ten paces before Sonia freezes.

Glenn nearly bumps into her back. “What?”

She lifts one hand.

Then they hear it.

The slow, dragging crunch of gravel. Wet, irregular. Like meat pulled through grit.

Then the sound: a groan. Low, airless, pulled from somewhere deep and ruined.

Sonia turns her head just enough to glimpse past the pharmacy’s corner.

Four of them.

Not sprinting. Not snarling. Just... coming.

One’s dragging a shattered leg behind it, the shinbone punched clean through, each step a wet scrape of bone on asphalt. Another’s jaw hangs broken, off its hinge, swinging like it wants to speak but can’t. One has hair stuck to its chin, someone else’s scalp, half-chewed and rotting in the teeth. Their eyes are pale, wide, empty. No fury. No speed. Just a slow, silent hunger.

“The alarm,” Glenn breathes. “It brought them.”

His hands tighten on the bag, then relax. Tighten again.

She sees the panic hit him. But he doesn’t freeze. He starts scanning exits. Counting walkers. His knees bend slightly like he’s ready to sprint, even if he doesn't know where to.

Sonia doesn’t answer.

Her hand’s already on her bowstring.

The motion is fluid, too fast to track. One blink and the arrow’s already up from her thigh quiver. Draw. Anchor.

The bow creaks. Quiet. Controlled. The only sign of pressure behind the shot.

Twhip.

The arrow hits the first walker low in the temple. It folds. Just drops. The skull splits wide on impact, sending a chunk of scalp flapping loose, arrowhead punching through into the dirt beneath it.

The others don’t stop.

One stumbles forward and steps on the fallen body, bones crunching audibly beneath its weight like someone biting down on ice.

“Jesus,” Glenn mutters.

His voice is tight, but he doesn’t look away. He shifts back a step, never turning his back, clutching the insulin to his chest like it's a newborn, eyes scanning.

Another arrow. Draw. Release.

Twhip.

It buries into the eye socket of the next one. The skull resists for a bit then gives. The eye pops with a wet squelch, pink matter spraying the walker behind it. The front one goes down like a ragdoll, jerking once as its knees slam the pavement.

Two left.

The third limps forward through the gore-soaked concrete, its feet dragging slick red lines behind it. Its stomach is torn wide, intestines unspooling in wet ropes. A chunk of liver, or what’s left of it, thuds loose with every step, twitching on the asphalt like it’s trying to escape the body it came from.

Sonia draws again.

The shot is smooth. Controlled. Right through the open mouth.

The arrow exits through the spine, spraying blood and a broken molar across the ground like fruit pulp. It should drop.

It doesn’t.

It lurches once, then again, staggering with the shaft jutting from the roof of its mouth, neck muscles twitching like a puppet with severed strings.

She exhales. Adjusts.

Sixty pounds of draw weight isn’t cutting it. The penetration’s soft. Her shafts are holding, but the kills aren’t immediate. She’s going to have to push it up.

Not now.

She reaches for her next arrow.

And then she hears it.

Leaves shift. Gravel crunches.

Two more.

They stagger out of the trees, closer than they should be. One’s in pale blue hospital scrubs, the back shredded wide open, spine slick and glistening. The other is rotting in a tattered wedding dress, veil clinging to her jawless face. The bottom half of her body is half there. What remains of her guts dragging behind like a bridal train soaked in meat.

Glenn jolts.

He doesn’t scream, but his hand flies to the bag. He steps back too fast, trips on the curb. The insulin case slips from his grasp and hits the ground.

Thud.

Glass cracks.

“Shit, shit,” Glenn hisses, scrambling.

“Eyes up!” Sonia barks sharp and clean.

Because the third walker, the one her last arrow missed entirely, is lunging at her from the left.

She draws. Fires.

The arrow rips through the nasal cavity and punches out the back of the skull. Blood spatters across her boot.

It drops at her feet, twitching once before going still.

The fourth is still moving. Just barely.

She pivots, draws, fires.

This one pierces high, nearly through the crown. The walker sags, mouth still working. A second later, it folds in half like something remembered it was dead.

Now, and only now, she turns toward the newcomers.

The one in hospital scrubs makes a gurgling sound as it staggers toward them, arms outstretched, spine fully exposed through the torn fabric of its back. One foot drags like it was snapped sideways then shoved back into a shoe. Each step leaves behind a trail of red-brown sludge: blood, bile, something else.

The bride isn’t walking. She’s sloshing.

Her left heel has worn down to bone, toenails half-gone. The veil’s tangled in what’s left of her scalp, and her lower abdomen is a stringy mess, the hem of the dress dragging half-digested viscera like decorations. Something that might’ve been a kidney bounces off her shin, rolling in her wake like a dropped stone.

Sonia doesn’t hesitate.

Too close for arrows.

She sheathes her bow and rips the machete from her back in one fluid motion. The blade sings out, catching what light there is, just long enough to gleam before it sinks deep into the scrubs walker’s face. The cut splits it at a diagonal, skull shearing like overripe fruit. A burst of blood and brain matter paints her forearm.

The walker drops mid-step, one arm still twitching.

The bride keeps coming.

Behind Sonia, Glenn shuffles back fast, nearly tripping again. His breathing’s ragged, too loud. One hand scrabbles for the insulin case. The other’s up like it might do anything against what’s coming.

The bride hisses.

Her jaw doesn’t move—she doesn’t have one—but sound still slips through her ruined throat. A wet, rattling moan.

Sonia meets her head-on.

She ducks low, blade angled up, and drives it through the soft underside of the bride’s chin. Bone crunches. The machete wedges halfway through the skull before Sonia yanks it free with a slick, wrenching twist. A tooth sticks to the edge of the blade.

The walker folds forward like a broken marionette. Drops.

Silence returns.

Sort of.

Not the peaceful kind, more like the aftermath of a car crash. Blood seeps between sidewalk cracks. The insulin bag lies cracked open, a small pool of fluid spreading beneath it.

Sonia breathes hard. Checks the treeline.

Then Glenn finally speaks. “I think…” He swallows. “I dropped it.”

She doesn’t answer.

Her hand tightens on the machete.

They’re not done yet.

The world doesn’t go quiet. It just shifts.

Crows call from somewhere behind them, stirred by the scent. Wind threads through the trees, cold enough to sting. Sonia’s already moving, machete sliding back into its sheath with a wet scrape. She steps over the twitching body of the first walker she brought down.

Glenn watches as she crouches beside it. Calm, methodical, like this isn’t her first cleanup. Like she’s done it a hundred times already.

She tugs the arrow free. Checks the shaft, fletching, head.

Frowning, she wipes blood from the broadhead and holds it up to the light. Bent.

She grunts softly, tosses it into her pouch, and moves on.

The next arrow is lodged behind an eye socket. This one comes out clean. She slides it back into her thigh quiver with a practiced flick.

By the time she’s yanking the third from the roof of a partially shattered skull, Glenn’s mouth opens.

“You’re not just a lawyer,” he says.

It’s not a question. Not really.

Sonia doesn’t look at him. She runs her thumb along the shaft of her arrow, checking for hairline cracks. “Did I say I was?”

“No, but…” He hesitates, then huffs once. “You skin rabbits like a surgeon and kill like… like that…” he gestures at the mangled corpses. “I’ve seen war movies with less blood.”

Sonia gives a noncommittal sound. Not quite a laugh. “Must’ve been bad movies.”

Glenn exhales shakily, then glances toward the shattered insulin bag.

Neither of them says it.

They lost the medicine.

And the sun is starting to set.

Sonia’s still crouched, blood on her hands, fingers ghosting the frayed edge of her fletching. The arrow’s fine. The body it came from is not.

Behind her, Glenn shifts awkwardly, tight with guilt. His eyes dart to the insulin bag, one of the vials cracked clean through, its contents glistening on the pavement like mercury in the dirt.

“…That’s on me,” he says, voice low. “I dropped it.”

Sonia rises, slow and steady. She wipes her palms on her pants, smearing red across the fabric. Her mouth presses flat. Not angry, just tired.

“It hit the ground,” she says. “That’s all.”

“I should’ve…”

“No,” she cuts in. Not harsh. Final.

He shuts up.

She looks at him then. His hands are shaking slightly. His breathing’s still too fast, his eyes rimmed with something sharp. But he didn’t run. He didn’t scream. And he’s still here.

“You stayed,” she says.

Glenn blinks. “What?”

“You didn’t bolt. You stayed behind me. You listened.”

“I dropped the damn insulin.”

“Yeah,” she nods. “But next time, you won’t.”

His jaw ticks, like he wants to argue.

She doesn’t let him. “You did good, Glenn.”

The way his name sounds in her mouth—grounded, certain—startles him into silence. He stares at her, some protest dying halfway up his throat.

Sonia picks up the bag, now damp and useless, and tucks it under her arm anyway.

“We’ll find more.”

“Yeah?” he asks, not believing it.

“No,” she says. “But we’ll try.”

And then she walks.

Chapter Text

The sky’s just starting to shift from navy to pale blue when Sonia returns to camp, two rabbits swinging from one hand. She’s already plucking at their fur with the other, blood caking under her fingernails, movements more impatient than precise.

It’s early, humid in that sticky southern way, but the air still has a bite. Spring’s not fully settled yet.

The camp’s barely awake. A tent zipper whines somewhere. A pot clinks. A child lets out a soft, whiny cough.

David stands just outside their tent, wearing socks in his boots, hoodie wrinkled like he slept in it. If he slept at all. A half-drained can of Monster dangles from his hand.

Sonia steps into view from the trees and drops the rabbits on the crate by the firepit.

“Figured I’d beat the rush,” she says.

David flinches at the sight of the bloodied pelts. “Hey… can you not do that here?”

She pauses. “Do what?”

He gestures, not unkindly, with the can. “The skinning. Right here, in the middle of everything. You wouldn't want to scare the kids.”

“They’re not even awake.”

“Still.” He rubs the back of his neck. “It’s not really… a morning view.”

Sonia wipes her hands down her thigh. “Wasn’t planning on charging for tickets.”

She moves to grab the rabbits again. David watches her.

“Where are you going?”

She doesn’t look back. “To skin in private. Like a lady.”

He doesn’t laugh. But he does trail after her, slow and reluctant, like he knows the fight isn’t worth it, but he can’t let it go just yet.

David’s voice cuts in. Lower now, but tighter.

“…Is that blood?”

Sonia glances down. The inside seam of her pants is dark. She exhales. “Guess I pushed too hard.”

David steps closer, his concern flaring. “Jesus, Sonia.”

She shrugs, crouching near the fire pit. “It’s not a big deal.”

“You gave birth eighteen days ago.”

“Right,” she says flatly, “and there’s no baby to show for it.”

There’s a pause. He doesn’t know what to say to that. She grabs one of the rabbits, the blade already in her hand.

David’s voice doesn’t rise, but it gets colder. “You’re out there every damn day.”

“I’m providing,” she mutters. “That used to mean something.”

“You’re either off hunting or on one of your pharmacy runs.”

She half-turns, brows raised. “You’re welcome for the antiseptic.”

David lets out a short, dry laugh. “Yeah? You gonna be here when Sophie actually needs you?”

Her jaw ticks. “What the hell do you think I’m doing all this for?”

He doesn’t flinch. “One daughter barely made it into this world. The other barely sees her mother.”

That lands. Sonia’s shoulders go stiff. She doesn’t answer. Just crouches lower, the blade biting into the rabbit with more force than needed.

“You think this is sustainable?” he presses. “Running yourself into the ground, bleeding through your damn clothes?”

She doesn’t look up. “You think sitting on your ass with a Monster is parenting?”

“At least Sophie knows I’m here.”

That does it.

She straightens slowly. “You want me here to what, David? Hold hands? Tell bedtime stories? Or bring back enough food and medicine to keep everyone breathing another week?”

He falters. “That’s not what this is about.”

“Then what is it about?”

He doesn’t answer.

Sonia exhales hard through her nose, lips tight. “We’re wasting time. I need to get this skinned before the sun’s up.”

The first pelt is halfway off when David finally speaks again. Lower this time, but tense. “Did Milo say something to you? Before it happened.”

She doesn’t look up. Just keeps working the knife down the spine with mechanical precision. “Didn’t get much small talk in. He came at me.”

David folds his arms. “Shane says he turned.”

“Yeah. That’s what happened.”

“You sure about that?”

She pauses. “You were the one who said I always think I’m sure.”

David studies her. “I talked to him. Half an hour before. He was pissed off, yeah, but not sick. Not out of it.”

Sonia flicks a fly off the meat. “He had a fever.”

“People get fevers.”

“He was sweating. Rambling. Scratched up.”

David doesn’t blink. “Walkers don’t choke people, Sonia.”

She stops again.

He steps closer. “So what are we telling the others? That a sixteen-year-old murdered his own father in cold blood?”

She finally looks up, eyes steady. “He attacked me. Turned or not…”

David cuts in. “If he wasn’t turned, Max committed patricide.”

A long pause.

Sonia tilts her head slightly. “Oh. So you were paying attention at Yale. Could’ve fooled me.”

He scowls. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.” She wipes her blade on the grass. “He tried to kill me.”

“And now we’re just letting Max walk around like he didn’t shoot his own father?”

She leans back on her heels. “He saved my life.”

David stares.

“I didn’t even see him till after the shot,” she adds, quieter. “Didn’t even know he was there.”

She turns back to the second rabbit.

“Besides,” she mutters, “you said it yourself, walkers don’t choke. So maybe he wasn’t turned. Maybe he was just another man in this new world. And maybe that’s worse.”

David doesn’t say anything for a long moment. The only sounds are the rustle of wind through the trees, the distant stir of camp beginning to wake, and the faint, wet scrape of Sonia’s blade against bone.

Then, finally, he exhales.

“I’ll go check on Sophie.”

Sonia doesn’t respond.

He lingers a second longer. She doesn’t look up, just keeps working, jaw clenched tight. He turns to leave.

But after a few steps, his voice drifts back, quieter now, almost careful.

“When you change later… soak your pants.”

A pause.

“I’ll wash them out.”

She still doesn’t look at him. But her hands slow, just for a breath.

By the time she lifts her head, he’s already walking off, Monster can dangling from his fingers, hoodie sleeve still crooked.

Sonia says nothing. Just goes back to skinning. The blood on her thigh dries in the cold morning air.

By the time she finishes skinning, the sun is fully up and the rabbits are stripped clean. She wraps the meat in a plastic bag from her pack, brings it over to the folding table near the mess area. It’s still mostly quiet, the camp is barely stirring.

She sets the bag down where the morning crew will find it, then turns toward the tent.

Inside, the air is still cool, the faint light of early morning slipping through the canvas seams. Sonia unbuttons her blood-specked pants and shoves them down, grimacing at the dried streak along the inner thigh. She tosses them aside. Her legs ache. Everything aches.

She grabs the black hunting pants from the pile, the thick fabric familiar, comforting in its utility. As she pulls them up, something shifts in her chest, a dull reminder of everything her body’s still recovering from. Eighteen days. Not even three weeks yet.

She reaches for a clean top, then catches sight of herself in the shard of polished metal tucked into the tent pole. The bruises on her neck are worse in daylight: sickly shades of yellow and red. Finger-shaped. Ugly.

Sonia freezes. Stares for a second too long.

“Perfect,” she mutters, voice flat.

She tosses the shirt down and digs deeper into the bag, pulling out a black turtleneck. She pulls it over her head, flinching slightly as the collar scrapes her throat. It’s tight but it’ll do. No one needs to see. Not right now.

She pulls the turtleneck down over her hips, then hesitates. Her braid’s come loose, several strands escaping. She tugs out the tie and runs her fingers through it, letting the waves fall freely for once. It tumbles down over her shoulders, thick, golden, and still a bit tangled from sleep and sweat.

She rarely wears it down.

Too much maintenance. Too much vulnerability.

But today, just for a moment, she lets it be.

The reflection stares back at her: hazel eyes too old for her age, full lips drawn tight, skin pale from fatigue but still sharp with something underneath. Resolve, maybe. Or rage.

She looks like a woman who could kill you, then apologize for the mess.

Sonia barely clears the flap of her tent, arms full of weapons in need of care, when Shane intercepts her like he’s been posted there all morning. Arms crossed, brow furrowed, eyes already scanning her face like he's reading for damage.

“You came back so late, we didn’t even get to talk about it,” he says.

Sonia doesn’t pause her stride. “Didn’t really feel like rehashing it at two in the morning.”

He falls into step beside her without asking, glancing at the longbow slung over her back and the blood-dark stains on her sleeves. “Only one vial, huh?”

“Lantus,” she says. “Better than nothing.”

Shane grunts. “That girl… Grace. She’s got days, doesn’t she?”

Sonia doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. They both already know.

“She’s still pretending she’s fine,” Shane adds after a beat. “Even said she wants to help with watch rotation. Like she’s trying to earn her place before her body gives out.”

Sonia’s voice is flat. “Let her. If it makes her feel better.”

They walk a little farther, gravel crunching underfoot, past the thin line of tents and tarps fluttering in the weak March wind. Georgia doesn’t know what season it wants; chill in the air, but the sun’s climbing. Camp is starting to stir. A few kids chase each other near the firepit. No one’s looking their way.

“Still. It was a good call,” Shane says finally. “You brought back antiseptic, gauze, a decent haul of antibiotics. Even those surgical gloves. Not bad for a trip that went sideways.”

Sonia nods. “Glenn was solid. Sharp instincts. Didn’t need hand-holding.”

“Yeah?” Shane raises an eyebrow.

“He knew how to move. Smart, quiet. Didn’t panic.”

Shane smirks faintly. “You like him.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Sonia mutters, though her mouth twitches.

They reach the supply table, a long wooden slab rigged between two folding chairs where people usually sort through gear or clean weapons. Sonia sets down her bow.

Shane lingers beside her, gaze distant now. “You ever feel like no matter what we do, it’s just… putting duct tape on a sinking ship?”

Sonia exhales, reaching for the rag she stashed earlier. “If I didn’t believe duct tape could hold sometimes, I wouldn’t still be here.”

Shane laughs once under his breath. “Fair.”

He leans back against the nearest pole, watching her fingers start to disassemble the smaller parts of her gear, slow and methodical.

Without looking up, she says, “You had sex.”

Shane raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

She lifts her eyes briefly. “Last night. Or this morning. Probably last night. You’ve got that smug post-coital spring in your step. Very subtle.”

He snorts. “You’re full of shit.”

She shrugs, unstringing her bow. “You shaved. You’re in a good mood. You didn’t yell at anyone yet.”

“Maybe I just missed you.”

She finally looks at him, head tilting. “That why you were staring at my ass just now?”

“Hey, you’re the one walkin’ around like it’s not the end of the world.”

Sonia smirks, checking the limbs of her bow. “Must’ve been decent, then.”

Shane grins, cocky. “It was better than decent.”

“Mm. Then I’m happy for… whoever.”

He leans in just a little, eyes narrowed. “You always this nosy?”

“Only when it’s obvious.”

“You jealous?”

She glances up again, amused. “Of your mystery girl or the fact that you’re stupid enough to leave your socks on during it?”

Shane laughs, shaking his head. “Goddamn, you’re mean.”

“Mean?” Sonia echoes. “That was me being nice.”

Sonia checks the tension on her bowstring while Shane watches her with a look halfway between amusement and concern. The table between them is littered with knives, cloth, and a handful of bolts she’s been checking for cracks.

“You always clean your gear like you’re prepping for war,” Shane says, leaning back in the chair, arms crossed.

She glances up. “Old habit.”

“Those rabbits from this morning looked decent. Think you could start bringing in more of that?”

Sonia raises an eyebrow. “More rabbits?”

“More anything. Squirrels, raccoons, hell, even snakes. Ain’t nobody picky these days.”

She snorts. “So we’re becoming rednecks.”

He grins. “We’re in Georgia. Don’t act surprised.”

Sonia shrugs, flicking a speck of dried blood off her skinning knife. “Better redneck than dead.”

Shane chuckles, then tilts his head. “No, but seriously. Thirty-seven people. Half of them can’t shoot, a quarter can’t clean what they kill. We’re gonna need you doing more than just rabbits.”

She nods slowly. “I’ll see what’s out there.”

Sonia picks up her whetstone, starts sharpening one of her smaller blades. The rhythmic rasp of metal against stone fills the pause between them.

Shane breaks it. “Those MRE crates you brought in... still can’t believe you gave ’em up.”

“They were military-issue,” she says flatly. “Didn’t feel right keeping ’em.”

“You’re the first one to share anything like that.”

Sonia doesn’t respond, just switches to the next knife.

“People still got some of their own food stashed. But that’s gonna run out.” Shane nods slowly. “Thought about pooling resources, but… folks don’t trust easy.”

“Wouldn’t either,” she says. “You start organizing common rations and next thing you know, you’re deciding who eats what.”

“Exactly,” Shane mutters. “Still, might be time to think about it.”

Sonia glances up. “Let me know how that conversation goes.”

He smirks. “Oh no, I’m dragging your ass into it.”

She snorts. “Good luck with that.”

Shane chuckles, shaking his head as he rises. Sonia stays seated, spreading out her gear with methodical ease. The morning sun is warmer now, rising fast over the quarry rim. A thin layer of yellow pollen clings to the crates and folding chairs, dusting her black sleeves.

Just as Sonia finishes cleaning her bowstring, a dull thud breaks across camp. Wet. Wrong.

Heads turn. The morning stills.

Then Carl yells, “She fell!”

Sonia’s on her feet in a heartbeat, bow forgotten as she cuts through the half-waking camp toward the sound.

Grace lies crumpled near the fire pit, one arm twisted awkwardly beneath her, breath coming fast and shallow. Her lips are tinged blue. The stick she’d been carving is still clutched in one hand.

“Grace!” Sonia drops to her knees. “Can you hear me?”

Glenn’s already running. Dale appears from the direction of his RV, eyes wide, steps quick.

“She needs glucose,” Dale says, voice urgent. “Get her inside. Now.”

Sonia nods, gripping Grace under the arms. Glenn takes her legs.

A tall blonde woman—one Sonia hasn’t spoken to yet—steps up to the RV and yanks the door open without a word. Calm. Focused. Not asking questions.

Sonia doesn’t stop to think about it. “Thanks.”

They carry Grace inside. The interior smells like old coffee and antiseptic. Glenn clears a spot on the fold-out table as Sonia and Dale lower Grace onto it. Her skin is clammy, her fingers twitching, but her eyes flutter open barely.

“Hang on, sweetheart,” Dale mutters, already rifling through a drawer. “I’ve got honey somewhere…”

Sonia steadies Grace’s shoulders. “Glenn, help prop her up. Careful.”

Glenn moves quickly, supporting her from behind as Dale squeezes a line of honey between Grace’s lips.

“Come on,” Sonia murmurs. “Swallow.”

Grace’s throat works. Once. Then again. Her breath hitches.

Shane pushes in through the door, eyes scanning the scene. “What the hell happened?”

“She crashed,” Sonia says without looking up. “Blood sugar tanked.”

“We only had that one vial from yesterday,” he says, voice low. “How much did she have left?”

Sonia doesn’t answer. She’s watching Grace.

Grace’s eyes flicker toward her. Barely focused but present. Her voice is dry as paper when she speaks.

“I didn’t,” she breathes.

Sonia frowns. “Didn’t what?”

Grace swallows weakly. “Didn’t have anything left. I lied.”

The RV goes still. Glenn glances up. Shane’s jaw tightens.

Sonia blinks once, slow. “You really know how to pick a moment,” she mutters, barely above a whisper. Then, steadier: “Okay. We’ve got one vial. Let’s not waste it.”

Sonia opens the first aid kit with one hand, already wiping down Grace’s arm with the other. She doesn’t have proper alcohol swabs, but there’s antiseptic. Cotton. Gauze. It’ll have to do. She moves fast, methodical and silent, until she hears the door creak again.

The blonde woman now steps inside. Wearing a button-down too clean for this life. Her tone is flat. “So… when will she die?”

Sonia doesn’t even lift her eyes. “Sorry, who the fuck are you?”

The woman crosses her arms. “Andrea.”

Shane stiffens in the corner. Dale shoots a look over his shoulder. Sonia finally looks up, expression unreadable.

Andrea doesn’t blink. “I’ve been here ten days. You’ve been here three. So far, one man’s dead and another’s dying. Both near you.”

Sonia calmly removes the cap from the insulin vial Glenn brought back. “You keeping a journal, or just like the sound of your own voice?”

Andrea’s voice stays level. “I saw the bruises.”

That hits a hair deeper. Sonia pauses. Just for a second.

Andrea: “Walkers don’t choke people.”

The same words David used.

The air in the RV tightens. Glenn looks down. Shane’s jaw locks. Dale pretends to focus on the sugar kit.

Sonia’s tone doesn’t change. “And here I thought you were only staring at my ass.”

Andrea steps forward. “You expect people to trust you?”

Before Sonia can respond, Grace stirs on the table. A low noise escapes her throat.

Sonia turns back to her, her movements snappy again. “You’re distracting my patient, Andrea. Take it outside if you want a fight.”

Andrea doesn’t move. Just watches for another beat, then finally steps back toward the door.

“If more people start dying, don’t expect a warm welcome,” she mutters. “Seems like death follows you around.”

Then she’s gone.

Silence returns, thick as fog.

Shane exhales through his nose. “Jesus.”

Sonia doesn’t respond. She’s already prepping the injection.

No one speaks.

The RV creaks softly as Glenn shifts beside the table, still watching Grace’s breathing. Shane stands near the door now, arms folded, his jaw working but unsaid words dying behind his teeth. Dale turns back to the cabinet, movements slower than before.

Sonia doesn’t move. She just presses the cotton to Grace’s arm with practiced fingers, checking her pulse again. Her face is unreadable. Steady.

Only her shoulders give her away.

Just for a second, they fall.

Then she lifts her chin again, grabs the syringe, and says, “Let’s hope she holds.”

Outside, the morning breaks like nothing happened.

Chapter Text

Sonia steps out of Dale’s RV and feels that low hum of tension crawling just under the skin of the camp instantly. It’s noon, but the light feels off. Flat. Like even the sun’s holding its breath.

People watch her now. Not outright, just enough to notice.

A woman tying firewood snaps a cord too tight and curses under her breath. The Morales boy pauses mid-run, eyes flicking toward her before darting away.

They all know something’s changed. She’s not just the hunter anymore.

Andrea’s near the firepit, talking to two men Sonia hasn’t formally met. One’s bald and lean, the other is bigger with thick arms, tightly trimmed beard, broad stance like someone used to yelling. It’s the big one who watches her with the kind of tension that doesn’t come from curiosity. Sonia meets his eyes and holds. He looks away first. Of course he does.

Across the clearing, that same woman from yesterday shifts her weight as she adjusts the baby strapped to her chest. The toddler clings to her leg now, big brown eyes too quiet for his age. Sonia watches them for a moment. She still doesn’t know their names. She should’ve learned them by now.

But something’s off. Not with the woman. Sonia’s sure now, she’s seen that posture before: protective, but not afraid. It’s everyone else. The air around them. Brittle, ready to snap. Like the whole camp is made of dry pine and one wrong spark would set it off.

Lori approaches with a woman. Early thirties, warm brown skin, curls pinned back messily, eyes sharp.

“This is Jacqui,” Lori says. “She helps with the kids.”

Sonia nods once. “We need to talk somewhere quieter.”

They follow her toward the tree line, stopping near a slope where the brush muffles sound. Sonia doesn’t waste time.

“Grace’s not stable. She had a crash this morning. Sweating, shaking, almost passed out.”

Jacqui winces. “Low blood sugar?”

“Yeah,” Sonia says. “She got some honey in her. That bought us time. But she lied. Said she had a stash. Turns out she had nothing left.”

“Nothing?” Lori echoes.

“One vial now,” Sonia says. “We brought it back yesterday. That’s all we have. And if she crashes again and we’re not fast enough, she might seize. Go into a coma.”

Jacqui’s face hardens. “She gonna die?”

Sonia exhales slowly. “If we can’t find more soon? Yeah. And it won’t be peaceful.”

Sonia slows as they near what passes for a school zone in the camp: a blanket laid out beside a felled tree, half a dozen kids sitting or kneeling around it with scavenged notebooks or scrap paper. One boy draws with a stick in the dirt. A few are tracing letters, their pencils worn down to the nubs.

Two women sit nearby, both watchful. One of them—the older one with a sharp gaze—offers Sonia a polite nod. The other, younger, with long, dark hair and a gentle tone, murmurs something to the girl beside her. The girl nods and bends over her page.

Sonia takes in the quiet choreography of the space. It isn’t chaos. Somehow, they’ve managed to build a rhythm. Still, she keeps her posture relaxed, arms loose at her sides, even as her gaze notes the distance between Sophie and the others.

Sonia’s focus drifts to her daughter. She is too still, too quiet, separate from the others by choice or habit. That’s where she goes.

She crouches in front of Sophie, easing down until they’re eye level. The child doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift. Her hands are folded in her lap, her eyes locked somewhere over Sonia’s shoulder; toward that woman, maybe, or nowhere at all.

“Morning, mouse,” Sonia says softly.

Sophie blinks once but doesn’t respond.

Sonia waits a beat. Then another. “You sleep okay?”

Nothing.

She gently reaches out, brushing a few strands of hair behind Sophie’s ear. “I know it’s a lot. You don’t have to talk yet. Just nod or shake, maybe? Did you eat?”

Sophie hesitates, then gives the smallest nod.

“That’s good.” Sonia’s voice is barely more than breath. “You hungry now?”

No response.

Sonia glances over at the makeshift classroom, then back to her daughter. “You know, I used to hate school too,” she murmurs. “Except for P.E. and court simulations. You’d be shocked how often I threatened to sue my teachers. One of ‘em cried.”

Still nothing. But Sophie’s fingers twitch just slightly. Sonia catches it.

“You wanna sit with me later while I clean weapons?” she asks. “You don’t have to help. You can just be there.”

Sophie finally meets her eyes. Just for a second. Then her gaze shifts. Not to the other kids, but briefly toward that woman, again. Something subtle passes over Sophie’s face, like a thought too big for words.

Sonia clocks it but says nothing.

Instead, she leans in and kisses the top of Sophie’s head. “Okay,” she says, standing slowly. “I’ll be close.”

As Sonia steps back from Sophie, Lori comes to her side again. She doesn’t say anything at first, just stands with her, both of them watching the kids.

Sonia gestures subtly toward the two women near the makeshift school area. “The one with the necklace.”

“Naima,” Lori says. “She came in maybe three days before you. Said she was an elementary school teacher. Second grade.”

Sonia hums low in her throat. “That the truth?”

“As far as we can tell.” Lori folds her arms. “No one’s had reason to doubt her yet.”

Sonia watches Naima crouch beside Carl, murmuring something too soft to hear. The kid nods. Naima smiles like someone who has spent years convincing children that everything’s going to be okay, even when it isn’t.

Sonia doesn’t smile back.

“And the other one?” she asks.

“That’s Carol. Lives down in the south part of camp with her husband, Ed, and their daughter, Sophia.”

Sonia’s eyes narrow, just a fraction. “The one who yelled at her in front of the kids.”

Lori nods grimly. “Yeah.”

Sonia doesn’t comment. She just looks back at Sophie, who’s returned to her silent page.

Sonia nods once as Lori peels away, her mouth still pressed in that thin line of worry. The camp is quieter now, at least on the surface. Behind the hum of casual conversation, a current of tension keeps the air tight. People watch her when they think she’s not looking: some curious, others afraid.

She moves toward the old picnic table she claimed earlier, where her disassembled gear still lies untouched. She hadn’t gotten far before Grace crashed. Her bowstring’s half-rethreaded. A skinning knife sits uncleaned beside it, stained dark.

She’s just about to reach the table when something tugs at her attention.

Max sits near the edge of the clearing, shoulders hunched, staring at the dirt. He’s not alone. That bald man—one of those who’d been talking to Andrea when Sonia stepped out of the RV—is right next to him. Too close. Sonia slows, eyes narrowing. The man’s got that lean some men use to look relaxed, but there’s a stiffness beneath it. His voice is low, but Max is tight as a wound spring. Hands clenched. Jaw locked.

Something’s wrong.

Sonia’s eyes flick to Andrea, just visible by the firepit now, striking up conversation with Dale. Her words from earlier echo: “Walkers don’t choke.”

And this man? He was with her after she said it.

Sonia adjusts her course without hesitation, angling toward them with a steady, deliberate pace. The table and her weapons can wait. Right now, her instincts are louder than any to-do list.

“…your own father,” the man is saying, voice low and biting. “Shot him like he was a stranger. Like it meant nothing.”

Max doesn’t answer. His face is blank, but his jaw tightens. His hands—those same hands that pulled the trigger—curl at his sides. He stares past the man. Past the table. Straight at Sonia.

She’s watching.

She doesn’t move until the man steps closer, voice sharpening.

“I don’t care what Shane said. I don’t believe it. You don’t shoot your own daddy in the head unless there’s somethin’ wrong with you.”

Sonia’s boots hit the gravel with deliberate calm. She doesn’t raise her voice.

“Back away from the kid.”

The man turns, startled. “Or what?”

“I said,” she repeats, closer now, “back away.”

He looks her over. She has no weapons, just her usual edge. He’s bigger than her. She doesn’t care.

“He needs to be looked at,” the man says, gesturing toward Max like he’s an infected limb. “You gonna wait ‘til he snaps? He’ll shoot the next person he don’t like.”

Sonia steps in, putting herself between them. Calm. In control.

“Max did what he had to,” she says. “Milo was already gone.”

“That’s a load of bullshit,” the man spits. “Your boyfriend covered for him—”

Sonia’s eyes go flat.

“Shane told you the truth,” she says. “You want to keep pushing it, do it somewhere else.”

The man scoffs. “You’re just protecting your little soldier boy. That kid’s a killer.”

Max flinches.

Sonia doesn’t.

She tilts her head. “You ever seen someone turn?” she asks softly.

The man says nothing.

“You ever had to shoot someone you love before they did?”

Still nothing.

She leans in, quiet enough that only he hears: “Then shut the fuck up and let the boy breathe.”

The man’s jaw shifts, but he doesn’t speak. His shoulders tense like he still wants to swing, still wants something.

And Sonia can feel her pulse in the base of her spine.

She is trying very hard not to tear this man in half.

She keeps her hand steady on Max’s shoulder.

She’s already turning back toward her table—done with this, done with him—when the man moves.

He follows.

“You really gonna leave it like that?” His voice rises, sharp and theatrical. “That’s it? Kid guns down a man, and we just let it slide ‘cause you say so?”

Sonia doesn’t answer. Max's breath hitches. Just once. Like he’s trying not to break in front of everyone. His shoulders don’t drop but they’re not square anymore either.

“I’m talking to you,” the man barks, louder now. “You think you’re some kind of queen out here?”

She stops walking. Slowly pivots to face him.

Around them, heads start turning.

“You think this is your little kingdom?” he spits. “That table your goddamn throne?”

“Back off,” Sonia says, quiet but clear.

He laughs. “Or what? You’ll glare at me some more?”

The camp is listening now. They’re drifting closer: Shane halfway down the slope, Dale standing in the doorway of the RV. A few others nearby pause what they’re doing. It's the kind of silence that feels like pressure, like a held breath waiting to snap.

Sonia watches his hands.

She sees it a second before it happens. His arm swinging in, grabbing her by the elbow, yanking her a half step toward him.

She doesn’t budge.

“You don’t scare me,” he growls, low and close. “You ain’t law. You’re not military. You’re just some bitch in cargo pants who got real good at looking down on people.”

He doesn't know what he just said.

Sonia pulls her arm back. Not hard, just enough.

He raises his voice again, addressing everyone now. “Anyone else tired of her acting like she runs this camp? Giving orders, deciding who lives and dies? Huh? Who the hell even is she?”

Max takes a step behind Sonia.

“You think we don’t see it?” he shouts. “She walks around like she’s untouchable, like the rest of us are beneath her. But we don’t even know what she did before this. Could’ve been a secretary for all we know.”

Shane’s coming faster now. Glenn’s frozen by the fire pit, halfway to standing. The kids are being moved behind tents, Jacqui and Lori rushing them off. People are bracing for it. For a gunshot. For a fight. For something.

And still, Sonia doesn’t react.

Her spine is straight. But her hand flexes at her side, fingers curling once, then again.

She breathes in slow.

“Be very careful,” she says, voice even.

He scoffs. “Or what? What are you gonna do?”

She doesn’t answer. Not yet.

The man draws back his fist. He means to scare her, maybe even hit her.

He doesn’t get the chance.

Sonia steps into him, grabs his elbow, and twists. One fluid movement. Not flashy, not angry, just efficient. His arm wrenches behind his back, his balance gone. She drives him halfway to the ground before stopping short of breaking anything. Her grip stays firm.

“Get off me!” he snarls, trying to turn, but he can’t. She’s still got him locked.

“You put hands on a child,” she says, quiet. Her voice is low enough that only those nearby hear. “Then you came after me. So now we’re done pretending.”

Then, louder, for everyone to hear:

“I am Major Sonia Evergreen. United States Army Reserves. JAG Corps. Task Force Echo-14.”

The words snap through the clearing like a dry branch breaking.

A beat of stunned silence follows. Someone exhales sharply. Another mutters, “She’s military?” low, like they’re afraid to be heard. Around them, eyes shift. Posture straightens. No one speaks.

She lets go of his arm. He stumbles forward, stunned, then spins like he might come at her again but stops. The crowd around them is too quiet now. Watching too closely.

Sonia doesn’t look at anyone. Doesn’t raise her voice.

“I don’t care if you like me,” she says, still calm. “But you will not touch that boy again.”

She stays between Max and the others. Her voice is steady.

“He saved my life.”

It’s not loud, but it lands like a hammer. People freeze.

“I taught him how to shoot. I didn’t tell him when to use it. That was his decision.”

Her eyes sweep the camp, over faces too ready to fear the wrong thing.

“He made the right call.”

No one dares interrupt. Her voice doesn’t crack. It never does. But something in her chest wants to.

“I’ve seen grown men lose their heads when it counted. He didn’t. He acted. He lived. I lived.”

She breathes in slow.

“That doesn’t make him a threat. It makes him someone you can count on.”

No softening. No apology.

“If you treat him like a problem, you’ll break him. And then maybe you really will have one.”

She lets that sit. Then turns.

“He’s just a kid. Let him be one.”

She leaves him there; arm throbbing, mouth open, power gone.

The tension doesn’t break. It just… folds into itself.

The man disappears into the crowd, rubbing his arm and muttering something no one really hears. The people who stood closest step back. Others pretend to return to their routines—tying gear, checking snares, watching the sky—but their eyes keep drifting toward Sonia.

No one comes near her table.

She wipes her knife slowly, deliberate strokes, careful not to look up too fast. She doesn’t want to see who’s watching. She already knows they are.

A few low voices carry.

“She really military?”

“…JAG, she said…”

“That kid shot his dad, man. I don’t care what she says, that’s not right.”

Sonia exhales through her nose, jaw tight. Her hands keep moving, restringing, reassembling. The motions help. Keep her grounded. Keep her from spiraling into how badly she wants to lie down. How hard her heart is still pounding. How hot her side feels beneath the layers of fabric and gauze.

Someone coughs nearby. Footsteps shuffle. She doesn’t look.

Then—

“She didn’t even flinch.”

That one’s whispered. Young. Male. Not meant for her to hear, but she does.

She doesn’t acknowledge it. Just tightens a bolt.

The light’s changed again, more sun now, sharp and high. Her shadow stretches across the table. She feels the blood still sticky between her thighs and shifts her weight subtly to ease the strain on her hips. There’s an ache down her spine. A warning. Her body’s screaming at her to sit properly.

To let someone else handle things. But no one does.

Dale watches her from the RV, arms crossed. He doesn’t speak. Just watches. Like he’s trying to figure out what to do with what he just saw.

Shane stands off to the side, his mouth set hard. A silent guard dog. He doesn’t approach either. Maybe he knows better. Maybe he’s waiting for something.

Sophie sits with the kids again. She glances once toward Sonia. No smile. No wave. Just a flicker of a look before she returns to her page.

The silence stretches.

The afternoon passes. The fire’s burned low. Most of the camp is already drifting off. Some are curled under blankets, some inside tents, others just leaned up against whatever wall they trust to guard their sleep. Crickets hum in the tall grass. Somewhere near the east slope, someone snores loud enough to be a problem. No one deals with it.

Sonia sits at the edge of it all, spine pressed to a tree trunk, legs stretched long in front of her. Her weapons are already cleaned and reassembled, laid out beside her with mechanical precision. She’s not doing anything urgent now, just twisting the fletching on an arrow that doesn’t need fixing. Keeping her hands busy.

Glenn walks up slow, one hand lifted like he’s making sure he doesn’t spook her.

“Hey,” he says. “Mind if I…?” He gestures vaguely toward the dirt a few feet from her.

She nods, not looking up. “Sure.”

He sits cross-legged, fidgets for a second, then lets out a breath. “So… Major Evergreen, huh?”

Sonia hums. Not a yes or a no.

“I figured you were military. You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The kind that makes people obey without thinking.”

She smirks. “Yeah. That one.”

He stretches his legs out in front of him. “Task Force Echo-14? That a real thing or did you throw that in for flair?”

“It’s real.”

“What is it, exactly?”

She finally looks at him, eyes glinting in the fire’s outermost reach. “It was a legal unit. CID-adjacent. Think high-risk investigations, field deployment, embedded operations.”

Glenn blinks. “So like JAG meets spy movie?”

“Less glamour. More paperwork. But yeah.”

He lets out a low whistle. “And you just dropped all that like it was a casual fun fact.”

“I don’t say it unless I need to,” she says. “Fastest way to shut someone down.”

Glenn laughs. “Well, yeah. You dropped it like a mic. And then twisted his arm.”

Sonia tilts her head, mock-thoughtful. “It was a good mic-drop moment.”

“So, you were full-time military?”

“Reserves. I was a prosecutor the rest of the time.”

“Overachiever much?”

“Enlisted at seventeen. Commissioned after Yale.”

“Jesus. You were terrifying before the apocalypse.”

“Unfortunately.”

He grins. “So all those rabbits you bring back? That’s not apocalypse adaptation. That’s just… you.”

“I was hunting before I could tie my shoes.”

Glenn lets out a breathy laugh. “That’s kind of terrifying.”

Sonia finally glances over at him. “I know.”

They sit in silence for a while. She’s switched to her knife, flicking it over a whetstone she’s already used too many times tonight. It doesn’t need sharpening anymore. She just needs the motion. Something repetitive. Something that doesn’t ask questions.

Glenn finally breaks it. “Is he okay?”

Sonia doesn’t pretend not to know who he means. “Max is fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m not the comforting type, Glenn. But yeah. I’m sure.”

He nods, lips pressing tight. There's something in his face. Shame, maybe, or just the kind of guilt that festers when someone else pays for your mistake.

“I dropped them,” he says. “The vials. I fucked up.”

Sonia doesn't look at him. Just keeps the blade moving. “You didn't fuck up.”

“I did. I was holding them. I got startled. Dropped them.”

“We were surrounded. You didn’t drop them because you panicked. You dropped them because you’re not made of stone.” She pauses. “Which is good. We need people who still flinch.”

Glenn lets out a breath, dry and bitter. “Grace’s still gonna die.”

Sonia stops sharpening. Looks over at him now.

“She used to call my car a ‘rolling tetanus risk,’” he mutters. “But still asked for rides every damn week.”

That gets the reaction. Sonia huffs, an almost-scoff, more breath than sound. But her mouth twitches, barely.

“She didn’t deserve this,” he says.

“No one did.”

Silence again. This time it stretches longer.

“You think we’ll find insulin?”

“We have to.”

He gives her a look.

“I know,” she admits. “It’s not an answer.”

They sit for a few beats in quiet again, just the scrape of Sonia’s whetstone against metal.

Then Glenn shifts beside her. Fidgets. Clears his throat.

“I, uh…” He reaches into his waistband and carefully pulls out the pistol. Holds it flat in his palms like it might still go off. “I figured I should give this back.”

Sonia doesn’t take it yet. Just eyes the weapon, then him.

“I wiped it down,” Glenn adds quickly. “With a… rag. I didn’t really know what I was doing. There might be, like, sock lint inside or something.”

Sonia finally takes it, expression unreadable. Checks the safety, the mag, the chamber. Clicks each part like a ritual, fast and practiced.

“You’re lucky you didn’t jam it.”

Glenn shrugs. “Would’ve been a very dramatic way to die.”

She sets the gun beside her without another word. Keeps sharpening.

Glenn watches her work a moment, then gestures vaguely toward the knife. “Should I be doing that, too? With mine? Or is that like… an apocalypse vet thing?”

Sonia doesn’t look up. “It’s not an apocalypse vet thing.”

Glenn tilts his head. “Then what is it?”

She flips the blade, starts the other side. “Either this or pacing. And pacing makes people nervous.”

There’s a pause. Then Glenn, half-smiling: “So you’re regulating the group’s perception of you.”

Sonia’s hand stills just briefly. “You really majored in psychology, huh?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t graduate. But I paid attention.”

She finally glances at him. “Most people who say that didn’t.”

“I did,” Glenn says. “Enough to know what people do when they’re trying to avoid looking unstable.”

Sonia snorts. “Says the guy who volunteered to run into a pharmacy full of walkers.”

He grins. “Exactly.”

That earns a twitch of her mouth. Just a flicker. But it’s there.

The fire crackles. Somewhere out in the tall grass, a cricket starts up again. Sonia rolls the knife in her hand without looking at it. For a heartbeat, it feels like the world might just hold steady.

Glenn leans back on his hands, the relaxed kind of silence settling in. “You know—”

A sharp rustle cuts through the trees.

Sonia’s head snaps up.

She doesn’t speak, just moves. Swift. Controlled. Her hand dips to her side, then she holds the Kimber out to Glenn, handle-first.

He blinks. “Wait, are you—?”

“Take it,” she says, voice low but firm.

Glenn grabs the pistol a second too late, fumbling with the grip. “What’s going on?”

Sonia doesn’t answer. She’s already rising to a crouch, blade drawn, eyes locked toward the tree line. She motions for him to follow. Two fingers, short and sharp.

He doesn’t move.

“Glenn,” she snaps, barely a whisper, “that wasn’t a squirrel.”

That finally gets him up. He scrambles to his feet, flipping the safety off with uncertain fingers. She’s already ten steps ahead, gliding through the brush like she’s made of air.

He tries to follow her lead but he’s breathing too loud. Stepping too heavy. His eyes flick toward her, like he’s waiting for more instruction.

But Sonia’s not giving any. She expects him to keep up.

She expects him to know.

And Glenn? Glenn just tightens his grip on the pistol, muttering under his breath, “I really miss squirrels right now.”

There’s rustling. It’s heavier now. Steady. Two-legged. Human.

Sonia veers right, circling around the sound. Glenn follows, slower. No leaves crackle under her boots. She catches a glimpse of movement through the trees—

—tall figure, broad shoulders, some kind of weapon slung across his back—

Not one of theirs. Their people shuffle: half-asleep, half-afraid. This one steps like he’s counting paces. Mapping angles. That’s not curiosity. That’s casing the place.

She doesn’t wait. Doesn’t speak.

She lunges.

Chapter Text

She lunges from the trees, fast as a viper, from his left side.

“Jesus. Fuck!”

That’s all the stranger manages before she slams into him full-force. They crash to the dirt, hard. His back hits the ground with a thud, and the weapon, the crossbow, slips from his grip, skidding into the brush with a dull clatter.

He tries to roll. He has strong reflexes, all muscle and instinct, but she’s faster.

Knee planted against his ribs. One forearm braced across his chest. Blade poised just under his jaw.

Pinned.

Hazel eyes meet blue.

Younger than she expected. Grease-streaked skin, wild hair, lean and coiled like a stray dog. Not one of theirs. Definitely not just passing through.

And not trained.

But he’s fought before.

The way his muscles twist under her tells her enough.

No stance. No form. No discipline. But every movement is born of need. The kind that isn’t taught, just hammered in over years of trying to survive fists and boots and nights that end in blood.

Bar fights. Feral skirmishes. Backwoods bruises that never healed right.

She’s met his kind before.

They don’t quit. But they do fall.

He bucks beneath her, desperate to throw her off. She reads the move before he commits, shifting her weight and slamming her knee harder into his side. He grunts, breath catching, but doesn’t stop.

He twitches toward the underbrush, like he might go for the crossbow. She digs the blade in closer. Not enough to cut, just enough to warn.

He stops.

His breathing is ragged now. Brow scraped and bleeding. Arms tense under her hold, ready to snap the second she slips.

He glares up at her. Not afraid. Not submissive.

Good, she thinks.

Glenn’ll be here any second.

“Get the hell off him!”

The voice cuts through the dark: Southern drawl, loud and angry. Sonia doesn’t look up.

Bootsteps hammer closer over damp leaves. A man lurches into view from the treeline. Older, meaner, broad as a bear. Sleeves hacked off, Bowie knife swinging from his belt, and a grin that’s just wrong. Too wide, too twitchy.

Even from a few feet away, the smell hits her. Cheap bourbon, sour and heavy, soaked into his clothes and sweat. And something else riding underneath: sharper, chemical, jittering through his system. His pupils are blown wide in the low light, too big for the hour.

Not just drunk. High. Or something close to it.

She still doesn’t move. Just leans her weight down harder, forearm digging across the younger man’s collarbones, keeping his back pinned firm to the dirt beneath her.

It’s a stark contrast. The one under her smells like sweat and pine sap. Nothing else. No booze, just a little smoke. Marlboro Red, maybe. His breath’s steady despite the thrashing, and even in the dark his eyes are clear.

It tells her everything she needs to know: one’s trouble. The other’s just caught in it.

“Don’t care if you’re GI Jane or the sheriff’s wife,” the man snaps, marching closer. “Get off my damn brother ‘fore I put you in the dirt next.”

Ah. Brother.

The one under her groans something she doesn’t catch. The new arrival ignores it, all puffed-up chest and stomping boots.

“You deaf or just stupid?” he barks, one hand going to the knife at his side. “I said get off.”

He takes another step.

That’s when Glenn appears behind him. Hesitant, wide-eyed, but holding Sonia’s Kimber two-handed like she taught him. The muzzle wavers for a second. Then steadies.

Sonia doesn’t glance up. Just mutters flatly:

“Take one more step, I’ll let him gut you with my knife.”

The older man barks a loud, ugly laugh.

“Oh, she’s got jokes. What’s next, sweetheart, you gonna—”

Click.

The sound is soft. Just felt.

He freezes.

The cold muzzle of the Kimber is now pressed into his lower back. Glenn’s hands are shaking, but his aim is perfect.

Silence.

“...Huh,” the man mutters finally, lips curling. “Well, shit.”

There’s a commotion from down the hill. Voices shouting, feet pounding.

Sonia doesn’t flinch. The guy beneath her has stopped struggling, his breathing harsh against the forest floor. His crossbow lies a few feet away where it fell.

“Get off my brother!” the older one barks again, but doesn’t move.

Not with a pistol pressed into his spine.

Branches snap.

Someone emerges fast from the treeline, rifle up, voice sharp.

“What the hell’s goin’ on?”

It’s Shane. His gaze sweeps the scene in a flash: Glenn with the gun, one man pinned, another standing frozen with his hands half-raised.

“Found these two circling the ridge,” Sonia says. Her voice is calm, almost bored. “They weren’t watching. They were coming.”

A soft gasp comes from behind the tents. Small. Startled.

Sophie.

David’s there too, one hand resting gently on her shoulder. They’re both barefoot, blinking toward the treeline. Sonia doesn’t glance their way, but she registers them. Registers the shape of her daughter’s silhouette framed in firelight, clutching the edge of her oversized hoodie.

David doesn’t say anything. He just watches.

The guy under her mutters something. It comes out low, muffled.

“Yeah?” Shane tosses something toward her. “Zip him.”

The cable tie lands at her feet. She kneels, grabs one wrist—

He jerks it, sharp and sudden. Not a full struggle. Just a test. A warning.

She tightens her grip. Wrenches the arm back with a practiced twist.

“Cute,” she mutters.

The other hand’s harder, he keeps the tension in his muscles, just enough to slow her down, like he’s daring her to try again.

She does. And she wins.

He grunts but doesn’t fight beyond that.

She’s fast. Efficient.

But not fooled, this one’s not tame. Not even close.

Shane moves to the standing one, keeping the rifle steady. “You armed?”

“Nope,” the man says, grinning wide.

Shane pats him down anyway. Finds another knife tucked behind his back.

“Lyin’ son of a—” Shane cuffs him rougher than Sonia did, jerking his arms back with no finesse. “That’s a yes.”

More people are arriving now, drawn by the noise. Glenn stays close, gun still raised but trembling.

Sonia stands and brushes her hands on her pants. The guy she tackled stays on his knees, shoulders tense, head bowed slightly.

“You two got names?” Shane asks.

The younger one says nothing. Just stares.

The older one lets out a dramatic sigh. “Well damn, y’all ain’t got manners at all. We get tackled, zip-tied, nearly shot, and now you wanna get to know us?”

Shane’s jaw ticks. “Names. Now.”

The man shrugs like it’s no big thing. “Merle. That quiet sack of pride and poor decisions you tackled? That’s my baby brother.”

Sonia crosses her arms. “Let’s try this again. Why were you circling us?”

Merle snorts. “Circlin’? Lady, we’re survivors, not buzzards. You put out a beacon sayin’ come one, come all. What’d you think would show up? Pastors with pie?”

No answer from the other one, but Sonia catches it: something sharp in his eyes, the flicker of calculation.

She smiles, just a little. Oh, this one thinks he’s clever.

Sonia doesn’t bite. Just levels a look that could peel paint. “You crept in armed.”

He shrugs, smirking. “So did you, sweetheart.”

“He got a name?” she asks. “Or does he just snarl on command?”

Merle snorts. “That’s Daryl. Don’t push your luck, lady. He don’t talk to anyone.”

Sonia steps closer, crouches like she’s stretching her knees. She meets Daryl’s stare with something colder than interest.

“Daryl,” she repeats. “You’re not stupid. So tell me, what was your plan?”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. Just looks at her like he’s deciding if she bleeds the same as everyone else.

Merle chuckles. “Don’t bother. He ain't gonna play twenty questions.”

Shane: “Then we’ll wait. Let 'em stew.”

Sonia rises, dusting off her knees. “We’ll decide in the morning.”

“You decide?” Merle echoes, grinning like a wolf. “So what is this, camp democracy?”

Sonia doesn’t look at him. “We’re still figuring that out.”

Behind her, she hears the soft shuffle of fabric. A murmured voice—David’s—guiding Sophie back into the tent.

“Come on, baby. Let’s go.”

The tent flap closes. Sonia exhales, just once.

Merle’s still mouthing off when Shane yanks him up by the elbow.

“Time to shut it down,” he mutters.

Sonia moves to Daryl, nudging his arm with the tip of her boot. “On your feet.”

He stands without help this time: eyes low, jaw clenched, a streak of dirt across his temple where she tackled him.

“You gonna give me trouble?” she asks, voice low.

He doesn’t answer. Just spits blood to the side and waits.

She gestures with her chin. “Then move.”

Daryl steps forward, jaw clenched. As he passes her, just under his breath:

“Tch.”

It’s not a word. Just a sound: derision, defiance, loathing.

Sonia doesn’t acknowledge it. Not even a glance.

She just nudges him forward with the heel of her hand, firm but not rough.

“Keep walking.”

The group watches them pass; the bruised strangers in cable ties, one stumbling, the other silent. Nobody says a word. A few kids whisper. Glenn keeps Sonia’s Kimber drawn but lowered. Grace stands nearby with a hand resting on her med kit, unsure if she’s needed.

They reach the Humvee. Shane opens the back. Sonia nudges Daryl inside first. He goes in without a word. Merle trips on the step and curses loud when he hits the floor. Shane slams the door shut behind them.

Silence hangs. Merle keeps muttering inside, muffled now. Something about hospitality and red tape.

Sonia leans a hand on the side of the vehicle. Only then does she feel it: her ribs pulsing from the tackle, her palm aching from the hit. Blood from someone—maybe herself—is drying under her fingernails.

Shane studies her. “You alright?”

“I’ll live.”

“You want first watch?”

She shakes her head. “Nah. They’re ziptied and sealed in metal. You can babysit.”

Shane nods, cracking his neck. “They move, I shout.”

Sonia starts to turn away, then stops. Her voice is quiet, but firm.

“Turn off the broadcasting, Shane.”

That gets him to look over.

She doesn’t elaborate. Just walks toward her tent, boots crunching softly against the dirt.

One by one, people begin to drift back. Whispers fade. The crackle of the fire replaces the tension in the air. Doors click shut on the RV. Canvas zippers rasp closed. A few children, wide-eyed, watch Sonia until she vanishes into the dark.

They don’t know yet if this was a warning. Or just a prelude.

David slips into their side and zips it shut behind him, slow and quiet. Outside, the camp hums low with shifting voices and flickers of firelight, but in here, it’s still. Dim. Sophie lies curled in her sleeping bag, back turned, one hand tucked under her cheek.

He watches her for a beat. Her breathing’s too steady, not quite natural.

Sonia doesn’t look up. She sits near the bedroll, hunched slightly, unlacing her boots with sharp, impatient fingers. Her hair’s coming loose again, waves tumbling down her back, damp with sweat and grit. There’s dried blood on her shirt, smudges of dirt along her thigh, and something coiled tight in the way she moves, like her bones haven’t stopped bracing yet.

“She asleep?” she asks, voice low.

David keeps his eyes on their daughter. “She hasn’t moved in ten minutes and her eyes are closed.”

“She’s faking,” Sonia mutters, tugging one boot free.

He smiles faintly. “Probably eavesdropping right now.”

Sonia huffs, tired but amused. She peels off her socks next, grimacing at a raw spot on her heel, and sets them aside without care. The tent smells like sweat, pine, and metal. Blood. Maybe hers. Maybe someone else’s. Probably both.

David finally sits. Doesn’t touch her. Just watches her work the laces on the other boot, tension still clinging to her shoulders like armor that forgot how to come off.

They don’t speak for a while.

But they don’t have to.

David’s still standing when Sonia peels off her pants.

The fabric sticks damp with blood. She doesn’t wince, just folds them without looking. Her underwear’s soaked through. Not that she’s surprised.

David is watching her. Not with judgment. With something worse. Concern. Quiet, simmering, familiar concern. The kind that’s been showing up more lately. Like he’s finally seeing what she’s been holding together with string.

“I washed your other pair,” he says, voice soft.

She raises a brow.

“Well… Carol did. I watched her do it. Said she’s… experienced in this area.”

There’s a pause.

Sonia blinks. The implication lands. Not about birth.

About bruises. About old blood. About the woman in the next tent who barely speaks unless someone else does first. Sonia remembers the way Carol flinched when Ed raised his voice earlier.

She doesn’t say it out loud. Neither of them do.

Instead, she grabs a clean cloth from the crate beside her pack, pads it between her thighs like it’s just another chore. She drops down onto their makeshift bedding, sighs.

David finally sits too, cross-legged. Still watching her.

“You gonna tell me what that was out there?”

Sonia doesn’t look up. “Two men with the survival instincts of possums and twice the charm.”

David huffs a tired laugh. “They’re not staying.”

“They will,” she mutters. “We need the muscle.”

He doesn’t argue.

Not yet.

David starts to undress. He peels off his shirt, tosses it to the side, then unbuttons his jeans with methodical fingers. Sonia doesn’t look. Not out of modesty, just habit. Her eyes are on the ceiling of the tent, unfocused.

Between them, silence.

Not a peaceful one.

“I don’t like them,” David says finally.

She exhales. “You don’t like anyone.”

“I like Morales.”

“Morales sings at night because he misses mariachi. You like that he stays on his side of the campfire.”

David’s quiet again. He sits beside her now, pulling the blanket over his legs, but he’s not really settling in.

Sonia speaks first. “It’s not ours to decide. We’ve got a group. Everyone should have a say. You know… like democracy?”

David scoffs, low. “You think they’d vote against you?”

“I don’t need people listening to me.” Her voice is soft but flat. “Not after Redwater.”

He turns, eyes sharp in the dark. “You’re bleeding for them.”

She says nothing.

“Not Shane. Not Morales. Not me. You.”

There’s no venom in his voice. Just something brittle. Worn-down. He’s not accusing her. Not exactly. Just reminding her of something she keeps trying to forget.

She closes her eyes.

The silence returns. Not peaceful.

Just full.

David lies down beside her, quiet as he can. The fire outside’s a low glow through the tent wall. Sonia shifts just enough for her knee to brush his. Doesn’t look over.

He does.

“You okay?” he asks.

She huffs. “I’ve had worse days.”

“Mm,” he murmurs, reaching across the space between them to gently pull the blanket over her more fully. “I can’t remember many.”

Sonia doesn’t answer, but her hand finds his under the covers. Fingers rough with calluses, skin still cold from outside. He rubs slow circles over her knuckles with his thumb.

They lie like that for a while. Not talking. Just breathing.

Then she says, barely audible, “Remember the couch?”

David’s brows lift. “Which one?”

“The shitty red one. From my apartment in New Haven. The one you hated.”

He grins in the dark. “You mean the backbreaker.”

“You loved that thing.”

“I loved you on that thing.”

She snorts. The tiniest ghost of a smile.

David turns on his side. “We’re still us,” he says, voice low. “Even here.”

Sonia doesn’t reply. But after a moment, she scoots in closer. Their foreheads almost touch. Her breath brushes his cheek.

“I know,” she murmurs.

His hand settles at her waist, warm and solid. Protective without smothering.

Outside, the world is quiet. For once.

Inside the tent, they sleep.

Together.

The sun’s barely up when Sonia is already standing a few feet from the Humvee, a cigarette between her fingers, her eyes on the two men inside. The taller one—Merle—is sprawled in the back seat, one arm flung over his eyes, dead to the world. Either he’s sleeping off a high or still too drunk to know where he is. The other—Daryl—hasn’t moved since she got here. He’s slumped against the side door, arms folded, jaw tight. Awake. Watching her through the window like a dog that hasn’t decided whether to bite.

She doesn’t flinch under the stare. Just takes another drag.

Footsteps crunch softly behind her.

Shane.

“Turned the broadcast off,” he says. “Didn’t want to tempt fate.”

Sonia nods but doesn’t answer. Her gaze doesn’t leave the Humvee.

After a beat, she asks, “Where’s the woman with the baby? The toddler?”

Shane sighs. “You remember the guy you kinda threatened yesterday?”

Her cigarette hisses as she exhales through her nose. “The one who looked like he’d cry if I blinked too fast?”

“Yeah, him. That was his family. Packed up and left during the night.”

Sonia nods again. Doesn’t say anything. Just flicks the ash and watches it scatter on the gravel.

“They didn’t even say goodbye,” Shane adds, tone somewhere between sarcasm and guilt.

Another long drag. “Smart.”

By now, the camp is stirring. People step out of tents, stretch, murmur low. A few glance toward the Humvee. Word travels fast, even without a broadcast.

Shane shifts beside her. “We need to talk about what we’re doing with the newcomers.”

Sonia hums, not quite agreement. Her eyes are on the small group forming around the firepit. Even Grace’s there, arms crossed, standing apart but close enough to listen. Sonia steps past Shane, moving toward the circle, and as she passes Grace, she rests a hand lightly on the girl’s shoulder blade. Just a brush. Just enough to say: I see you.

David is already there. He watches Sonia with that unreadable look of his, then crouches down to say something quiet to Sophie. The girl nods and heads off toward the other children. When David straightens, his hand lingers a moment on his daughter’s back, then falls away as he joins the adults.

The conversation hasn’t started yet. But the air hums with the weight of it.

They all know what’s coming.

“Alright,” Shane says, voice cutting through the murmur like gravel. “Let’s talk about the two in the Humvee.”

They’re circled loosely around the firepit now. Not seated, no one’s that relaxed. A few lean on crates, others with arms crossed tight over chests. The Humvee sits in plain view, just far enough to feel ominous.

Dale is the first to speak. “I don’t like how they came in,” he says, voice low but firm. “But turning people away? That’s a hard line to cross.”

“They weren’t lost,” Morales cuts in. His arms are crossed, jaw tight. “They were circling. Watching us.”

Dale turns to him. “They told you that?”

Morales hesitates. “I— No.”

“Exactly,” Dale says. “We don’t know what they wanted.”

“They could’ve hurt someone,” Lori says, folding her arms.

“But they didn’t,” Sonia answers.

David lets out a sharp breath. “Wow. They didn’t stab a child. Real model citizens.”

“They didn’t shoot,” Jacqui offers, voice calm.

“Yet,” David mutters.

“Maybe they’re just hungry,” Grace says quietly.

“Or maybe they’re waiting for us to lower our guard,” David snaps.

“They still came in armed,” Carol adds, not looking up.

David’s gaze cuts to Sonia. “And you still want to let them stay?”

“I want eyes on them,” Sonia says, steady. “That’s easier if they’re here.”

Lori’s voice sharpens. “You think this place is some kind of jail?”

“I’d rather keep threats inside the perimeter than out,” Sonia says, calm but unmoving.

“She’s got a point,” Shane adds, glancing around the fire. “Out there, we don’t know when they’ll show again… or how many they’ll bring. In here, we’ve got control.”

Morales shakes his head. “Control? You think zip ties mean control?”

Shane doesn’t flinch. “I think panic gets people killed. You want to run on fear, go right ahead. But I’ve seen worse men follow rules when they knew eyes were on ‘em.”

Sonia steps in again. “We’re running low on protein. I can’t be the only one hunting. Not for thirty-seven people.” A pause. “Well… thirty-three now.”

Dale looks over at her. “You saying they can hunt?”

“They’re rednecks,” she says. “They know how to survive. That’s more than I can say for half the people here.”

David’s voice cuts through the air, sharp and bitter. “You’re putting Sophie at risk because they know how to gut a squirrel?”

“I’m not gambling,” Sonia says. “I’m making a trade. Food, defense, fewer hours with a bow in my hand.” She turns to face him fully. “You’re the one complaining I’m always gone.”

Andrea crosses her arms. “Right. Because no one else here is doing anything useful.”

A beat.

“Tell me something, Sonia. When were you planning to mention you’re military?”

The silence that follows is brief but heavy, cutting through the tension like a wire pulled too tight.

Shane starts to interject. “Andrea, now’s not the—”

“What else are you keeping to yourself?” Andrea presses.

Sonia doesn’t flinch. “I told you when it stopped being a disadvantage.” Her voice is low, controlled. “And if I wanted power, Andrea, I wouldn’t need to lie to get it.”

Shane lets out a breath. “Let me tell you somethin’.” His tone’s steady, but the edge is back. “I don’t like this any more than you do. Merle reeks of booze and bad decisions, and the quiet one? He’s either dangerous or dead inside. But we’ve got ’em tied. We’ve got their weapons. You let men like that walk, you don’t get a second shot.”

“And if we let them stay,” Lori says, “we might not get one either.” She gestures toward the Humvee, her expression tight. “These aren't strays. They're armed strangers who were watching our kids sleep.”

Jacqui speaks next, voice measured. “We’re acting like they found us by accident. Shane’s been broadcasting for days. They didn’t ambush us. They followed a call.”

The bald man—the one Sonia caught talking to Andrea and that other guy she later threatened, by the RV,—finally adds, “Lot of talk about what they might do. But far as I can tell, we’re all armed strangers.”

Glenn, quiet until now, shifts on his feet. “I just think... if we kick out everyone who makes a bad first impression, there’s not gonna be many of us left.”

Dale sighs. “Alright, enough. We’re not getting anywhere like this.” He looks around the group, voice steady but tired. “We should just vote.”

“They’re wild cards,” Shane mutters.

“Then let’s stack the deck,” Sonia says. Her voice is calm, but her eyes are steel. “If they stay, Shane and I will watch them. Real close.”

Dale gives a small nod, then raises his hand, palm open. “Alright. Who’s in favor of letting them stay?”

A beat of silence.

Sonia starts to raise her hand—

Andrea’s voice cuts in, sharp and dry: “Bold of you to back the guy who tried to throw you into a tree.”

The air tightens. A few people glance between them. Sonia doesn’t flinch.

Andrea crosses her arms. “But sure. Let’s trust him.”

Sonia doesn’t look at her. Her tone is flat. “I trust me. You should try it sometime.”

Then she raises her hand.

Glenn follows, after a second’s hesitation. “They pulled a knife,” he says, “but so did we.”

Jacqui raises her hand next. Then the quiet man next to her—the tall one who helped unload firewood yesterday. Maybe Jacqui’s husband?

The bald man lifts his hand without a word.

Shane, of course, raises his too. “Better to see ‘em than chase ‘em.”

Dale adds his hand last. “Eight,” he says.

He looks to the others. “Against?”

David’s arm is already in the air. “Absolutely not.”

Morales raises his too, jaw tight. Then Carol. Then Lori.

Andrea lifts hers a moment later, eyes locked on Sonia like it’s a challenge.

A girl with sun-bleached hair—young, maybe late teens—raises her hand too. Sonia doesn’t know her name. Next to her, a man with a sharp widow’s peak and paint-stained sleeves adds his vote.

“That’s seven,” Dale says, his tone grim.

Sonia doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Her eyes stay on David, then flick toward the Humvee.

“Well,” she says, “looks like we’re doing probation.”

Morales turns toward her. “If one of them touches my kids—”

“They won’t,” Sonia says.

David scoffs, low and bitter. “You gonna guarantee that?”

Sonia doesn’t blink. “If they step out of line, I’ll put them down myself. That enough for you?”

No answer.

Shane claps his hands once. Sharp and final. “Alright, then.”

David’s the first to turn away. He doesn’t speak as he brushes past Sonia, but his shoulder knocks hers harder than it needs to. The others follow. Carol heading for the kids, Lori muttering to herself, Morales throwing one last look toward the Humvee before gathering his family.

Even Grace walks off with Jacqui, her face unreadable.

Glenn lingers, quiet. Then he moves too.

Sonia stays. Watching the fire. Watching the Humvee. Watching the weight of a decision settle on everyone’s backs like dust.

Shane stays behind.

“We babysitting, then?” he asks.

Sonia gives a small nod.

He blows out a breath. “I’ll take Merle. Bigger fists if it comes to it.”

“Please do. He sounds like hepatitis and broken promises.”

“You’d rip his throat out in five minutes.”

“I’d need less. Man reeks of meth and entitlement.”

Shane snorts. “That’s poetic. You writing a memoir?”

“Working title: Why Junkies Shouldn’t Breathe Near My Kid.”

“So you’re taking the quiet one.”

Sonia glances toward the Humvee. “He watches. That makes him salvageable.”

“Or dangerous.”

“We’re all dangerous. He’s just honest about it.”

Shane tilts his head like he agrees but isn’t thrilled about it. “Alright. We keep ‘em separate. One of us always on watch.”

“Sounds fair.”

He nods, and without another word, turns and walks off toward the back of camp, where patrol needs resetting.

Sonia stays behind.

The camp quiets. A breeze moves through the trees, soft and indifferent. From inside the Humvee, nothing stirs. Just two shapes, still zip-tied, waiting. Watching.

She steps forward.

Chapter Text

The sun’s just breaking the treeline when Sonia stops beside the Humvee.

She takes her time. One slow, assessing glance at each brother.

Merle’s out cold in the front seat, slumped and sweating, mouth half-open. His breath had reeked of vodka last night, but Sonia clocked the twitch in his jaw, the pinpoint pupils. Pills, probably. Maybe worse. The man’s a pharmacy of bad decisions.

Daryl’s awake in the back, eyes on her.

Silent. Sharp. Watching her like a coyote watches a trap, trying to find the weak point.

Sonia almost smiles.

She doesn’t have one.

Then she lifts her hand and slams it flat against the window.

Merle jerks upright with a sound halfway between a grunt and a curse.

Perfect.

She swings the door open with a hard creak of rusted hinges.

Merle groans and blinks at the sudden light, shielding his eyes. Daryl doesn’t move. He stays crouched in the back, one arm resting on a knee, the other bound wrist-to-thigh by a zip tie. His forearm is wrapped in a strip of dirty cloth, blood still soaking through.

“You’re staying,” Sonia says simply.

Merle lets out a scoff. “Oh, are we now? Ain’t that sweet of ya.”

She doesn’t look at him. Her eyes stay on Daryl. “You’ve got a hole in your arm, a dull blade, and no food. You need people.”

Daryl’s jaw shifts. “We were doin’ just fine.”

“Bullshit,” she replies, like she’s already bored of the lie. “You heard a radio broadcast and thought you’d rob us. That’s desperation.”

Merle straightens slightly, shoulders tensing like he might lunge.

Sonia doesn’t flinch. She just flicks a glance his way. “You’re lucky you didn’t get shot.”

Merle grins, teeth yellow and gleaming. “You call this lucky? Tied up like a damn hog, lectured by a—”

“You want to get untied or not?” she cuts in.

Silence. One beat. Then another.

He leans back with a grunt.

She returns to Daryl. “We don’t trust you. Obviously. So here’s how it works. Shane and I babysit you. He gets the loud one—” she jerks her chin toward Merle, “—I get you.”

Daryl lifts an eyebrow. “What the hell’s that mean?”

“It means you don’t take a shit unless I know where you are,” she says flatly. “You carry firewood. Clean kills. Pull snare lines. And shut up while doing it. Our medic, Grace, will look at that arm. You don’t argue.”

Merle barks a laugh. “Your medic got a name like a pornstar and hands like a butcher?”

Sonia’s smile is sugarcoated steel. “She’s also the only one here who can stitch a tendon without snapping it. So unless you want that arm healed crooked, shut the fuck up.”

She shifts slightly, leaning in, still crouched below Daryl, but somehow the one towering. Her tone drops.

“You’re lucky I didn’t kill you last night.”

Daryl stares back, unreadable. Voice low.

“Yeah. Real lucky.”

She holds his gaze a second longer, then reaches for the handle and yanks the Humvee’s rear door all the way open.

“Out.”

Daryl doesn’t move at first. His wrists are still zip-tied, bandaged arm stiff, tension rolled tight across his shoulders. But he shifts forward anyway, boots hitting the ground with a dull thud. He straightens, cautious. Doesn’t look at her.

Sonia jerks her chin at the bumper. “Sit.”

He does. Drops onto the edge with the same wary silence, like he’s waiting for a punch that hasn’t landed yet. The makeshift wrap around his forearm is soaked through, the cloth dark and clinging. Blood’s trailing down toward his thumb now, sticky and slow.

Grace’s already moving from the firepit, medical kit tucked against her ribs. She kneels beside him with a calm that reads practiced, confident, but not cocky.

Sonia steps back. Doesn’t go far, just a few feet. Then she crouches, unsheathes a knife from her boot, and starts sharpening it against a whetstone. Not for the drama. Just something to do with her hands. Something visible enough that no one forgets who’s still in control.

She doesn’t look up.

She doesn’t have to.

Grace opens the kit and starts unpacking gauze and antiseptic. She doesn’t waste time.

“This’ll sting a little,” she says, glancing at Daryl’s arm.

Daryl grunts, quiet. “Ain’t the worst thing I’ve felt this week.”

From the front of the Humvee, Merle’s voice drifts back drawled and lazy. “Careful, sweetheart. He don’t much like women fussin’ over him. ’Less they’re on their knees for somethin’ else.”

Sonia doesn’t even glance up from her blade. “Another word, I break your jaw.”

Merle chuckles, unbothered. “Shit, marryin’ type, huh?”

Grace ignores him, fingers gentle as she unpeels the soaked bandage. “You tore it deeper pulling against the zip tie,” she murmurs. “You always this stubborn?”

Daryl shifts just slightly to look at her. “Only when folks tie me up.”

Grace smiles without meaning to. “Fair.”

She doesn’t push further. Just starts cleaning the wound. Her movements are steady. Not tentative, not too soft. She knows what she’s doing. Would have made one hell of a doctor. Sonia watches from the corner of her eye, whetstone still gliding over the knife in slow, deliberate strokes. No one’s relaxed. But no one’s flinching either.

“You a real doctor,” Daryl mutters, watching her work, “or just like playin’ one?”

Grace shrugs. “Pre-med. Almost done. This is the part where I’d usually call for someone with an M.D.. But I’m what you’ve got.”

Daryl studies her a beat longer, then nods. “Could do worse.”

Merle snorts from the Humvee. “Bet you say that to all the girls patchin’ you up, baby brother.”

Sonia doesn’t look up. Her voice is cool and even. “I warned you.”

Merle grumbles something unintelligible and slouches back in his seat.

Grace dips gauze into antiseptic. Her tone softens as she looks at Daryl’s arm again. “This’ll hurt.”

Daryl’s jaw flexes. “Bring it.”

She presses the gauze to the wound. He doesn’t flinch but his fingers curl tight, muscles rigid.

After a few moments, she says quietly, “You’re not what I expected.”

Daryl’s voice is clipped. “The hell’s that mean?”

She gives him a small smile, not flirtatious, just warm. “You’ve got the stare of someone who’d bite. But you sat still for me.”

“Don’t need you talkin’ while you do it,” he mutters.

Grace chuckles under her breath. “Okay. No talking.”

She finishes cleaning and starts wrapping the bandage. Her fingers graze his forearm as she ties it off. He stiffens again.

“There,” she says softly. “Keep it clean. Try not to punch anyone with that arm.”

Daryl’s mouth twitches, just barely. “No promises.”

Grace brushes a strand of hair behind her ear, voice lighter now. “Guess I’ll take what I can get.”

From the Humvee, Merle groans dramatically. “Bet they’re gonna braid each other’s hair next.”

Sonia’s voice cuts in, syrupy sweet. “I’m going to enjoy breaking your nose one day.”

Grace stands, brushing her hands off on her jeans. “I’ll handle your brother next,” she says, nodding toward Merle.

Before she takes a step, she hesitates, her eyes flicking to Sonia. “Can I talk to you first?”

Sonia doesn’t look up from her blade. “You already are.”

Grace exhales, just a little flustered. “Privately?”

Sonia nods once and follows her a few steps away, just far enough that Merle’s voice fades into the hum of the trees.

“We’re low,” Grace says, her voice calm but clipped. “And not just insulin.”

Sonia stills. The knife drops to her side.

Grace meets her eyes. “The last of the antiseptic’s in my bag. I’ll be using it on him.”

Sonia glances toward the Humvee, then back. “We had two bottles left.”

“We did. Before Travis left.”

A beat.

“…How much?”

“A lot,” Grace says. “Burn meds. Gauze rolls. Trauma scissors. Two full vials of morphine.” She pauses, frowning. “He took things I’d hidden. I don’t even know what for.”

Sonia doesn’t speak. Her jaw tightens, just slightly.

“He didn’t take it for the baby,” Grace adds, quieter now. “That fever was mild. I told him as much.” Another pause. “He cleared us out, Sonia.”

Still nothing.

“I’m not bringing this up to start something,” Grace says gently. “I just thought you’d want to know. Before people notice we’re out of basics.”

Sonia exhales slowly through her nose. “I need to check the snares. Shane and I’ll come up with something after.”

Grace nods. “Sure.” Then, after a beat: “Sonia?”

Sonia looks at her.

“You didn’t make him run. He just didn’t like being held accountable.”

Sonia gives the barest nod.

Behind them, Merle yells something obscene about nurse hands and butchers.

Grace mutters under her breath, flat and unimpressed, “He smells like moonshine and mouth rot. This’ll be fun.”

They head back.

Sonia crouches beside Daryl, the freshly honed knife still in her grip. She hooks two fingers around his wrist, steadying it with just enough pressure to remind him she’s the one holding the blade.

One smooth motion. The zip tie snaps.

Daryl exhales through his nose, flexes his fingers slowly. Doesn’t thank her. Doesn’t look away.

She doesn’t move either.

“We’re checking snares,” she says quietly.

Daryl’s eyes stay on her. “You got a name?”

Her lips twitch. Almost a smile. Almost.

“Sonia.”

She’s still close. Still holding his wrist not tight, just deliberate.

He doesn’t pull away yet.

Then she lets go. Stands, but doesn’t turn her back. Just waits like she’s giving him a chance to follow, or test her.

He shifts to his feet. Wordless.

Then, quiet and deliberate:

“My crossbow.”

Sonia doesn’t turn. Just keeps walking. “What about it?”

“I want it back.”

Now she glances at him over her shoulder. “That so?”

He stops. Plants his boots. “You already got my knife. Took my bolts. What, you want the boots off my feet next?”

She finally turns, slow and calm. “I want to not get shot in the back. That clear enough for you?”

“I ain’t gonna shoot you.”

“You tried robbing us, Sunshine,” she says. “Forgive me for not betting my life on your word.”

He takes a step closer. There’s no menace in it but no retreat either. “I didn’t try shit. Merle did the talkin’. You think I’d pick your camp just to die in it?”

Sonia doesn’t blink. “I think you were hungry, desperate, and stupid enough to follow him. Wild guess: just like your whole life.”

That lands sharp. He scoffs, quiet and bitter. “You really think I’m the one you need to worry about?”

She takes a step too. No fear, no flinch. “No, I think you’re the one who might still be useful.”

His jaw tightens. “Useful, huh. That why you’re keepin’ me around? Like a stray dog?”

Her gaze drops, once, just long enough to make the point. Then back up. “You bite like one.”

They’re close now. Closer than either of them probably meant. Close enough that the tension doesn’t need raising.

“I ain’t gonna be your damn pet,” he says.

“Good.” Sonia turns. “I hate dogs.”

And she walks on like she didn’t just slap him without lifting a hand.

After a second, Daryl follows. Still pissed.

Still watching her.

They don’t speak as they move deeper into the trees, the quiet stretching taut between them. Just the crunch of boots, the rustle of brush. Sonia stops near a narrow game trail and crouches beside one of the snares. It’s clean. By the book, even. And completely useless.

Daryl catches up, glances down, and lets out a short, incredulous snort.

“You set this?”

She doesn’t look up. “Yeah. Why?”

He huffs, like the question isn’t worth answering. “Figures.”

Then he drops into a squat beside her with the quiet, precise movements of someone who’s done this a thousand times. He adjusts the angle of the loop, replaces the bait with something better, and resets the tension. His fingers move like he’s fixing something important.

Sonia watches. Doesn’t interrupt. But her eyes track every motion. She likes what she sees, though she doesn’t say it.

“You make it look real nice,” Daryl mutters. “Shame it wouldn’t catch shit but air.”

“Didn’t realize I was being graded,” Sonia says mildly.

“You hunt much before?”

“You askin’ or assuming?”

“I’m guessin’.” He smirks. “You don’t move like someone who’s skinned a thing that fought back.”

She stays crouched, watching him with that unreadable calm.

“And you don’t talk like someone who finished the sixth grade,” she says. “We all got surprises in us.”

That gets a short, dry laugh out of him. “Pretty and mouthy. Must’ve had a real nice porch to sit on, back in the day.”

“Marble steps,” she says without blinking. “Ivy on the gate. Real fancy.”

“Figures.”

She lets the silence hang a moment, then asks, “You always this friendly, or am I just lucky?”

“You’re the one followin’ me.”

“I’m literally supervising you.”

He finishes resetting the snare, stands, and brushes his hands off on his pants.

“Next time you try settin’ one,” he says, glancing down at her, “do it like you mean to feed someone. Not pose for a damn brochure.”

Sonia lifts an eyebrow. But doesn’t argue.

Not yet.

They move from one snare to the next. Sonia ahead, bow now slung casually in her hand instead of strapped across her back. Daryl lingers behind, checking each trap with a grimace. One’s sprung by a dead mouse, another jammed clean through with a tangle of grass and bait. 

Sonia walks like she’s got time to waste. Fingers gloved: archer’s gloves, premium leather, close-fit and worn at the seams. The kind only real shooters use. A release is already clipped to her wrist. Pro gear. Not for show.

He’s still chewing on that when a rustle hits the brush ahead. Quick. Light.

Sonia stops. Lifts the bow in one easy motion, draws clean and fast. That release clicks just once. It's sharp, precise. Her form doesn’t shift a millimeter. No hesitation. No breath held.

She looks…

Daryl doesn’t have a word for it.

Just knows he’s watching something rare.

The arrow flies.

Thwip. Squirrel. Clean kill.

She doesn’t celebrate. Doesn’t gloat. Just lowers the bow and keeps walking.

“Pretty’s not always useless,” she says without looking back.

Daryl watches her walk to retrieve her arrow.

Less pissed now.

More interested.

She moves like none of it weighs on her. Not the kill, not the bow, not the man trailing two paces behind with questions crawling up his spine.

Daryl watches the back of her, how she’s already resetting the arrow in her quiver with practiced ease, how the wrist release swings with her step like it belongs there. That shot wasn’t luck. Wasn’t instinct.

It was years.

It was money.

“Who taught you to shoot like that?” he asks finally.

She doesn’t look at him. “My father.”

“Military?”

A pause.

“Sort of,” she says, and nothing more.

They walk. Another snare. It's jammed this time. She crouches, starts clearing it with a frown. He notices the gloves again, the sleek release strapped to her wrist. Callouses on her left hand, but nice, maintained nails. Some strands are falling out of her braid. Strange. She moves like she was born hunting but she looks like those other bitches from Buckhead: soft hands, neat nails, all wrong for the mud.

Daryl squints at her, voice low.

“What’s your last name?”

That earns him a glance, just a flick of hazel over her shoulder. “You didn’t tell me yours either.”

“…Dixon,” he says finally. “So?”

She smirks and rises to her feet. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Then she’s walking again, like she didn’t just dodge the question clean.

Daryl watches her go.

Still pissed. Still watching.

By the time they make it back to camp, the sun’s climbing and the air hums with lazy heat. Sonia leads the way, bow over one shoulder, her fingers still faintly dusted with squirrel blood. Behind her, Daryl’s carrying the kills—two squirrels and a rabbit—strung together by the feet, hanging from his belt and shoulder like living proof.

A low engine growl rumbles from the far edge of camp. A truck pulls in, loud and ugly, all peeling decals and mud-splashed rust. Definitely not one of theirs.

Merle’s truck.

The thing looks like it crawled out of a Georgia gas station: busted antenna, camo-patterned seat covers barely visible through the windshield, and a dirt-caked motorbike bungeed across the bed like it’s survived three bar fights and a tornado.

Shane’s behind the wheel. Merle’s in the passenger seat, half-hanging out the window, grinning like a man who’s said too many things no one asked to hear.

Shane pulls to a stop and leans out the window.

“Well, that looks like a fun time.”

Sonia doesn’t slow. “Depends. You enjoy listening to someone complain about every knot you’ve tied?”

“They were shit knots,” Daryl mutters.

She throws a look over her shoulder. “Say that again after dinner, when you’re eating what I caught.”

“Would’ve caught more if you tied ’em right.”

Shane watches the exchange with a lifted brow. “You two bonding or plotting murder?”

Sonia: “Bit of both.”

Daryl peels off toward the cleaning station. “I’ll skin ‘em.”

“Try not to ruin the meat,” Sonia says without looking back.

Shane slides out of the cab and shuts the door behind him. “He always this charming?”

“Pretty sure that was his version of a compliment.”

He jerks his head toward the truck. “You want his brother back, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“Let me guess,” she says. “Merle wouldn’t shut up.”

“Made it ten minutes. Then I cuffed him to the rear doorframe.”

“Well done.”

Shane grins. “Thanks. I’ll be accepting medals later.”

Sonia circles around the front of the truck as Shane steps down. She eyes the dust streaked across his boots, the faint shine of sweat on his collarbone. It’s not the heat that tips her off. It’s the scent. Faint, artificial, and out of place.

“So,” she says casually, “who is she?”

Shane doesn’t miss a beat. “Who?”

“The one you’re sneaking off with.” Her tone’s light, but her aim is dead-on. “Yesterday you started smelling like hotel soap and smug satisfaction. It's becoming serious, huh?”

He smirks. “Appreciate the sniff test.”

“I do it to everyone.”

“Still sounds personal.”

“Is it Andrea?”

That makes him pause, just slightly. “Why would you think that?”

“You always had a thing for blondes.”

“I had a thing for you,” he says, deadpan. “Not blondes in general.”

She lifts a brow, not rising to the bait. “Mm. So it is Andrea.”

“Didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t deny it.”

“I’m not confirming anything, either.”

Sonia folds her arms, mock impressed. “Look at you. Grown-up and discreet.”

From the truck, Merle’s voice cuts through the camp air, muffled but unmistakable. “I can still hear you two jackin’ each other off.”

Sonia doesn’t even turn. “Keep talkin’, I’ll leave you cuffed ‘til winter.”

Shane mutters under his breath, “I hate him.”

“No you don’t,” Sonia says. “You just haven’t had enough coffee.”

Shane digs into his back pocket and pulls out a cigarette pack. Crumpled, half-empty. He taps one out and offers it her way.

“Coffee’s gone,” he says. “Got this though.”

Sonia eyes the cigarette. “You offering or bragging?”

He extends it. “You smoking again?”

She takes it, then nods once. “Had to. Needed to dry up the milk.”

Shane doesn’t say anything at first. Just lights hers, then his own. The silence stretches as they stand shoulder to shoulder near the firepit, smoke curling between them.

Eventually, he says, “You heard about the med supplies?”

Sonia exhales through her nose. “Grace told me this morning.”

“Someone’s hoarding.”

“Or trading.”

Shane nods, jaw set. “Either way, we need to shut it down.”

“We need to centralize it,” Sonia replies. “All meds in one place. Locked. Tracked. Someone accountable.”

He glances sideways at her. “That someone being you?”

“No. I don’t want the power. Just the control.”

Shane lets out a quiet laugh. “So what, everything goes into one big pile? Food, meds, gear?”

“Exactly. We organize it. Ration it.”

He quirks a brow. “Sounds like communism.”

“Which is why you say it,” she says dryly.

“Why me?”

“Because my name is Sonia. That’s already enough to make half this camp nervous.”

Shane smirks. “Fair.”

“If you say it, they listen. If I say it, they start hiding canned peaches in their tents.”

“You’re a manipulative little shit.”

“I prefer practical.”

He taps ash off the edge of his cigarette. “I’m not looking to lead, y’know.”

“Exactly,” she says. “That’s what makes you bearable.”

Shane shakes his head with a crooked grin. “So you’re the puppetmaster now?”

Sonia takes one last drag. “I just make the plans.”

Shane flicks his cigarette to the dirt, grinding it out with his boot.

“Speaking of…” he starts.

Sonia nods, already ahead of him. “I’m going out again tomorrow. Pharmacy run.”

“Grace?”

“Yeah. She needs insulin.” A beat. “Whatever she had left crashed yesterday.”

Shane sighs, low and grim. “We don’t have much margin anymore.”

“We never did,” Sonia replies. “She just hid it better.”

“You takin’ Glenn again?”

She shakes her head. “No civilians this time. I don’t care how fast they are or how many maps they’ve memorized.”

“So who, then?”

Sonia doesn’t answer right away. Her gaze sweeps across the camp. Past the firepit, where the Morales kids are arguing over something with sticks, past Andrea, still barefoot, tying up her hair. Near the treeline, a broad-shouldered man hauls in a stack of firewood, his face set with quiet effort.

She watches him for a moment.

Yesterday, he was one of the two men Andrea spoke to when Sonia stepped out of the RV. This morning, he vouched for the Dixons. Quiet, firm, and deliberate. She likes his type.

“The big guy… what did he do?”

“T-Dog?” Shane scratches the back of his neck. “City worker. Sanitation, I think.”

“Useful,” she says, thoughtful. “Just not this time.”

“He can handle himself.”

“I’m sure he can,” Sonia says. “But I’m not risking him yet. Not after the last run.”

“You’re saying they’re not ready?”

“I’m saying I’m not ready to bury anyone else this week.”

Shane lets out a breath, then smirks. “Jacqui’s husband, Anthony. Ex-cop. Or is that still too civilian for you, Major?”

“He’s fine,” she says. “Knows how to follow orders.”

Shane smirks. “What about Max? Kid’s got training. Could cover your flank.”

Sonia’s jaw tightens. “He’s a kid. He doesn’t go.”

“Trained kid,” Shane presses.

“Still a kid,” she says flatly. “And I’m not sending him out there to bleed for my choices.”

Shane arches a brow. “But you're okay with me taking orders from you now?”

Sonia’s mouth twitches. “I thought that was your kink.”

He grins. “Thought yours was control.”

“And here you are,” she says, tapping ash loose, “handing it to me.”

“Guess I like a challenge.”

Chapter Text

Sun sits high but the air’s still mild, that kind of Georgia spring warmth that tricks you into thinking summer’s close. Daryl crouches by the truck, knife sliding through squirrel hide in clean, steady motions. Another carcass already hangs clean gutted off the tailgate, swinging faintly in the breeze.

Merle rattles his cuff chain, metal scraping steel.

“Ain’t this a picture,” he says, voice lazy and mean. “Me chained up like a dog, you playin’ house with these strangers.”

Daryl doesn’t look up. “Playin’ house with dinner.”

Merle huffs a laugh, eyes cutting toward the camp. The woman, Sonia’s a few yards off, talking low with that cop. The blood is still drying on her hand.

“That her?” Merle asks. “Blond bitch tackled you last night?”

Daryl’s knife hesitates mid-stroke for a second, before sliding clean again.

“Yeah,” he grunts.

Merle chuckles. “Can’t believe you let some Buckhead Barbie drop you on your ass.”

“Didn’t let her.”

“Uh-huh.” Merle’s grin widens. “Looked fast, though. Maybe dumb luck. Ain’t no way she’s stronger’n you.”

Daryl doesn’t answer. Just strips the hide in one pull, clean and silent.

“Tell me you’re not thinkin’ of hangin’ around these people,” Merle goes on. “We could be long gone by now. That truck’s full enough.”

Daryl says nothing for a while, his rhythm keeping his thoughts still.

“Don’t know where they keep their stores,” he mutters finally. “Don’t know where my crossbow is.”

“Crossbow ain’t worth all this.”

“It’s mine.”

Merle rolls his eyes, leaning back against the truck. “Heh. She’s a goddamn cheerleader with a rifle. You scared of a pretty face now?”

Daryl peels the last stripe of the squirrel and tosses it aside. “Ain’t scared. Just ain’t stupid. She’d shoot you in the back before you took two steps.”

“Yeah, well, she can try. I seen her type. Rich, soft, thinks she’s runnin’ a damn army. Bet she folds as soon as it gets bloody.”

“Don’t think so.”

The knife glides clean through the belly.

Merle squints at him, studying. “Yeah, well, maybe you’ll find out what kind she is soon enough.”

“I’m findin’ out where my gear is. You keep your mouth shut till I do.”

Merle laughs again, chain rattling against the truck. “Sure thing, little brother. Just don’t come cryin’ when Blonde there decides we’re more trouble than supper.”

Bootsteps break the rhythm.

Sonia drops into a squat in front of Merle, calm as a grave. Her bow is across her back, sleeves rolled to the elbows. She studies him before she speaks. What kind of mind games is she playing?

“So. You and Shane had a disagreement.”

Merle’s grin is sharp enough to cut. “That what he’s callin’ it?”

“That’s what I’m calling it,” she answers. “What do you call it, Merle?”

“Freedom of speech. Didn’t know that was outlawed yet,” he says, all swagger.

“You spit at him,” Sonia says flat.

“After he called me a redneck piece of—” Merle starts.

“So you confirmed his hypothesis,” she finishes, like she’s filing an observation.

He  laughs. Low. Rasping. “You talk like a cop.”

“Close,” she says, never smiling. Her eyes take him in: the mud caked on his boots, the constant twitch at his jaw from coming down from whatever he was on yesterday, the way his gaze rolls the camp, never settling long. He’s all searching, never still.

“You’re not scared of me, sugar?” Merle asks, baiting.

“I’ve seen shit scarier than you,” she says, unbothered.

He laughs again. “Fair. You gonna keep me chained up here all day?”

“Depends,” she replies. “You gonna stop trying to start fights with the man holding the guns?”

“He deserved it,” Merle says, voice thick with arrogance.

“That’s not what I asked.”

His smile stutters. He glances past her toward Daryl, who keeps working with an expression flat as stone.

“You buyin’ his story or mine?” he shoots.

“I haven’t decided which one’s more pathetic yet,” Sonia says.

She reaches for the cuff and runs her fingers over the lock, then levels her gaze at him. “Here’s the deal. You pull something like that again, I’ll put you in the dirt. Not because I care who’s right, but because you’re loud, and loud gets people killed.”

“You think you can?” Merle sneers, trying the old swagger again.

“I don’t think,” she answers.

She clicks the key. The cuff snaps open. Merle rubs his wrist, flexes his hand, all bravado back in place, but the smirk has a hairline crack in it now. He grumbles something under his breath but she already decided she’s finished with him. She stands, takes a single step back, then turns and walks over to where Daryl is crouched.

“You always carve like you’re mad at it?” she asks, flat.

Daryl keeps his head down, blade moving. “You here to help or just run your mouth?”

“Depends,” she says. “You planning to waste half the meat or just the hide?”

He grunts and keeps working. She watches him for another beat, then reaches forward without asking, the leather on her glove touching his wrist to steady the knife. The contact is blunt and sure, there’s no softness behind it, just a firm kind of authority.

“You’re cutting against the grain. Shorter pull, right here,” she demonstrates with a quick, precise movement, “you’ll save the tendon.”

His hand twitches reflexively, jerking back a fraction.

“Didn’t ask for lessons,” he mutters.

“Consider it a gift,” now she’s smiling. The kind of smile you know she’s enjoying herself.

The look she gets in return is sharp and almost amused, an eyelid lift of surprise. “Didn’t peg you for the teacher type,” he says.

“You’re not my student. You’re my liability,” she replies.

He snorts, half laugh, half acknowledgement, then actually listens. The next cuts come cleaner, the hide peeling away with named purpose.

“You hunt much before all this?” she asks, watching his hands.

“More than you think,” he answers, not meeting her eyes.

“Mm. I’ve seen your little toy. Homemade repairs, mismatched bolts. Real redneck engineering.”

“You know a lot about bows.” His tone is flat, but there’s a corner of curiosity now.

“Everyone has a hobby,” she says, shrugging like it’s nothing.

He squints at her, like he’s trying to read a page with no title. “What’s your last name?”

There’s that smile again. “Told you I’m not telling you.”

He exhales slowly. Fine. Doesn’t matter anyway.

“Where’s my bow then?” He looks straight at her, voice low.

She doesn’t blink. “You’ll get it back once I know you’re safe.”

That earns a quiet laugh from him. “So I’m just supposed to trust you got it tucked somewhere safe?”

She keeps her stare head-on, not budging an inch. “You’re supposed to trust I didn’t melt it down for nails.”

Neither of them looks away. The air between them tightens. Measured, steady, almost like a standoff.

“You don’t seem like the trustin’ kind,” Daryyl says finally.

“Neither do you,” she replies, just as even.

Then she breaks the moment. Stands, brushes the dirt from her hands, tone shifting back to command. “Take that to Carol. She’s cooking tonight.”

He glances at her, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What, I can walk around now? Thought I needed a damn babysitter.”

“You do. I’m multitasking.”

He snorts. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Sonia starts walking off, voice quiet enough to almost disappear into the air. “You’ve got no idea what helps me sleep.”

She doesn’t look back, just carries that damn bow across her back like a preacher carries his Bible. Sun catches on her braid, glinting gold in the dust.

He wipes the knife on his jeans, jaw tight.

Crazy woman.

Through and through.

The fire burns low, throwing a lazy orange glow across the clearing. He’s pretty sure Carol is the short haired woman crouched over the pot, stirring slow and steady. She’s small, her sleeves are rolled past her elbows, bony hands steady as the spoon is scraping the bottom of the dented pot. Beside her, another woman with long dark hair slices the last of the canned vegetables into uneven chunks. She looks up once at him as he comes closer, then her attention shifts back.

The redhead who stitched him up this morning—Grace, if he remembers it fine—sits nearby, rolling a syringe cap between her fingers. The firelight hits her hair first, turning it copper-bright, then her face: soft lines, clear skin, eyes the color of fresh earth. Pretty. The kind of  pretty that looks like it belonged to the world before this one.

Daryl steps up and drops the clean meat onto the tray between the women.

“Thank you,” Carol says. Her voice is soft and polite. Nothing he’s used to. “You’re Daryl, right?”

He gives a short nod. 

The man with the beer belly—her husband, he figures—barks something low and sharp at her. Too sharp for this quiet. It cuts right through the crackle of the fire. Carol doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even look up. She just ducks her head and keeps stirring, movements smaller now, like she’s trying not to take up space.

Grace glances over but doesn’t say anything. The dark-haired woman keeps slicing vegetables, slower now. Nobody meets anyone’s eyes.

Daryl’s hand tightens on his knee. Just a twitch. Nothing big. He keeps his head down, stares at the fire like it’s got answers.

The guy mutters again, something about how long it’s taking, then stomps off toward one of the tents. The silence he leaves behind feels heavier than his voice did.

Carol keeps stirring. Still doesn’t look up.

Daryl pretends he didn’t see a damn thing. That’s what people do. Pretend. But his jaw’s locked, teeth grinding a little.

“I’ll get it cooking,” Carol says finally.

He crouches near the fire but doesn’t sit, elbows on his knees, eyes on the flames. Ain’t really cold out, but the heat feels good on his face.

Grace looks up from her idle fidgeting. “That arm holding up okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Didn’t tear the stitches?”

“Didn’t move that much.”

She smiles a little. Light, genuine. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He doesn’t answer, his gaze stays fixed on the fire. The light flickers over his face, over the edge of the bandage climbing to his forearm.

Grace tilts her head, still watching him. “You eaten yet?”

He shakes his head once.

Carol says without looking up, “Won’t be long.”

Grace grins faintly, slips a slice of carrot from the third woman’s pile, teasing just enough. “You’ve been busy, huh? She keeping you out there?”

He finally glances up, brow furrowing. “Who?”

“Sonia. Said she had you checking snares.”

He exhales through his nose, more grunt than sigh. “Yeah.”

“How’s that going?” she asks.

He stares at the fire a moment longer. “Quiet.”

Grace chuckles softly. “That bad?”

He doesn’t answer, just shifts his jaw and keeps his eyes on the flames.

The third woman finally looks up, still deliberately avoiding eye contact with him. Figures.

“She’s not back yet?” she asks.

Carol shakes her head. “Not that I’ve seen.”

Grace leans forward a little, voice easy, confident in a way that sounds practiced. “She’ll come back soon, I’m sure she’s just stomping around the woods. Or whatever her hobby is.”

Daryl’s eyes are now fixed on the treeline.

By the time the moon climbs high, the stew’s long gone and the air smells like smoke and cheap liquor. Daryl sits a few feet back from the fire. He’s close enough to feel the heat, far enough to disappear if he needs to. The dirt’s cool under him, the flames painting everything in flickers of orange and shadow.

He’s eaten better in his life, but not by much. Whatever Carol threw in that pot tastes like warmth. Like the kind of food people make when they still give a damn. He doesn’t remember the last time he ate something cooked with care. Tastes like love and family and all that other shit Merle always said didn’t matter.

Now Merle’s in full swing, waving a bottle like it’s a mic. “—and I told that dumb bastard if he wanted to steal my truck, he’d better start with my keys, ‘cause I sleep with ‘em in my goddamn pocket!”

The group laughs. Too loud, too polite.

Daryl doesn’t. He’s crouched low, carving at a stick with the knife Sonia didn’t take back. It’s sharp, balanced. Military grade, probably. He runs the blade slow along the grain, not shaping anything in particular, just keeping his hands busy.

Merle keeps talking, voice booming over the fire like he owns the night. Daryl tunes it out after a while, eyes focused on the knife, the sparks, the tiny embers catching in the dirt.

Daryl doesn’t know half the names of these people. Just their shapes.

The old man with the hat and the calm eyes,always watching more than he talks.

Two blond girls passing a canteen back and forth. Sisters, probably. Could be cousins.

Big black guy built like a damn wall.

Skinny Asian kid, nervous as a rabbit, keeps glancing at Merle like he’s tryna defuse a bomb.

And the cop. The one everybody looks to when it gets quiet. Shane.

Everyone else has gone to sleep. Or pretending to.

The old man asks, “You boys been out long?”

Merle smirk. “Couple weeks. Long enough to see the worst of it.”

Daryl tossses the stick into the fire. “Ain’t the worst yet.”

They all look at him. He doesn’t flinch.

The skinny kid pipes up, careful. “What’s worse than this?”

Daryl wipes the knife on his jeans. “Ain’t you ever heard of a chupacabra?”

One of the blond girls frows. “A what now?”

Merle groans. “Lord, here we go.”

Daryl keeps his eyes on the fire. “Goat sucker. South of the border. Eats livestock, drinks the blood clean out. Lotta folks say it’s a myth but I seen prints once. Three-toed, big as my hand.”

The younger blond’s eyes go wide. “You think that’s what’s out there?”

He shrugs. “Could be. You don’t know what kinda shit crawled out when all this started.”

The big guy lets out a laugh. “Man, we got corpses eatin’ people and you worried about space goats?”

“Never said space,” Daryl mutters. “Could be the government.”

That gets a ripple of laughter. Sounds harmless but he feels the underlying tension.

Merle chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re gonna scare the pretty ones off, baby brother.”

The old man raises his mug like a toast. “Well, I’ll keep an eye out for any suspicious goats.”

More laughs. The tension eases. The fire pops, little sparks shooting into the dark.

Daryl leans back, knife resting on his thigh. The sound of their talk fades into background noise. He’s not sure why he even spoke up. Maybe ’cause it’s easier talking about monsters with names than the ones that don’t make sense yet.

Then Daryl catches another face across the flames. The clean-looking guy, sleeves rolled up, book open on his knee.

He’s smiling. Not mean, not loud. Just polite. The kind of smile people give when they don’t know if they’re supposed to laugh or not.

Still feels the same.

Daryl’s jaw tightens. He drops his eyes to the dirt, flips his knife shut, and pushes to his feet.

No words. No goodbye.

The quiet murmur follows him a few steps, fading with the firelight.

He tells himself he just needs air. Needs to check the treeline, maybe the snares.

But truth is simpler.

He’s tired of people looking at him like that.

Like the punch line just walked away.

So he heads off into the dark.

And somewhere out there, a bowstring sings.

He finds her at a clearing, a rough target set up between two oaks: plywood, splintered wood scraps, a few half-buried arrows already jutting out.

She draws. Releases.

The arrow hits hard, too hard for that kind of bow. The shaft quivers, half-buried in the grain.

Daryl stays at the edge of the dark, arms folded. Watches her shoulders move under the thin fabric, precise and unhurried. She’s strong, sure, but not supposed to be this strong. Not with hands that clean. Not with that face.

Something’s off.

World’s gone to hell and everybody twitches now.

Wind shifts? Folks reach for their guns.

Bird moves in the brush? Someone screams.

But not her.

She stands there like the world never ended. Draw, release, breathe. Doesn’t even glance toward the trees where he’s standing.

For a second, he thinks she didn’t hear him.

Then she shifts. Enough to keep her stance lined with him.

Head tilts a little, like she’s adjusting her sight picture. Not scared. Not startled. Just aware.

That’s when it hits him. She ain’t still because she’s calm.

She’s still because she already knows it’s him.

He’s used to folks jumping when they’re being watched.

She just keeps breathing, like his footsteps were part of the wind.

Another shot. Clean, sharp, dead center.

Her fingers bleed under the gloves, dark spots soaking through the seams where the string’s been biting skin raw. The little release she’d been wearing this morning is gone. Must’ve lost it, or maybe just stopped caring.

She draws again anyway.

The bow creaks under the strain.

She exhales slow, like she’s teaching herself how to breathe again.

“You didn’t eat.”

She doesn’t turn. Just points her chin toward a flat rock nearby. On it, two crackers, a military protein bar, and her pack of menthol cigarettes resting beside them.

“Dining like royalty,” she says.

He snorts, stepping closer. Crouches near her leg, eyeing the wreckage scattered around her boots. Splintered arrows, warped shafts, one snapped clean in two. No normal bow hits like that.

She nocks another arrow and draws. The string groans, then cracks. The arrow splinters halfway down. She exhales slow, calm, like she expected it.

“You know what hunting is?” she says, not really to him. “It’s about precision. You aim for soft tissue. Lungs, heart, neck… something that drops them fast, clean.”

Another arrow slams through the target, half the shaft disappearing into the plywood.

“Doesn’t work on them,” she goes on. “Only soft tissue left worth hitting is the temple. Maybe the eye. But they move… erratically. You can’t predict it.”

She breathes out again, shoulders tight. “So you draw harder. You don’t aim for soft anymore. You just break bone.”

The sound of that last shot hangs in the trees. Daryl watches her, her stance, her control, the way the gloves are dark where blood’s seeped through the seams. No fear. Just repetition.

“Ain’t how bows are meant to work,” he mutters.

“Neither are people,” she says.

He studies her for another beat. The focus. The steady calm that doesn’t make sense anymore.

Merle’s words echo somewhere in the back of his mind. That woman’s the kind that gets people killed or saved.

Daryl’s still trying to figure out which she’ll do first.

“Why ain’t you sittin’ at the fire like the rest?” he asks finally.

“Half those people’ll be dead in three months,” she says.

A beat. Then quieter: “I’d rather not get attached.”

Daryl doesn’t respond, but his jaw flexes.

That’s the kind of thing a man says before a fight he knows he’s gonna lose.

He’s not looking for friendship. Not trust. He just wants to know what kind of weapon she is. And if he could take her down if he had to. The answer, he decides, is no.

She turns then, like she heard the thought straight out of his head.

“You’re bleeding,” she says.

She lowers the bow, flexes her fingers once, then shakes out her wrist. The leather creaks faintly, dark patches rubbed into the seams where blood’s been baked into it over days. She sets the bow down and steps closer, unwrapping the bandage on his arm without asking.

Her fingers find him steady and sure. The first time he saw them, he’d noticed how clean they were. Nails short but neat, skin pale, that little release strap once gleaming on her wrist. He’d thought they were soft.

They’re not.

Up close, they’re all grip and grain. Calloused in the wrong places: between thumb and forefinger, along the edge of her palm. The way someone gets from drawstrings, not shovels. When she pulls the thread, her touch scrapes faintly against his skin, firm and practiced, not a hint of hesitation.

He’s not sure what he expected. Something gentler, maybe.

Instead, it feels like being handled by somebody who’s used to breaking things open and putting them back together.

“She pulled it too loose,” Sonia mutters, tightening the stitch with a deft tug.

“Thought you said she was good,” Daryl says.

“She is,” Sonia replies, not looking up. “Just getting weaker.”

“She sick?”

“Diabetes.”

Daryl exhales through his nose, a low sound that’s not quite a sigh. “So you don’t wanna get attached… except to the one person who’s guaranteed to die first?”

That makes her glance up from under her lashes. And for the first time, he notices she’s shorter than he thought. All that presence, all that command… turns out it was height built from pure ego. The kind that made even him question if she might actually be ten feet tall.

She doesn’t answer. Just pulls the thread tighter than she needs to. He hisses through his teeth.

“Where’d you learn this shit?” he mutters. “Some work camp?”

“Basics,” she says simply.

He pauses. “What branch?”

“Judge Advocate General,” she says, voice even. “Reserves.”

He huffs in half laugh, half disbelief. “You didn’t just do paperwork.”

A faint smile touches her mouth. “I’m really good at paperwork.”

The clean-cut man from the fire steps out of the dark, voice calm and familiar in a way that makes Sonia’s hands still mid-motion.

“You coming to bed?” he asks.

“Sure,” she says, without missing a beat.

And that’s it. No glance toward Daryl, no hesitation. She just follows himnlike it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Daryl stands there for a second, watching them walk away. The guy’s the kind he never liked. Neat hair, good posture, that quiet kind of confidence that comes from never having to fight for much. Still wears his wedding ring, too.

So she’s married.

Figures.

Guess her last name isn’t that important after all if she’s already got someone else’s.

Daryl huffs under his breath and shifts his boot. And something clicks under it. He looks down. Her release. Lying right there in the dirt.

“How the hell…?” he mutters.

He bends, picks it up, turns it in his hand once. It’s small, light, the metal cold.

He shoves it into his pocket and starts back toward Merle, jaw tight.

As the morning clings with wet air and all, Sonia crosses the gravel with purpose, her gear tight across her shoulders. She reaches the Humvee and tosses her pack onto the bed with a solid, familiar thud. It lands next to the med pouch and the backup tent. Everything's already in order. Everything’s already thought through.

She circles toward the driver’s side and pauses.

Boots. A pair of them sticking out from under the hood, at an angle, legs relaxed but still. For a second, her muscles coil on instinct. Just the quiet sort of readiness born from a world full of bad surprises.

Then:

“…Hey?”

Her voice is calm, but not soft. Not aggressive either, just sharp enough to cut through the morning.

A beat.

Then a voice answers. It’s muffled, easy. Male. Older.

“Oh, morning. You must be Sonia. Your husband said this machine’s been making weird noises.”

Sonia squints toward the hood, the engine half-gutted and bristling with improvised clamps. “Ain’t that just a factory setting on these?” she says dryly.

The man laughs a low, unhurried sound from somewhere behind the alternator. Or the radiator. Who knows. “Sure,” he says, voice muffled, “but this one’s tryin’ out a whole new genre. Sounds like a dying lawnmower mixed with jazz.”

Sonia plants her hands on her hips, eyes skimming the mess of wires and tubing. “Long as it gets us from A to B without catching fire.”

“No promises on elegance,” he replies. “But she’ll run. Just needed a little coaxing.”

There’s the rhythmic clink of a wrench. He’s calm. Focused. Doesn’t even glance up.

Sonia shifts her stance. “Is that what we’re calling violence now?”

“Only when it works,” he says, tone easy. “Which it did.”

He finally slides halfway out from beneath the hood, face streaked with grease and sun. He wipes his hands on an old rag, folding it neatly over one palm like he’s done this a thousand times.

“Name’s Russell, by the way.”

She nods once. “Yeah. I’ve seen you around.”

“Guess now you’ve heard me, too.”

Sonia is already circling the Humvee, boots crunching over early gravel frost. She tosses a smirk over her shoulder. “Try not to say anything too charming, Merle might think I’m cheating on him.”

Russell chuckles, disappearing again beneath the hood. “God forbid.”

They start gathering near the Humvee before the sun has fully burned off the fog. Sonia spots Shane first walking up from the far end of camp, talking low to a tall black man she hasn’t met yet. Must be Anthony. Husband of Jacqui’s, the one coming with them today. His stance is relaxed but efficient, like someone who used to wear a badge and hasn’t quite shaken the habit.

T-Dog emerges next, stepping out of the RV with Glenn close behind. Sonia still doesn’t know what that name’s supposed to mean, but the man carries himself like he’s earned it. Glenn’s got his hands shoved into his pockets and dark circles under his eyes. He’s already watching her.

Andrea’s further off, standing near Dale, Lori, and Jacqui. They were all hunched over a map a minute ago, now it’s rolled in Andrea’s hands. She says something Sonia doesn’t catch, but Jacqui nods and Lori exhales through her nose like she’s trying not to scream.

David presses a kiss to Sophie’s hair and says something quiet in Hungarian, even though they both know she won’t answer. The girl blinks up at him blankly and walks off toward Carl and Naima without a word. Sonia watches her go.

Max is lingering behind them, standing near one of the tents like he’s pretending to check his pack. He’s not coming. Sonia knows that. But she also knows he wants to. He’s not a civilian, not like some of the others. Cadet Corporal. Disciplined, smart, stubborn as hell. He’ll wait until the last possible second to be told no.

The air tightens around them like a thread being drawn. It’s almost time. Sonia glances once more at the growing cluster of faces, the weight of responsibility pulling like a silent undertow.

And then T-Dog speaks.

“She passed out again this morning,” T-Dog says, voice low but clear as he steps closer to the Humvee.

Sonia doesn’t react right away. Just shifts her stance, eyes scanning the camp behind him.

Glenn adds, “She’s gonna keep crashing. It’s getting worse.”

Lori moves into the group, arms folded tight over her chest. “How long does she have?”

“Eight, maybe nine days,” Sonia says flatly. “Less if she burns too hot again.”

Andrea’s voice cuts in from behind them. “There’s a youth center downtown, off Monroe. I used to volunteer there. They had a med fridge. Kept insulin for kids.”

Shane turns to look at her, skeptical. “That’s a hell of a maybe.”

Sonia doesn’t blink. “Better than waiting around for her to die.”

A pause.

“I should come too,” Glenn offers, glancing at Sonia.

Dale’s already shaking his head. “We shouldn’t all go. Someone’s gotta hold camp.”

There’s a beat where no one moves, no one breathes. The weight of the plan—the risk, the gamble—settles like a fog.

The Humvee ticks softly behind them as the engine cools, and somewhere under the hood, tools clink faintly. Russell is still working.

The camp has heard worse. But this is the kind that quiets everyone. Not because it’s shocking, but because it isn’t.

They all knew it already.

“Will it be safe?” Lori asks, her voice quieter now.

“Nothing is,” Shane says. “But we’ll move fast.”

“I won’t shoot unless they growl,” Anthony chimes in, his voice even, calm.

From under the Humvee’s hood, that same dry voice calls out, muffled: “That line gonna work when we’re cornered?”

Shane snorts. “You fixin’ that thing or nappin’ under it?”

A low chuckle. “It’ll run.”

T-Dog shifts his weight. “I’ll reinforce the barricade. Keep Merle out of trouble.”

Andrea tries for optimism. “I can take morning watch. Keep an eye on him.”

“Just don’t let him rope you into a slur contest,” Shane mutters without missing a beat.

Lori exhales hard. “Do we really have to do this?”

Sonia turns her head just slightly, steady. “No,” she says. “We’re going anyway.”

Dale adjusts his hat, mouth tightening like he’s chewing on something unspoken. “I’ll keep an eye on things. You back by sundown?”

“Hopefully,” Sonia says. “Depends how many abandoned doll heads Andrea makes us dig through.”

Andrea scowls. “Youth centers have insulin. Maybe antibiotics. I’m not sending you to a Chuck E. Cheese.”

“Still creepy as hell,” T-Dog mutters.

Sonia angles toward Dale. “You’ve got the watch. No switch-ups. You see smoke, you yell.”

Shane jerks his chin. “If anything kicks off, Dale’s got that rifle and righteous grandpa energy.”

Dale mutters, “Righteous grandpa energy doesn’t load itself.”

Glenn turns toward Sonia. “What if the Dixons act up?”

“Then your job is to look surprised.”

David’s eyes are already on her. “Sonia.”

She sighs, like she’s already tired of the argument. “If Merle starts anything, don’t engage unless you have to. He’s noise, not threat.”

“Noise still draws biters,” Jacqui points out, arms crossed.

“Then muzzle him with duct tape,” Sonia says flatly. “I know you carry some.”

Jacqui lifts a brow, smiling just slightly. “Color-coded, too.”

Sonia scans the camp one last time. Inventorying who’s staying, who’s moving, what’s coming next. No panic in her posture. Just clarity. Motion.

“I’m gonna go make sure our local feral cat doesn’t burn this place down,” she says.

T-Dog blinks. “Which one?”

Sonia’s already walking. “The one with a knife in his boot and a complex in his chest.”

Sonia crosses the camp with purpose, bow slung tight across her back, sleeves still clinging to the chill of morning. Gravel shifts under her boots, but she walks like she owns the ground. Near the edge of camp, crouched low beside a half-burned firepit, Daryl is hunched over something. Playing with sticks maybe, or knotting a snare line. He doesn’t look up.

“Heading out,” she says.

“Didn’t ask,” he mutters.

She doesn’t react. Keeps moving, her voice clipped, efficient, like she’s running through a checklist, not having a conversation.

“Dale’s got the watch while I’m gone. You don’t leave camp. You don’t trade shifts. And if Merle mouths off, don’t stab him somewhere we’ll have to bury him.”

Daryl’s hands keep working. “No promises.”

Sonia’s eyes flick toward Merle’s shelter: a sagging tarp barely held down by a cinder block and a crooked stick. It flaps once in the breeze like it’s trying to make a run for it.

“That thing looks like a sneeze could collapse it,” she mutters.

“Wasn’t me set it up,” Daryl says, not bothering to glance over.

“You’re sleeping under it. Which makes it your problem.”

“There's a spare tent in the RV. After snares and meat, set it up. Use the eastern treeline. Wind hits softer there.”

“What, you runnin’ a hotel now?”

“No,” Sonia says over her shoulder, already walking. “But I don’t enjoy hearing grown men whine when it rains.”

She gets a few paces before pausing. Just a tilt of her head back, enough to catch him in her periphery.

“Be a good boy while I’m gone.”

“Want me to roll over too?” he fires back, flat.

“Only if you can do it without groaning,” she says, not slowing.

A beat. Then, low, just for himself: “Don’t tempt me.”

She doesn’t have to look to know he’s watching. Probably glaring. Probably thinking up some smart-ass line and choking on it halfway.

She almost smirks.

Almost.

Then a familiar set of footsteps—heavier, careful—cuts in from the side.

David steps into her path like he’s been waiting. He doesn’t look angry, not exactly. Just worn at the edges. His shirt’s too clean for this camp, tucked in like he still cares how it hangs. Hair neatly combed back, hands smooth, too smooth. He looks like a man still pretending the world isn’t rotting around them.

His eyes flick toward the camp’s edge. “He giving you trouble?”

Sonia doesn’t stop walking. She just pivots, heading toward the Humvee again, and lets her voice carry.

“You don’t have to be this uptight about them,” she says. “They’re bringing in the meat you’re eating.”

David follows, slower. “They’re criminals.”

She turns just enough to glance back at him, her expression unreadable. “And I’m a murderer.”

David’s brow furrows, soft with disbelief. “Killing a couple walkers doesn’t make you a murderer.”

Her breath hitches so faint it’s barely there. Her mouth twitches like it might smile, but doesn’t quite remember how. There’s no sarcasm in her voice when she answers. Only something thinner. Worn down.

“Tell that to the look on your face.”

David exhales, long and quiet. “Grace’s teaching some of us basic first aid today,” he says, falling into step beside her. “Then I’m on history duty with the kids.”

Sonia doesn’t look over. “Please skip the Hungarian propaganda they printed on your bones.”

He huffs a faint laugh. “National pride isn’t propaganda.”

“Anything that paints the Habsburgs as the victims is propaganda.”

There’s a beat. Then, gently, David shifts the ground. “I’m also gonna try to get our daughter to talk.”

That lands sharper than it should. Sonia’s jaw tightens, but her voice stays steady. “She doesn’t speak Hungarian, David.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Sonia slows just enough to glance at him, brows low. He’s not picking a fight, just stating something quiet, heavy.

“Might be harder with these junkies around,” he adds.

“She was born in Atlanta,” Sonia says dryly. “She was bound to see a redneck eventually.”

David doesn’t laugh. His voice softens, dips low. “She wasn’t supposed to live with them.”

Sonia finally stops. She turns, just slightly, chin tilted. “She wasn’t supposed to live with corpses and a dead government either. But here we are.”

He looks at her then. Really looks. “She still needs a mother. Not just a soldier.”

Sonia doesn’t flinch. But something in her eyes slips sideways. She breathes in once, then says carefully, like she’s afraid it might break something. “She has one.”

He nods.

“Then come back to her.”

Sonia doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes stay on him, unreadable, but something shifts just beneath the surface, like a current breaking through the ice.

Finally, quieter than anything else so far, she says, “Okay.”

He leans in first.

The kiss is slow, uncertain. Not hungry, not passionate anymore. Just warm lips pressed to hers like a memory being tested. He tastes like bitter coffee and sleep. His hand brushes her arm, tentative, not possessive. Not anymore.

It’s the kind of kiss people give when they’re hoping something still lives between them, even if they already know it doesn’t.

The moment stretches, but only just.

And then it’s over.

Sonia pulls back first. Always does.

She lets out a breath that sounds too even. Doesn’t meet his eyes when she says, “I’ll be back before sunset.”

Then she swings herself into the passenger seat of the Humvee, the door groaning shut behind her. Shane’s already in place, hands on the wheel, posture loose like this is just another joyride.

“I kissed my grandma with more passion than that,” he says, smirking.

She tightens her seatbelt. “You had a really fuckin’ weird family, then.”

Outside, just beyond the windshield, Jacqui leans into Anthony for a quick, warm kiss. Definitely with more passion than Sonia did.

Shane nods toward them. “Now that’s how a man kisses his wife.”

Sonia doesn’t even glance. “You want me to kiss you or somethin’?”

“I wouldn’t say no.”

She tilts her head, eyes narrowing with amusement. “What would your mystery girl think?”

Shane clutches his chest like he’s wounded. “Since when are you this interested in my life?”

“It’s not like we have cable. And I’ve always been interested.” She smirks. “Remember when you dated Lori’s sister? That was a goddamn shit show.”

He lets out a laugh, shaking his head. “Shit, I forgot you had front row seats for that one.”

“Couldn’t look away. Like a car crash. But with worse fashion.”

His voice goes a little softer, almost teasing. “You know I was interested in you once.”

Sonia turns her head, smirking faintly. “You mean for five years straight?”

He grins, caught. “Wasn’t that obvious, huh?”

“You asked me out three times before figuring out I had a husband. That’s not persistence. That’s denial.”

“I’d call that misleading.”

“I never lied,” she says, mock-innocent. “I just didn’t correct you.”

Shane chuckles again, shaking his head. “Goddamn, you’re evil.”

She leans back, finally facing the road ahead. “Little bit.”

Anthony climbs into the back seat just as Shane turns the key. The engine sputters, coughs, then settles into its low, grumbling idle.

Sonia casts one last glance out the window as the Humvee starts moving. Camp’s already shifting back to life. Carl kicking at a rock while Sophie trails behind him, Naima catching up with a gentle nudge to keep them close. Jacqui is laughing softly with Lori. Max lingers near the edge, pretending not to watch them leave.

Sonia watches a beat longer. Then looks forward.

“This is just like old times,” Shane says, easing them out past the barricade.

Sonia snorts. “Old times? You never let me come on the fun stuff, remember? I got stuck reviewing your terrible arrest reports.”

“I made those reports readable just for you.”

“Readable? Shane, you once spelled ‘possession’ with a Z.”

Anthony chuckles from the back. “God, you two bicker like siblings.”

Sonia’s tone doesn’t even shift. “Please. I don’t flirt with my siblings.”

Shane grins. “Did you just admit you flirt with me?”

She doesn’t blink. “...I said what I said.”

“Rick would've lost his damn mind if he heard that,” Shane says, grinning.

“Rick was a cop too?” Anthony asks, leaning forward between the seats.

“Yeah,” Shane nods. “Sheriff’s deputy.”

Sonia lifts an eyebrow, voice dry. “Made the rest of you look sloppy.”

Shane doesn’t argue. Just shrugs. “She’s not wrong.”

Anthony chuckles. “I was a cop. Retired five years ago. Figured I’d die playin’ golf, maybe bitchin’ about taxes. Not... this.”

Sonia shifts her grip on the door frame, eyes on the road ahead. “Guess the world had other plans.”

Anthony nods, expression settling into something quieter. “Partner of mine, Reese. Young, dumb, and full of caffeine. Had a good gut, though. Always said I was too slow to clear corners.”

Shane glances at him in the mirror. “You?”

“Hell yeah.” Anthony huffs a soft laugh. “I let him take point. That’s what rookies are for. Never saw him after all this started. Figured he didn’t last.”

Sonia’s voice flattens. “Most don’t.”

“Yeah,” Anthony murmurs. “But I still catch myself checking rooftops. Like he might be covering me.”

Sonia adjusts the bandage on her left fingers, tugging the edge where it’s starting to lift. The wrap’s clumsy, but it’ll hold. She burned the skin raw last night. Upped her draw weight from sixty to seventy after a walker’s skull took two shots to split. Too much resistance. Not like bone. Like it had thickened.

She didn’t have her release.

Again.

She loses it all the time, tosses it in a tent corner, forgets it in a jacket pocket, once found it in the damn food bin. But last night, it wasn’t anywhere. So she shot barehanded. No gloves, no trigger. Just fingers, string, and bone-deep muscle memory. Stupid, but necessary.

Now her index and middle are red and torn beneath the wrap. Still usable. She’ll shoot fine.

This morning, the release was sitting just outside her tent flap. Right where she’d see it. Could’ve dropped it herself. Or someone who knew what it was might’ve left it there, quiet and deliberate. She doesn’t dwell on it. Doesn’t ask.

She slides on her gloves instead. Archery leather, black, worn in all the right places. The kind that leaves her fingertips bare and grip free. They stretch snug over the bandages, tugging gently against the healing skin. She flexes once. Then again. Feels the throb behind the motion.

Good enough.

Shane hums low in the passenger seat. Anthony’s dozing in the back.

They’re close. The youth center’s maybe three turns out. Sonia leans forward slightly, eyes narrowing on the road ahead.

Her aim’s still good.

And if it’s not… Well, then she’ll make it be.

The Humvee crunches into the lot, gravel crackling beneath the tires. The youth center looms ahead with chipped brick, sagging roofline, windows like gaping eyes. A spray-painted cartoon monkey near the door is peeling, its grin cracked through with mold. The world moved on, but the walls still remember laughter.

Three walkers shift in the open. One drags a foot behind it, tendon snapped, its pants soaked with something that used to be human. Another wears a polo shirt, now black with dried blood. Its face is ballooned and splitting, lips gone, teeth exposed like broken piano keys. The third is the closest, has no bottom jaw. Just gums and a wet tongue flopping obscenely as it moans.

They turn to the sound of the engine. Shamble forward.

Sonia’s already moving.

The first walker reaches her door.

She throws it open.

The edge smashes into its clavicle with a sharp pop of bone. It stumbles back, one shoulder sheared low. She steps out, calm, adjusting her grip.

Nocks. Draws.

Her fingers flare with pain. Raw under the gloves, bandages pulled tight. The string groans at the heavy pull. The shot flies.

The arrow hits. But not clean.

It punches into the forehead, buries deep, but doesn’t fully shatter the brainstem. The walker twitches, gurgling, and she has to kick it off the arrow before the weight of its body breaks the shaft. It drops eventually but not fast enough.

Second one’s closer.

She fires again. The tip splinters bone, sends part of the skull backward in a fan of gore. The body crumples.

The last one’s almost on her.

Third shot, under the cheekbone, behind the eye. Cleaner. It drops mid-step.

Silence.

But Sonia’s jaw is tight.

She lowers her bow slowly, eyes still fixed on the mess. The steam off the corpses curls in the early chill.

Seventy pounds wasn’t enough.

It’s supposed to be a kill weight. It used to be. But these ones… It feels like their skulls are stiffening. Thickening. Drying out in the sun, maybe. Or changing.

She flexes her fingers once, twice, pain flashing in her joints.

She’s going to have to push it higher.

Illegal tournament levels. Eighty-five, maybe ninety.

No more sharing arrows. No more second shots.

Behind her, Shane lets out a low whistle.

“Remind me not to piss you off.”

Anthony steps down beside him, rifle lowered.

Sonia says nothing. Keeps watching the bodies.

Anthony exhales slowly, eyes still fixed on the corpses.

“…Jesus,” he mutters. “How long you been shooting like that?”

Sonia doesn’t answer right away. Just pulls the next arrow, checks the shaft, and slides it back into her quiver.

Shane leans forward, his voice quieter than before. “That bow’s got some serious kick. Thought you were just showing off carrying it around.”

Sonia adjusts the strap across her shoulder. “Wasn’t for show.”

Anthony glances down at the gore-streaked pavement. “You ever miss?”

She finally looks up, eyes steady. “Only when I’m rushed.”

Then she nods toward the double doors of the center.

“Let’s move. We’re not here to make a mess. We’re here to save a girl.”

Shane draws his pistol. Anthony falls in beside him, rifle up.

No one speaks as they approach the entrance. The air is filled with the sound of boots, the slow tick of blood cooling on concrete, and the quiet echo of something bigger shifting beneath their feet.

Something’s changing.

And they don’t have time to wait for the world to catch up.

Chapter Text

They reach the front doors.

They’re stiff, swollen in their frame, hinges creaking from lack of use. Anthony wedges a tire iron near the handle. Shane adds pressure, both of them leaning in. The frame groans. Paint flakes scatter. Old dust drifts loose from the impact. Airless and dry.

Sonia’s two steps back, bow drawn, arrow nocked. Silent. Watching the hall through the gap as it opens.

No movement inside. No sound.

The door finally gives, pops open with a screech and a gust of warm, stale air.

Anthony steps forward first. Eyes sweeping. Gun raised but low.

“Building’s intact. No broken windows, no scorch marks,” he murmurs. “That’s rare.”

Sonia moves in behind him. Doesn’t lower her bow. She traces a deep scratch along the doorframe with two fingers. “Someone tried to pry this once. Not recent.”

Anthony nods toward the map posted beside the entry. “Layout’s standard. Classrooms on the left, offices to the right. Gym in the back. Kitchen should be past the rec room.”

“You sound familiar,” Shane mutters, eyes narrowing as they advance.

Anthony shrugs. “I was assigned to one of these. Middle school. Same architecture, same smell.”

Sonia’s voice is dry. “Dead air and plastic?”

“That, and… kids.” Anthony gestures faintly around them. “You know how many places they used to stash cigarettes? Lighters? One kid hid a flask in the ceiling tiles. Seventh grade.”

Shane smirks. “You got any inside tricks?”

“Yeah. Check the ceiling corners. Inside vents. Top drawers behind the dividers. They like hiding shit behind the motivational posters too.”

Sonia exhales slowly through her nose. “We’ll give you a sticker if you find a morphine stash.”

Anthony grins. “Better be shiny.”

Inside, a wide entryway opens up to faded linoleum floors and sun-bleached posters curling off the walls. It's quiet. Still.

Sonia steps through first.

Her bow remains raised. Not fully drawn, but ready. Every footfall is placed. Deliberate. She scans the room as she moves, eyes flitting from shadowed corners to vent grates, to the peeling door just past the front office.

Anthony and Shane follow behind her, giving space.

The main hallway forks ahead, long corridors stretching both directions. Posters litter the walls, their pastel colors dulled. “Be Your Best Self!” hangs above a row of dented lockers. One is half open, backpack still dangling from the hook like a kid left it just hours ago.

Sonia moves right. Toward the nurse’s office. Andrea’s intel from camp said it should be there tucked behind the administrative wing.

They pass more remnants of a world that no longer exists. Water fountains gone dry. Construction paper sunbursts with half-torn affirmations.

Shane glances up at one near eye level.

He snorts. “You are special just by being you.”

Sonia doesn’t look. “Mm. Tell that to the half-eaten couch in the rec room.”

Anthony chuckles behind them. “'Hugs Not Drugs.' Guess that didn't age well.”

Shane lifts his pistol slightly as they round a corner. Glances at Sonia’s grip on the bow.

“You good taking point?”

She nods, eyes scanning doorframes. “Quieter weapon means fewer dead kids stumbling out of classrooms.”

“Fair enough,” Shane murmurs.

They continue forward, the sound of their steps muffled by old carpet and dust. Sonia’s eyes narrow. Every door could hold something. Every silence is a warning.

The door to the nurse’s office is closed.

Not locked from the outside, no barricade, no rope or debris piled against it. Just the standard latch, barely rusted.

Shane steps forward, tests the handle.

Locked.

Sonia crouches slightly, examining the door’s base. No fresh marks. No scuffing or drag lines.

“Good,” she says. “Means no one broke in.”

Anthony moves closer, crouches to check the hinges.

“No signs of tampering. Could’ve been sealed early.”

Shane slips a tool from his pocket, small, worn. A practice motion.

“Cover me.”

He crouches at the lock and gets to work. It clicks after a few moments.

Sonia narrows her eyes.

“Is that how you broke into my office, too?”

He snorts in reply. “Didn’t need tools for that one.”

The door creaks open. The air inside is heavier, older.

“Smells like old vitamins and shame,” Shane mutters, stepping in.

Sonia follows, arrow nocked but not drawn. Her eyes scan the room: walls lined with metal cabinets, faded anatomy posters, drawers labeled in peeling tape. A narrow cot sits under the window. The blinds are warped but intact.

Then she spots the fridge.

Low hum: absent. She crosses the room in two steps and pops the latch.

“Got something,” she says.

She opens it.

Sniffs.

The sharp, metallic sourness of overheated meds hits instantly.

“Cooked,” she mutters. “Compressor’s dead.”

Shane hovers behind her. “Still worth taking?”

She grabs the vials anyway. They’re warm to the touch, probably ruined. Still, she tucks them carefully into her side pouch.

“In case we want to disappoint her with style.”

Shane doesn’t argue. Just lets out a soft breath.

“Shit. Now what?”

No one answers.

The vials clink faintly as Sonia straightens.

The nurse’s office is picked clean.

Old gauze, a cracked thermometer, a few loose pills. Nothing useful. Sonia turns one last drawer, finds a dried-out pen and a broken thermometer sleeve.

Empty.

She exhales through her nose, then pushes the drawer shut.

“Let’s check out the kitchen,” she says, already stepping back into the hallway. “Might still have something.”

Shane follows. “Good. Told everyone we’re rationing. They looked at me like I shot a puppy.”

Sonia doesn’t look back. “Did you use that voice you use?”

Shane frowns. “What voice?”

Anthony, closing the door behind him, answers, “The angry dad voice.”

Sonia nods. “The ‘principal who hates children’ voice.”

Shane mutters, “Ungrateful sons of bitches…”

They start walking. Just three shadows moving through dust.

The hallway branches with offices to the left, rec room to the right, and beyond that, the kitchen.

Shane steps ahead of Sonia, pushes the rec room door open.

A walker lunges from the dark.

Shane reacts fast. One shot, tight grouping.

The body collapses in the doorway, twitching once before going still.

“Shit,” Anthony mutters.

Nobody says more.

They step around the corpse and keep moving.

The kitchen isn’t locked.

The door hangs slightly ajar, warm air wafting out, thick with the smell of old starch and canned broth. Sonia pushes it open without a word. All three of them step through together.

Four people inside jolt upright at once.

Two men. One woman. A teenage girl on the floor, slumped against a wall near the pantry shelves. Her ankle’s wrapped in layers of gauze, already seeping red through the bandages. Her eyes are glassy. Skin pale and gleaming with sweat. She doesn't react to their entrance.

The man closest to her steps forward fast, putting himself between them.

“Who the hell are you?”

Shane doesn’t flinch. “We’re just passing through. Looking for supplies.”

“You show up in a Humvee,” the man scoffs, “and say you’re just passing through?”

The woman, tense but visibly afraid, narrows her eyes. “Wait, are you military?”

“Not anymore,” Shane says.

The second man, younger and wiry, nods toward the hallway. “But that vehicle… did you take it from them? Are they nearby?”

Shane shakes his head. “No one’s coming. If someone told you to wait here, they lied. Or they’re dead.”

“Bullshit,” the first man says.

Sonia speaks up before Shane can. Her voice is calm. Cool. “We didn’t know this place was occupied. We’ll be out of your hair in ten minutes.”

The woman shakes her head. “We’ve been here since it started. Since the broadcast told people to shelter in place.”

“Three weeks,” the wiry man mutters. “Maybe more. We lost track.”

Sonia doesn’t respond. Just watches the girl near the pantry.

Twenty days, she thinks.

She’s still counting.

Anthony shifts a step forward, posture loose but alert. “You haven’t gone out?”

The man bristling closest—square-jawed, maybe mid-thirties—lifts his chin. “We kept it sealed. No reason to risk it. Help was supposed to come.”

Shane shakes his head. “Help’s not coming. Radio’s dead. No power grid. No planes.”

The woman crouched by the girl stares up at them. “Then how are you alive?”

Shane’s tone stays even. “We adapted.”

The man folds his arms. “Who even are you people?”

“Shane,” he says, motioning between them. “That’s Sonia. He’s Anthony.”

A pause. Then the man nods stiffly. “Craig.” He gestures behind him. “That’s Anne. Tom. And the girl. Jules.”

Shane’s eyes move to the small form on the ground. “She got bit? By one of the walkers?”

Anne doesn’t answer at first. Then, quietly, “Yeah. Yesterday. It’s infected, but we gave her antibiotics.”

Craig steps in again, voice firmer. “We took care of it. Cleaned it out, wrapped it up tight. She’ll be fine.”

Sonia tilts her head. “How long ago?”

Anne answers. “Last night. It’s just a fever. She’s fighting it off.”

Sonia’s voice is calm. “Mind if I take a look?”

Craig instantly stiffens. “No. You stay right there.”

Shane cuts in, firm. “Relax. She’s trained for this. She’s just checking the wound.”

Anne looks between them, nervous but cracking at the edges. “Is it… is it worse than we thought?”

Sonia doesn’t move closer. Just glances once toward Jules. The girl’s skin is damp, pale. Her breathing shallow, her ankle wrapped in gauze so tight it’s starting to yellow.

She leans in just slightly, quiet to Shane. “Twelve, maybe fourteen hours. She’s already worse than she should be.”

Craig’s voice cuts in, sharp. “What are you whispering about?”

Shane doesn’t blink. “You said antibiotics?”

Craig nods stiffly. “Yes. We had a kit in the office.”

Sonia’s expression flattens, voice steady as stone. “Antibiotics don’t work on this.”

Anne flinches. “What do you mean?”

Sonia doesn’t soften it. “I mean it’s not just an infection. A bite from one of them… it’s a death sentence.”

Craig’s jaw tightens. “No. That’s not true. People survive bites.”

Shane speaks flatly. “Not from them. Never seen one make it longer than a day.”

Anthony adds, “She’ll get worse. Not better.”

Anne shakes her head, voice rising in panic. “We cleaned it. We gave her meds. She’s young, she’s strong—”

“That doesn’t matter,” Sonia cuts in. Her voice is steady, no malice. Just fact. “Once you’re bit, it starts something else. You don’t just die, you turn into one of them.”

Craig’s face twists. “You’re lying. You’re trying to scare us.”

Shane’s voice doesn’t waver. “Believe what you want. We’ve buried people for this exact reason.”

Anne’s words are barely a whisper. “That’s not what they said on the news…”

Sonia glances at her, eyes hard. “News stopped being right three weeks ago.”

Craig’s hands curl into fists. “You don’t know her. You don’t know how strong she is.”

Sonia doesn’t answer. But the look in her eyes says everything: strength doesn’t matter.

“We cleared the rec room on the way in,” Shane says, tone even. “One walker. Locked inside.”

Craig goes still. His expression twists. It's not confusion anymore. Recognition. “What… what do you mean, cleared?”

“Shot it,” Shane says. “Why?”

Craig’s breath catches. His voice rises, tight and shaken. “That was Zach.”

Sonia blinks. “Who?”

Anne’s voice is quieter. “Jules’ boyfriend.”

Craig’s hands clench at his sides. “Generator died yesterday morning. Zach went out to siphon gas from a car, thought we could restart it.”

Anthony frowns. “He got bit out there?”

Craig nods once, stiff. “He said it was barely anything. Just a scratch. But then he got sick. Feverish.”

Anne adds, “He went to lie down in one of the classrooms. Said he just needed rest.”

Sonia watches Craig’s face carefully. “Did he say anything after that?”

Craig swallows. “He stopped responding. Could barely breathe. Jules went in to check on him, thought he just needed help…”

Shane’s voice cuts in, quiet but sharp. “And that’s when he bit her?”

No one answers. But no one denies it either.

“He wasn’t like those things outside,” Craig snaps. “He was delirious. He didn’t know what he was doing.”

Sonia doesn’t raise her voice. Doesn’t move. “It wasn’t delirium,” she says. “It was the turn. He died in that classroom, and he came back.”

Anne shakes her head, voice trembling. “No, he—he was breathing. He had a pulse.”

“Maybe at first,” Shane says. “But at some point, he died. When he woke up again, that wasn’t Zach anymore.”

“You didn’t know him,” Craig growls, stepping forward. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

Sonia meets his eyes. “I’m sorry. But we’ve seen this before. It’s always the same.”

“You murdered him,” Craig spits.

Shane’s voice drops, steady and quiet. “He was beyond help. Whether you accept it or not.”

Sonia shifts slightly forward. Calm. Controlled. “Let me look at her leg.”

Craig’s hand tightens on his rifle. “Don’t you touch her!”

“No one’s pulling a weapon,” Shane says, warning thick in his voice.

“I don’t want to hurt her,” Sonia says, still advancing. “I’m trying to keep her from hurting you.”

“Back the hell off!” Craig barks.

Anthony’s hand lifts in caution. “Lower it. You don’t want this.”

“You fire that thing, and it’s over,” Shane adds.

Craig’s eyes burn. “You think you can just walk in here, kill our people, tell us what’s real—”

Sonia doesn’t flinch. Her voice is low, level. “Let me see her. I’m not going to kill her. I just need to know how far it’s spread.”

Sonia takes one more step.

“Craig—don’t—” Shane warns, voice sharp.

The gunshot cracks the air. The bullet misses Sonia by inches, glass explodes behind her as the window shatters.

Shane fires back without hesitation. “Gun down!”

Craig screams as he’s hit, his weapon clatters to the floor, arm jerking from the impact. Shoulder, maybe wrist. Doesn’t matter. He drops.

Then the groans start.

Low. Hungry.

Followed by banging. Shuffling. The distant drag of feet that’s no longer distant enough.

“Fuck,” Anthony breathes. “We’ve got incoming!”

Shane spins toward the hallway. “Everyone out! Move!”

Tom grabs Jules by the arms, frantic. “We can carry her… Anne, help me!”

“No, don’t touch her!” Sonia shouts.

Too late.

One of the walkers gets through the broken entry, its teeth clamp onto Tom’s forearm, deep. He howls, knees buckling.

“Tom!” Anne shrieks.

More walkers surge behind the first. Tom goes down. Jules screams. Craig lurches toward her.

“No!” he bellows, scrambling forward. His hands reach her, pulling. Walkers crash into them both, snarling.

It’s over in seconds.

“We’re leaving!” Shane barks.

Sonia grabs Anne by the arm, yanking her back toward the hallway. “He’s gone! Run!”

But Craig’s still shouting, still reaching. “You don’t get to decide!”

The walkers take him. Too fast. Too many. His voice disappears under the wet sound of tearing.

“Sonia, now!” Shane’s voice cuts through the chaos.

Sonia’s hand clamps tighter around Anne’s wrist. Blood’s running down the woman’s leg. It's shallow, not a bite. She’s still on her feet.

“Come on,” Sonia growls. “We’re not doing this here.”

But Anne wrenches away with desperation.

“Let me GO!”

“Don’t—” Sonia starts.

Anne breaks toward the side hall, staggering as she limps.

“TOM?! TOM!”

The sound draws the undead. Growls rise. Feet shuffle, hands scrape walls, heads jerk toward the noise like animals scenting blood.

Sonia freezes. Just a second. Watches Anne vanish into shadow, screams echoing off tile.

Then she spins.

“Fuck,” she mutters. “Let’s go.”

They run.

Out through the kitchen door, past the rec room corpse still lying on the floor. Sonia leads, bow slung, one hand braced on the wall for balance as they round corners. Shane’s behind her, firing once, twice, to clear the hallway.

Walkers spill in from the stairwell. Anthony slams the exit open with his shoulder.

“Move!” he yells.

They tear down the concrete steps two at a time, boots slamming. Light bursts through the main doors as Sonia shoves them open with her whole body.

Outside, it's bright, hot, exposed. The sun’s past noon and it’s baking everything.

The Humvee sits across the lot like salvation. Twenty yards.

Behind them: the moan of the walkers building. Close.

Sonia doesn't speak. Just runs.

They reach the vehicle in seconds that feel like forever.

The Humvee doors slam shut in a staggered chorus. Sonia in first, passenger side, her bow clattering against the metal as she exhales through her teeth. Shane climbs in next, limping hard on one side, blood already soaking the cuff of his jeans. Anthony throws himself into the back seat just as the engine roars to life.

Gravel sprays behind them as the wheels jerk into motion. Fast. Too fast for comfort, but not fast enough to feel safe.

Shane grits out, “You okay?”

Sonia doesn’t look at him. Just nods once, sharp. Her breath’s still shallow from the sprint, muscles pulled too tight, every part of her still tuned to danger. “Yeah.”

From the back, Anthony exhales like he’s been holding it the whole time.

“Shit…” He shifts, sucking air through his teeth. “I was hit.”

Sonia twists in her seat instantly. “Where?”

“Side,” Anthony grunts. “Might’ve clipped me when we were dragging Anne. Didn’t feel it ‘til now.”

“Bad?”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” he mutters, pressing his palm to his ribs. “Just bleeding like hell.”

Sonia’s already scanning him, watching for pallor, tremor, the sharp edge of fever that starts too soon. Nothing obvious yet. “We’ll head back. Can you hold up?”

Anthony grins, tight. “Yeah. Not my first scrape.”

Shane mutters under his breath, “Better not be your last.” He doesn’t look back. Just keeps his foot pressed on the gas, eyes fixed on the empty stretch of road unspooling ahead.

No one laughs.

Not this time.

The Humvee eats up the road, tires crunching over old asphalt, the rumble steady beneath them. Air flows warm through the busted side window. For a minute, the world feels still again. Just dust, heat, and the thud of tires against the seams in the road.

Anthony leans his head back in the rear seat, hand pressed to his side, jaw tight. Blood’s soaked through part of his shirt, but he hasn’t said anything else.

Shane drives one-handed, knuckles pale on the wheel, his other arm stiff against the door.

Sonia watches the side mirror in silence, then shifts her gaze forward again. Trees blur past. No movement. Just the occasional billboard, sun-faded and peeling. Some half-torn slogan about senior living or all-day breakfast.

The quiet holds.

Then:

A cough from the engine. A stutter. The Humvee lurches once.

Shane mutters, “Don’t you dare—”

The vehicle groans and dies mid-roll, coasting for a second before coming to a full stop in the middle of the road.

Shane slams the steering wheel. “Goddammit.”

Sonia’s already reaching for the handle. “Out.”

Doors open. Heat hits them immediately. It's thick and restless, like it’s been waiting for the chance to press in.

Anthony climbs out slower this time, dragging his leg a bit as he moves around to the hood. He pops it open with a grunt and starts poking around inside.

Sonia moves to cover, eyes on the treeline. She doesn’t look at Shane when she says, “You’re limping.”

He exhales hard. “Scraped it on the desk when we dove out. I’m fine.”

Now she turns to face him.

“You’re not coming on the next run.”

A pause.

He huffs. “Didn’t realize you were giving orders now.”

“I’m not,” she says calmly. “I’m using common sense.”

Her voice stays flat. Focused.

“You’re hurt. You’re slower. I need someone who can keep up if we get swarmed.”

He squints at her, jaw ticking. Then:

“You got someone in mind?”

She needs someone who can be quiet. That means only two people in camp.

“Glenn. Maybe Daryl. If he says yes.”

Shane doesn’t argue. Just nods once.

“Fair,” he mutters.

Anthony’s voice drifts up from under the hood. “Not the alternator. Might be the fuel line.”

“Can you patch it?” Sonia asks, scanning the trees again.

“I can try,” he says, already fiddling with something out of sight.

They settle into quiet.

Sonia kneels by the Humvee’s front bumper. Shane paces a few feet off, rifle resting across his chest. The wind stirs again, brushing past dry leaves, ruffling hair and loose sleeves.

The silence stretches long enough to feel wrong.

Sonia shifts her weight and glances toward the hood, expecting another update.

But Anthony isn’t moving.

He’s standing there, one hand braced on the side of the Humvee, the other hanging limp. His shoulders are stiff, jaw clenched. His shirt, soaked darker now, sticks to his side.

Then he exhales, loud and shaky, and lets the hood slam shut.

The sound echoes too sharp in the stillness.

Sonia rises immediately. Her eyes catch the blood first. Pooling faster than it should. Darker.

She steps forward, slow and steady.

“You sure it’s not serious?” she asks, voice low.

Anthony grimaces. “Doesn’t feel serious,” he mutters. “Hurts like hell, though.”

Sonia doesn’t respond. She just reaches out, gently lifting the edge of his shirt.

And stops.

There, above the hipbone, torn flesh, unmistakable bruising, ragged at the edges. The pattern is wrong for a graze. Too wide. Too round. Deep.

Her face doesn’t change.

She drops the shirt back down, eyes meeting his.

It’s a bite.

Anthony flinches as her hand leaves him. Confused. Still holding onto hope like it’s worth something.

“What?” he asks, eyes darting. “That’s not a gunshot?”

“No,” Sonia says flatly. “It’s a bite.”

He recoils as if she struck him. “No. No, it’s not. I—I didn’t feel that.”

His voice rises fast. Panic chasing logic.

“That’s not a bite,” he insists, backing up a step, shaking his head hard. “I’d know if something got that close! I thought—” He falters, hands trembling. “Shit, I thought one of them clipped me when we were running—”

“You were too hyped to feel it,” Sonia says, calm as ever. “Adrenaline. You didn’t stop long enough to know.”

Anthony grabs at his shirt, yanking it up like seeing it again might change the outcome. “Then we go back,” he says quickly. “Patch me up. I’ll talk to Jacqui. You don’t get to decide this out here in the dirt.”

“We’ve been gone two hours,” Sonia says. “You've got another one, maybe two, before you drop. Maybe less.”

“Bullshit.”

“And when you drop,” she continues, unwavering, “you come back. I’m not taking that back to camp.”

Anthony stares at her like he doesn’t know who she is anymore.

“So what, that’s it?” he snaps. “You gonna put one in my skull like I’m already dead?”

“If I wait,” Sonia says, “I risk Shane. I risk the others.”

“I’m not dead, goddammit!” he shouts, pacing now, erratic. “We made it through that mess. I got Jules off Craig. I was fine!”

He slams his fist against the side of the Humvee with a sharp metallic clang. Shane shifts beside the driver’s side door, watching carefully but not intervening.

“You think she’ll believe you?” Anthony says, voice breaking. “You think Jacqui’s just gonna be okay hearing you made the call?”

“No,” Sonia says. “But I’ll say what matters.”

A beat.

“You fought hard. You were trying to come home.”

Anthony’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Just a ragged breath. Then another. His eyes glisten, not quite tears, but there’s something wet there anyway.

“Don’t…” he mutters, backing up a step. “Don’t fucking do this, Sonia. Not here. Not like this.”

She doesn’t move.

“Wait a little. Let me ride it out,” he pleads. “Please.”

“I can’t,” she says.

The crack of the shot splits the air. Sharp and final.

Anthony jerks back as if yanked by a string. His heels drag through the dirt. When he hits the ground, it’s not clean. It’s a collapse. Legs folding under, arms flopping out wide. The back of his head slaps the gravel with a sickening thud, and for half a second, there’s nothing. Just the echo.

Then the blood comes.

Thick and fast. It pushes out through the neat hole above his eyebrow, runs down into his hair, pools beneath his neck. His mouth is still open. Eyes too. Wide. Glassy. Fixed on something that isn't there. A tremor runs through one arm, just a twitch, but it fades quick.

The silence after is worse than the shot.

Sonia lowers the gun. Doesn’t move.

The smell hits next. Hot copper. Cordite. The faint, rising tang of bile.

Shane watches her for a long second. No words. His face is drawn tight, then he nods once. Like he gets it. Like there’s nothing else to do but keep going. He limps back to the Humvee and climbs in.

Sonia crouches beside the body. She reaches out, and closes Anthony’s eyes with two fingers. One last breath leaves him, or maybe it’s just the wind.

She wipes the blood off the barrel of her gun with the inside hem of her shirt.

Then she stands. Walks to the passenger side. Slides in. Door clicks shut behind her.

Silence.

The Humvee ticks softly in the heat.

It turns over rough. Then catches.

The tires crunch over dirt and dried grass as they pull away from Anthony’s body.

Sonia doesn’t watch it shrink in the rearview. She just stares out the window, breathing through her teeth.

Shane’s voice breaks the silence, low and flat.

“I would've missed it.”

He doesn’t mean it as judgment. Just fact.

A beat.

“Glad you didn’t.”

Sonia nods once. Doesn’t look at him.

She leans forward, checking the rifle at her feet. Then back again. Calm. Precise. Like if she moves with enough discipline, the grief won’t catch up.

Stillness stretches.

Then:

“Still need the insulin,” she says quietly.

Shane exhales, barely audible.

“I’ll go again in the morning,” she adds.

That’s it.

They drive on.

Chapter Text

The arrow doesn’t come out clean. Sonia braces one boot against the walker’s neck and yanks harder. It slips free with a wet sound, splintered at the shaft, cracked just behind the broadhead. Another one ruined.

She exhales through her nose, jaw tight. Her shoulder burns more than usual. She set the draw weight higher this morning. After yesterday, it felt necessary. Now it just feels like punishment.

The sun’s dropping fast behind the broken skyline, streaking the asphalt in long, cold shadows. This is the third stop. A clinic was cleared. A pharmacy wiped. Now this: a gutted drugstore with a peeling sign and boarded windows that didn’t hold.

She adjusts her grip on the bow and scans the lot. Two bodies slumped near the entrance, they're long dead, dried out. No movement inside. No sound. Just the dull, electric hum of something that shouldn’t still be running.

Her boots crunch over scattered glass as she heads for the door. The others follow. No words, just motion. They’re all feeling it. The silence. The weight. The hours spent chasing nothing.

She doesn’t hesitate when they reach the entrance. The door creaks open on hinges that barely hold. Inside, the drugstore is still. Too still. Not silent, not yet. The air vibrates with leftover noise: the faint buzz of electricity. The low whir of a fridge in the corner. Dust hangs like smoke, lit by slivers of dying sunlight through a crack in the boards.

Sonia moves ahead. Her boots don’t echo. Her shadow stretches long across linoleum, past upturned carts and shattered display racks. Her bow lowers just slightly as she approaches the fridge.

It’s old. Beige. The handle yellowed from time and heat. But it’s humming. Still alive. Still promising.

She opens it.

The light flickers. Inside: nothing.

Shelves picked clean. A single cracked vial leans sideways in the door tray, its label stained. On the bottom shelf, one has shattered entirely, its contents leaked and dried across a flattened pack of cotton swabs. Everything else is gone. No insulin. No coolant packs. Not even a trace of cold.

She doesn’t speak.

Her fingers stay curled around the door, knuckles white, unmoving. Her posture doesn't shift. Not yet.

Then her breath catches.

A soft, sudden hitch in her chest. Like a fracture starting.

She closes her eyes. Just for a second.

And then her grip tightens.

With one violent shove, she throws the fridge door wide open. It slams into the wall with a metallic crash, loud enough to startle dust from the shelves. The hum doesn’t stop but something else does. The air, the stillness. The illusion that maybe, maybe this place had something left to give.

Her jaw clenches. Her shoulders lock.

“Fuck,” Sonia says, low.

Then louder, rawer.

“Fuck.”

Her boot slams into the metal cabinet beside the fridge. A drawer rattles open, then slams back shut from the force. She spins, eyes wild, and knocks over a tray table. It crashes against the floor, scattering its contents. A metal bin follows hurled across the room. It hits the far wall with a loud, hollow clang.

“He died for nothing!” she shouts.

The words rip from her throat like something that’s been tearing its way out all day.

Her palm slams down on the edge of the exam table hard enough to make it lurch. She kicks a rolling stool across the room. It hits the wall and keeps spinning in place, a stupid little object with too much motion and no purpose.

She breathes through her teeth, jaw clenched, shaking her head like she’s trying to dislodge something. But it won’t go. It sticks.

“We don’t even get to try,” she growls. “Not even a shot. Just fridge after fridge, full of nothing.”

“Sophie hasn’t said a single word to me in fucking weeks.”

She slams the door shut, hard enough to rattle the shelves.

“I get back, she looks through me. Like I’m the goddamn mailman.”

She rips open a drawer and tears it out completely, throwing it down at her feet. It lands crooked, cracking open like a broken promise.

“I said we’d keep trying. Like it meant something.” Her voice breaks. Doesn’t rise, but fractures. “Like it fucking mattered.”

Glenn doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. Daryl either. They just watch. Frozen, silent.

Sonia’s hands grip the counter. For a moment, it looks like she might rip it out of the wall. Her knuckles go pale. Her jaw flexes.

Then, quieter:

“She cried.” Her voice wobbles on the edge of something unspoken. “Jacqui.”

She looks up. Not at anyone. Not really. Her eyes are hollow, glassy. Her mouth pulls into something that isn’t a smile but looks like it tried to be one.

“She sobbed while I stood there like it was some kind of… fucking debrief. No hugs. No comfort. Just: Anthony’s gone. Next task.”

A hard exhale. Her stare drops to the floor then to the broken drawer.

“And my fucking daughter just watched me. Like she was expecting that. Like she was just waiting for me to come home with blood on my hands. Again.”

And then, without warning, she sweeps her entire arm across the counter knocking everything off in one motion. Bottles, wrappers, a cracked blood pressure cuff; all of it clatters down in a chaotic crash.

She doesn’t flinch.

She just breathes. Ragged. Quiet.

Lets the silence settle again.

Behind her, Daryl’s voice finally breaks it. Gruff. Barely above a whisper.

“Feel better?”

“No,” Sonia says, voice tight.

A beat.

“I’m heading into the city. You two head back.”

Glenn blinks. “No way. We’re not splitting up.”

“This isn’t a discussion.”

“Sonia—”

“You think I want you there?” she snaps, turning on him. “I don’t. You’re fast. That’s it. Anthony was a goddamn cop, he did everything right, and he still ended up in the dirt.”

Her voice is sharp, but there’s something unsteady under it now. Something cracked open.

“I don’t need someone getting in my way. I need you to haul ass back to Grace with whatever we find, not be another fucking body I have to drag out of a CVS ’cause you tripped over a shelf like a clueless golden retriever.”

“Jesus,” Glenn mutters.

“You don’t get it,” she says, biting the words off. “You’ve never gotten it. This isn’t a scavenger run. This is blood and bone if it goes wrong. You think I want to be the one to tell the whole fucking camp I got you killed too?”

Silence.

Glenn just looks at her. Jaw locked. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t need to.

Sonia’s chest rises and falls, too fast. Like she surprised even herself.

Then,

“Touchin’ speech,” Daryl mutters behind her. “Now shut the hell up and let’s go.”

She whips around, eyes like flint. “Of course. Because God forbid you do what you’re told for five goddamn minutes.”

“I ain’t takin’ orders from some ice queen who thinks screamin’ at shelves counts as grief.”

“Jesus, you can't shut up for five minutes, can you?” she growls.

“Maybe if you stopped barking orders, I wouldn't have to!” he shoots back, low. 

“Right, because thinking hurts your brain.”

“Guys—” Glenn tries.

“You wanna come?” Sonia snaps at Daryl. “Fine. I’ll put you down myself the second you slow me down. You think I won’t?”

Daryl shrugs. “Don’t matter. I ain’t lettin’ you walk in there alone.”

“I don’t need a fucking bodyguard.”

“Ain’t what I am.”

They stare each other down. No one flinches.

Glenn’s voice cuts through, quieter now. “We’re going. Both of us. You don’t have to like it.”

Sonia doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

“...I don’t.”

“Didn’t think you did,” Daryl mutters.

“One site,” she says coldly. “You fall behind, I leave you. You get bit, I don’t blink.”

“Same,” Daryl says.

Glenn mutters, “Cool. Love the trust.”

Sonia doesn’t look at him. She turns back to the door.

“Then let’s move.”

They leave without another word. Sonia pushes through first, boots crunching over glass and gravel. Glenn follows, eyes flicking warily to Daryl, who’s already pulling the back gate open.

No one offers to help. No one needs to.

The drugstore disappears behind them in silence.

Sonia climbs behind the wheel.

Glenn slams the back shut.

Daryl gets in last.

The Humvee growls down the torn-up road like it knows it's not welcome.

Inside: silence. Thick, miserable silence.

Sonia white-knuckles the steering wheel, eyes locked ahead like the asphalt personally offended her. Her shoulders are still tight, breathing shallow like she’s holding the rest of the fight in her throat.

Daryl sits shotgun, arms crossed, jaw set. His boot thuds against the door with every rut in the road, and he doesn’t look at her. Not once. He just watches the treeline blur past with a stare sharp enough to cut glass.

In the backseat, Glenn looks like he wants to sink into the seat cushions and vanish. He picks at a hangnail, mutters something under his breath, then shakes his head like he’s telling himself to shut up. His leg’s bouncing. He’s the only one who might break the silence. If he had a death wish.

The engine’s too loud. The inside of the Humvee rattles with every pothole, every bit of gravel. Nobody dares to turn on the radio. Not that it would matter.

This isn’t tension anymore. It’s fallout. And everyone in the car is waiting to see which one of them is going to ignite it again.

But no one does.

Not yet.

The skyline cuts jagged across the windshield, glass and concrete against the dimming sky. Sonia eases the Humvee to a crawl, eyes narrowed as she scans the narrow street ahead. The buildings lean too close, like they’re hiding something just out of view.

Glenn leans toward the window, frowning.

“…Is it just me, or—”

He trails off.

Sonia slows the Humvee even more.

Every car along the curb is stripped. License plates missing, cleanly removed, like someone took their time. A few bolts still cling to bumpers. On some, the rectangle of cleaner paint or dust-shadow shows exactly where the plate used to be. One still has a screwdriver jammed into the rusted frame.

Glenn shifts uncomfortably. “That’s not… normal, right?”

Sonia doesn’t answer.

Daryl doesn’t look away from the windshield. His jaw tightens.

“If I drive this thing one block closer,” she mutters, flat, “every walker in Atlanta’s gonna show up with a knife and fork.”

She throws it into park. Kills the engine. The silence that follows is immediate, too clean. It sets her teeth on edge.

“Didn’t realize we were takin’ the stealth model,” Daryl says from the passenger seat, deadpan.

“Should’ve duct-taped a bullhorn to the hood,” Glenn adds from the back. “Really commit.”

Sonia grabs her bow and pops the door open. “You two done?” She slams it shut behind her without waiting for an answer. Gravel crunches under her boots.

“We walk.”

Glenn unfolds a crumpled map across the Humvee’s hood. His finger traces the lines, lips moving silently before he speaks. “Alright. This is the edge of Easton Ave. The CVS should be three blocks down, past the Santander building.”

He double-checks the angle. Sonia stands a few feet away, watching the street, bow loose in one hand, the other resting near her knife sheath.

Her eyes flick to a parked sedan across the street.

No license plate.

None on the car behind it, either.

Or the next one down.

She doesn’t say anything. Just shifts her stance like something’s off, but she can’t name it yet.

There’s a rustle, barely audible, from the wreckage of a collapsed bus stop. A walker shuffles into view, dragging one foot behind it like dead weight.

Sonia doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shift her stance.

She draws. Releases.

The arrow punches clean through its eye socket.

It collapses. She’s already moving.

She retrieves the arrow, wipes it against her thigh, and slots it back into her quiver.

Daryl eyes her bow as they move into formation. “What’s it set at?”

“Around a hundred,” Sonia replies, not looking at him.

Daryl stares at her. “What the hell, you tryin’ to break yourself?”

She pauses, fingers tightening the release at her wrist. “Don’t start.”

“You’re not the muscle today,” Daryl says. “That’s me.”

Sonia doesn’t answer right away. Just ties the strap tighter. But her jaw’s locked.

“If we hit walkers in there,” Daryl goes on, voice steady, “I hold the line. Chinaman runs. You shoot.”

A pause.

Glancing blow but it hits.

Glenn’s jaw ticks. He doesn’t say anything, just shifts his weight, eyes flicking past Daryl like he’s not worth the time.

Sonia’s gaze hardens. Not a flinch, not a word. Just a sharp breath through her nose. Controlled, quiet, lethal.

Daryl doesn’t even notice.

He steps in front of her, tone unshaking. “That bow slows you down, it screws us all.”

“So I’m a liability now?” Her voice is low, dangerous.

“No.” He meets her eyes. “You’re the one I’m countin’ on to move fast and hit clean. Not drag your damn shoulder out tryin’ to punch through bone like it’s a dick-measuring contest.”

Behind them, Glenn raises his eyebrows. Smartly says nothing.

“Lower poundage means less penetration,” Sonia mutters.

“Only if you miss.”

There’s a beat. Her shoulders rise on a silent breath. And then she gives in. No more argument. Just movement.

“Fine,” she says.

“Good.”

She crouches, pulls the Allen key from her pocket. Fits it to the limb bolt without thinking. Half turn, then another. The poundage dips.

One test draw.

Clean. The weight catches differently now; faster pull, sharper return. Still tight, but no grind in the shoulder. Less brute force, more control.

Not ideal. But efficient. Professional.

She rewraps her release strap tighter around her wrist.

Fast and clean. That’s the job.

Glenn glances up from the map he’s been quietly studying. “There’s a side alley we can cut through,” he says. “Should be quieter. Fewer choke points.”

Sonia nods. “Then let’s move.”

The city closes in around them with tight alleys, broken glass, the hum of threat just out of frame.

They move quick and silent. Glenn takes point, slipping ahead with practiced speed. Sonia keeps pace a step behind, her grip steady on the bow. Daryl watches their six, boots deliberate, gaze flicking back over every blind spot.

No one speaks. The formation’s instinct by now.

“Left here,” Glenn murmurs, barely loud enough to carry. “Should dump us behind the CVS.”

He ducks through a bent section of fence. Sonia follows in one smooth motion. Daryl’s boots scrape the edge of a rusted panel as he steps through last.

A walker drags itself from under a half-crushed dumpster.

Sonia drops it mid-step. One shot, one clean hit. The arrow’s back in her quiver before the corpse even settles.

“Stick to the tire tracks,” Glenn says over his shoulder. “Don’t crunch.”

Another walker stumbles into view around the corner.

Daryl bolts it through the skull without a word. Doesn’t break stride.

No one looks back.

They pass shattered windows, a vending machine stripped to its bones, and a scorched streetlamp tilting sideways. The silence presses close and thick and stale like old smoke.

“Fire stairs are gone,” Glenn says. “We cut left, laundromat, then past the billboard. Alley behind the pawn shop drops us on the CVS loading dock.”

Sonia nods. “Got it.”

No one questions it. No one slows down.

Inside the laundromat, the air hangs damp from wet insulation and the metallic tang of rust. The machines sit like hollowed-out ribs, picked clean.

Daryl takes the front window, eyes narrowing at the street beyond. Glenn’s already moving, crossing fast toward the back door.

Sonia follows. No hesitation. She’s letting him lead now.

They reach the alley behind the CVS. Brick walls on either side, a narrow path choked with shadows and broken trash bins.

Glenn checks the door. Sonia scans the roofline, jaw tight. Daryl listens, really listens.

“Good call,” she says, voice low.

Glenn doesn’t look up. “Let’s not celebrate yet.”

“Then quit talkin’ and move,” Daryl mutters.

They slip inside.

Glenn’s flashlight slices through the dark, its beam sharp and narrow. Sonia’s stays off for now, no use drawing attention. Daryl’s is angled low, barely enough to catch the floor in front of his boots.

“I’ll check if the back door’s clear,” Glenn murmurs.

He slips ahead, the beam sweeping across dust-cloaked shelves and toppled displays. Long shadows stretch along the tile, shifting with each step. Something flickers across the light but it’s just dust. He exhales. Nods.

“We’re in,” he says quietly.

Outside, beyond the alley wall, something stirs.

A low groan.

Soft. Distant.

A walker shifts in the dark, one that had been slumped against a cracked dumpster. It turns, slow and uneven, toward the spill of light. Another behind it stirs, then follows.

One. Then two.

Drawn like moths.

“Flashlights off unless you need ’em,” Daryl says, his voice just above a whisper.

“They’ll come if they see it,” Sonia adds.

“Too late,” Glenn mutters. “Let’s just make it quick.”

The CVS is half-emptied, abandoned but not looted. Shelves gaped open, like mouths caught mid-word. Dust webs the corners. The floor’s littered with spilled cotton balls, cracked packaging, old receipts yellowed to the color of teeth. Sonia crouches near the front windows, palm braced to the counter as she tests the frame. Still reinforced. Still locked. The metal bar doesn’t budge.

Daryl’s two windows over, checking the next lock. He doesn't speak, just gives it a quiet shake.

She nods once. “Reinforced.”

“Won’t hold forever,” Daryl mutters without looking.

Long enough, though. And that’s all they need.

Footsteps crunch faintly over loose packaging behind them. Glenn’s back, basket tucked against his side, flashlight clipped to his collar. He moves like someone who’s done this a hundred times: quick, quiet, efficient. No wasted energy. He stops beside her, starts transferring what he’s found into her pack.

“Kimchi. Gochujang,” he says, placing each item without fanfare. “Aisle was untouched. Guess no one knew what they were.”

Daryl reaches into the basket, grabs a jar, sniffs it.

His nose wrinkles. “Smells like somethin’ crawled outta a commie’s basement fridge.”

The words hang. Glenn freezes halfway into a reach for another bottle.

Sonia doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. She just turns her head slowly and looks at Daryl.

He grabs a box of Frosted Flakes off the shelf beside him, holding it like a shield. “—hell, never mind.”

He scratches his arm, pretending the nutrition label is the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

Nobody speaks. The silence goes on just a beat too long.

Then Glenn clears his throat and gets back to it, dropping the next item into the basket without comment.

They move on. But the beat stays.

Just like the smell.

Just like the mood.

Down the aisle, Daryl’s gone full raccoon, elbow-deep in a metal bin like he's playing the world’s most suspicious game of supermarket sweep. He mutters to himself as he sifts through cans, shaking one next to his ear like he’s waiting to hear a secret.

Sonia goes to the pharmacy shelves, crouched beside Glenn. She sorts gauze into rows—sterile, unwrapped, expired—and pockets a few antiseptic bottles that haven’t gone cloudy. Glenn scans expiration dates faster than she can blink, his efficiency surgical. They don’t talk much.

Behind them, a metallic clatter.

Daryl holds up a tin with Cyrillic stamped across it. “This shit’s gotta be Russian.”

Sonia glances over. “Sardines. Product of Latvia.”

He squints, clearly unconvinced. “Same damn thing.”

A beat. Then: “Bet it’s laced with poison or some leftover KGB shit.”

She doesn’t answer at first. Just keeps cataloging until she finishes organizing the painkillers. Then she deadpans, “You think the KGB’s still active?”

Daryl shrugs. “Hell if I know. Cold War don’t end just ’cause we said so.”

She turns her head slightly, smirking now. “What, you think there’s a Soviet sleeper agent hiding in the Tampax aisle?”

His voice stiffens a little. “Wouldn’t be the craziest thing this week.”

“Jesus Christ,” she mutters, more to the air than to him.

But he’s not done. “Look, I’m just sayin’, can’t trust them types. All smug and cold. Creepy. Like vampires with nukes.”

Sonia freezes mid-reach for a roll of gauze. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

Then, very quietly—almost like she’s trying not to hum but can’t stop herself—she murmurs, “Smug and cold.”

A beat.

“I’ll be sure to pass that along to my mother’s ghost.”

Glenn winces. Doesn’t look up. Just pretends to be deeply fascinated by a pack of thermometer covers.

Daryl, still elbow-deep in a basket of rice packets, doesn’t seem to register what just hit him. “Huh?”

Sonia straightens, glances down the aisle, and smiles.

“Nothing. Keep digging, Dixon,” she says, voice sharp as flint. “I wanna see how deep this shovel gets.”

Glenn leans in a little as he slides a box of surgical tape into her pack.

“You just gonna let him talk like that?” he murmurs, voice low enough to keep it between them.

Sonia doesn’t look at him. Her eyes are still on the shelf, scanning labels. “Behavior doesn’t change through humiliation,” she says quietly. “It changes through modeling. Consistency. Proximity to something better.”

“You’re not exactly gentle with him.”

“He doesn’t respond to gentle.” She closes the pack, hands steady. “He’s been conditioned to distrust kindness. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve it. Just means you have to pace it.”

She pauses, adjusts the strap on her bag, then adds, “Like retraining a dog that’s only ever known beatings.”

Glenn glances at her sidelong. “You think that’s your job?”

“I think,” she says, finally looking at Daryl, still half-crouched at the end of the aisle, still rummaging through bins like a gremlin in a hunting vest, “if someone had done it for Merle, we wouldn’t be doing it now.”

He hasn’t noticed them watching. Hasn’t noticed anything. Probably thinks he’s blending in with the floor tiles.

Sonia exhales slowly. “He’s not malicious. He’s reactive. Defensive. No regulation, no social modeling. Probably trauma-bonded to an older brother who used race and class as weapons.”

Glenn lifts a brow. “That kind of damage doesn’t just go away.”

“No,” she says. “But it doesn’t deepen if you don’t feed it.”

A beat. Then:

“You don’t kill that with lectures, Glenn. You kill it by staying close. By refusing to give it oxygen.”

“And if he never changes?” he asks.

She watches Daryl hold up a packet of something and squint at the label like it’s written in runes.

“Then he’ll be exactly what people always said he was,” she says.

“But when I asked him to come to a suicide mission, he said yes.”

The boards at the front groan again.

Sonia doesn’t look. Doesn’t need to. The sound’s already buried in her nerves. Same pitch, same weight. Flesh pressing glass. Rot clawing wood. Just like five minutes ago. Just like ten.

She hears the breathy moan through the seam in the frame. Then another.

Behind her, Glenn’s still checking expiration dates. Daryl’s moving aisle to aisle with his usual scavenge-squint.

Like if they pretend hard enough, the crowd outside will stay exactly where it is.

The window creaks again. A low thud follows deeper this time. More weight behind it.

Sonia tightens the strap on her med pack. Feels her shoulder throb from the earlier draw tension. Hears the scrape of Daryl’s boots pass behind her. No one says it.

The alley’s already full. The front’s getting worse.

The walkers aren’t coming.

They’re waiting.

And that’s somehow worse.

Chapter Text

The moans started like background noise.

Now they press in. Not just sound anymore, but weight. Breathless, rotting pressure. A tide of dead flesh pressing against the glass, testing every seam with blackened hands and peeling fingers.

Sonia watches through the cracked blinds. The light outside is dim, moonless. But the walkers are clear enough. White eyes catch what little glow there is. Their skin looks wet, sloughing off in strips, black mold threading through exposed muscle like roots. Some are smeared with old blood. Others leak new.

They seem more active at night.

Restless. Hungry. Smarter, maybe. Not in the way people are, but in the way rats get smarter when they’re cornered.

One of them smashes its head against the glass. Again. Again. The thump isn’t loud, but it’s constant.

A low crack follows. The top corner of the pane shifts. Just a tremble. But she sees it.

Another walker stumbles past, a woman, or what’s left of one. No jaw, just a slick grin of gristle and teeth. Her hands are bloodless stumps. She still pushes with them. Still shoves her weight forward, shoulder-first into the rest.

The glass groans louder.

Sonia doesn’t flinch.

She just tilts her head, studying them like a puzzle she’s already halfway through solving.

“They’re testing us,” she mutters.

Not to anyone. Just to herself.

Or maybe to the thing she used to be, before she learned to read this kind of horror like weather.

She adjusts the string on her bow. Slowly. Silently.

The window gives another tremble.

The bag at Glenn’s feet is already packed. Two vials of insulin inside: cool to the touch when he pulled them from the fridge behind the counter. The generator had just died, or not long before. A lucky break.

Unrefrigerated insulin lasts about twenty-eight days. These might still be good for two more weeks.

Might.

It’s better than nothing. Better than watching someone die shaking.

Glenn zips the supply bag without looking up. “They’re not thinning out.”

He glances toward the front window. The boards bow just slightly. A shape presses into them, then slips away.

Sonia’s voice is quiet, steady. “How many?”

“More than when we got here,” Glenn replies. “They’re coming in from the side streets now, too.”

Near the back door, Daryl taps a metal push-bar with the toe of his boot. It groans low and hollow.

“This one’s rattling.”

“So we don’t go back the way we came,” Sonia says. She’s not asking.

Glenn shakes his head. “No. That whole block’s closing up. There’s a crawl fence, maybe six feet tall, but they’re pouring past it now.”

“North’s out too,” Daryl mutters. “They’re circling.”

Silence stretches.

Sonia presses a flat palm to her thigh. It’s not conscious, just grounding. One breath. Then another.

“There’s a plaza two blocks south,” Sonia says, voice measured. “Staff stairs behind the courthouse. Could put us on a rooftop line.”

Glenn shakes his head immediately. “Closed. Was fenced off even before all this. I remember, they bricked part of it.”

Sonia’s jaw ticks. She doesn’t argue. Just glances to Daryl, then back to Glenn.

“Options?”

Glenn gestures vaguely southwest. “There’s an alley behind Peachtree Cleaners. It’s narrow, but it used to connect straight through to Milton Avenue.”

Daryl shifts near the back. “Narrow how?”

“Like…” Glenn hesitates. “Side-step narrow.”

Sonia presses her lips together. That probably rules her and Daryl out. Glenn knows it too. But he keeps going.

“I can try it,” he says, quieter now, more careful. “If it’s open, I’ll circle back around. Loop west, then north. Maybe draw a few off.”

Sonia doesn’t take her eyes off the wall. “Too risky. If it’s blocked—”

“Every path is a maybe now,” Glenn says gently.

That lands harder than it should. Sonia’s grip tightens on her bowstring.

“Sounds like a trap to me,” Daryl mutters.

“It’s not a trap,” Glenn says. “It’s just the only thing I remember that might still work.”

“We don’t know what’s changed,” Sonia points out.

“Neither do they,” Glenn replies, with a small shrug. “That’s what gives us the edge.”

Silence stretches between them. The building creaks. The dead breathes against the other side of the wall.

Sonia finally speaks, voice low. “We move fast. Stay tight. No hero runs.”

Glenn nods. “I’ll go first. You two follow. If the alley’s too tight…”

“We’ll figure it out.”

She turns to Glenn then. Really looks. Not the way she did back at camp; quick, impersonal, always scanning for weakness. This is different. He's not just the guy who volunteered too fast on her first run. Not just another body tagging along. He’s green, yeah. But he’s observant. Quick on his feet. And beneath all that nervous energy, there's something sharper. A kind of quiet calculation.

She sees it now.

The instincts are there. They just haven’t hardened yet.

She nods once.

“Let’s move.”

They move like shadows, Glenn in the lead, Sonia close behind, Daryl silent at their six.

The streets are narrow now, swallowed in dusk. Power’s long dead, and the only light comes in fragments. Moonlight glancing off broken windows, a faint copper haze from distant fires. Everything’s in silhouette. Burnt signs, split pavement, the warped frames of cars half-melted into the sidewalk.

They pass a loading dock that has half-collapsed under its own weight. The service door beside it barely clings to its hinge, hanging open just enough to leave a mouth-shaped shadow in the wall.

Sonia steps past it without thinking.

Then the shadow moves.

It’s fast. Too fast for dead limbs. A walker lunges from the dark like it’s been waiting, bursting out of the utility door with a scrape of metal and a low, gurgling growl. It stinks of mold and blood and rot, and it’s on her before she can lift the bow.

She flinches back hard, her shoulder slamming brick, just barely out of reach.

Too close. Too loud. Too fast.

Without hesitation, Daryl shoves past her and grabs the walker by the collar and shoulder, slamming it into the alley wall with a sickening crack. Bone and brick collide. The sound echoes like a gunshot.

The walker snarls, foam bubbling at its cracked lips, nails thick with blood. One elbow jerks upward mid-lurch, catching Daryl square in the chest with a thump. It knocks the wind out of him, sends him staggering—

—right into a rusted steel bracket jutting from the brick wall like a broken rib.

The edge splits his brow open on contact.

A wet, meaty crack.

Skin tears. Flesh gives. Bone might too.

Blood sprays a hot arc across the side of the alley. It drips thick and fast, matting his hair, streaking past his eye, pooling in the corner of his vision.

His grunt is muffled, like he’s swallowing the pain by force.

Sonia’s already turning. “Daryl, shit.”

He swipes his sleeve across the wound, then presses the fabric hard against it. No drama. No pause. Just pressure.

The walker jerks forward with its mouth opening like it’s unhinged, a gurgle ripping from deep inside its throat. One leg is half-severed. It drags it, flopping grotesquely behind.

Daryl doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t blink.

He drives his boot down—

full weight, heel-first.

The skull gives with a wet crunch.

Like stepping on a melon filled with gravel.

Bone fragments crack outward. Black-red pulp spills from the crater as the eye bulges, then pops.

The growl stops mid-breath.

Daryl yanks his boot back, panting hard.

“FUCKIN’ nasty-ass, shit-smeared, limp-dick rottin’ motherFUCKER.”

He kicks the corpse hard, once, twice, like it’s still breathing.

“You goddamn sack of pus, I will come down there and kill you again if you so much as twitch.”

Blood drips down his temple, streaking past his eye. He doesn’t flinch. Just smears it away with the back of his hand, muttering under his breath.

“Stupid fuckin’ alley ambush bullshit…”

Sonia flicks her eyes to the wound, just for a second, then back to the alley ahead.

“Hope that was therapeutic,” she says, cool as frost. No concern in her voice. Just a deflection sharp enough to draw its own blood. “We done?”

Daryl doesn’t answer. She doesn’t thank him.

They just keep moving.

Glenn glances back. He’s barely more than a shape in the dark, silhouetted against the shifting gray of the alley’s mouth.

“Is he okay?”

His voice is hushed, almost swallowed by the wet moans closing in behind them.

Sonia doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even look up.

“He says he is.”

Flat. Quick. Not a heartbeat wasted.

But she knows better.

Behind her, Daryl’s footfalls drag just slightly out of sync. Too quiet. She chances a look.

It’s almost impossible to see in the dark. There’s no moon, no streetlamps, just a dying world pressed in tight. But her eyes are trained for this. Born for this.

Blood glints faintly when he turns his head, just a smear of reflected nothing. It’s leaking down his face, soaking into his collar. He’s bunched the edge of his shirt into a makeshift compress, holding it tight against his brow.

Still moving. Still on his feet.

But his steps are just wrong. Half a beat off. His shoulders are tighter, breath just a little heavier. One eye keeps shutting against the flow, the other fixed forward with stubborn silence.

She clocks the pressure he's putting on the wound. The way his hand falters slightly with each jolt of his steps.

No time. No time. No time.

She tightens her grip on the bow. Keeps moving.

The alley bends up ahead, tighter than she remembers. If it gets worse, they’re screwed.

But they don’t have options. Not anymore.

Behind them, the sound is changing. Less moan, more snarl.

They’re getting close.

Sonia keeps walking. Fast. Focused.

But she’s listening now. Not just for walkers.

For Daryl.

They reach the alley fast.

It’s barely real, two buildings squeezed so close it looks like the city forgot to leave breathing room. The opening is just wide enough to suggest hope. Shadows curl inside like smoke. Trash bags rot against the left wall. A rusted HVAC vent juts out from the right, dripping something foul. Everything smells like piss and metal.

Glenn steps up first. Eyes flicking side to side.

“This is it,” he says, low. “If the other end’s still open, it should drop us onto Milton.”

Sonia’s already moving beside him. She scans the alley like she’s scanning a crime scene. Her shoulders tense.

She slides one foot in.

Just to test.

The bow knocks against the wall immediately. She tries turning her torso. The grip catches again. She pivots sideways but even like this, her back scrapes hard brick, her quiver snags on a pipe, and the movement jams her arm between the wall and her ribs.

She exhales through her nose.

Not gonna happen.

Not with the gear. Not at speed. Not with Daryl.

Behind her, there’s a soft sound.

Not a word. Just breath, wrong breath.

She turns her head.

Daryl’s leaning against the side wall now. More slumped than standing. His head dips, eyes cracked open but glassy. Blood’s crusted thick into the lines around his ear and cheekbone, gone black in the dark. One sleeve is still pressed to the wound. The fabric is soaked.

His breathing is off. Too shallow. Too slow. Each inhale sounds like it takes effort.

“You don’t look so hot, Dixon,” Sonia says, not turning all the way.

No answer.

He just shifts slightly, one foot catching on loose gravel, like the earth itself moved beneath him.

She knows.

He knows.

Sonia steps out of the alley mouth.

Unclips the med pack from her shoulder with a single pull. Reaches behind for the Humvee keys. No hesitation.

She hands them to Glenn. 

“You take it,” she says, voice low. Steady.

Glenn blinks. Looks at the bag. Then at her. Then at Daryl, who’s still leaning too heavily against the wall, one hand sluggish with blood-soaked cloth.

“Sonia…” Glenn starts.

She presses the bag into his chest. Follows it with the Humvee keys.

“You’re faster. You’ll fit. You remember the route.” Her tone softens, but only a fraction. “You take the insulin. And you get it home.”

His fingers tighten around the keys.

She holds his gaze now fully.

“If you beat us there, warm up the engine. Don’t wait too long.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then:

“What if you don’t show?”

Sonia doesn’t hesitate.

“Then you drive anyway.”

No drama. No emotion. Just clarity. The kind only soldiers or surgeons ever learn how to live with.

He watches her another beat, face caught somewhere between resistance and belief.

“I’ll see you at camp?” he asks, quiet.

“You will.”

It’s not a promise. Not really. But it’s said like one.

Then, just before he turns:

“I trust you.”

That’s it. That’s the whole thing. Sonia doesn’t reach for him. Doesn’t give more than she has to. Just those three words, spoken without ceremony.

Glenn nods once and slips into the alley without looking back.

She turns to Daryl.

He’s still upright, barely. One shoulder pressed into the wall like it’s the only thing keeping him vertical. His grip on the crossbow is limp now, his fingers twitching, slack.

She steps in.

“Hey,” she says, quiet.

Nothing.

She lifts a hand, gently tilts his chin up.

“Look at me, Dixon.”

His eyes find her. Kind of.

One pupil’s a pinprick. The other’s wide, unfocused. His brow’s caked in drying blood, but a fresh line still leaks down, glinting wet in the dark.

She exhales. Sharp. Frustrated.

“Goddamn it.”

She steps back. Palms on her hips. Just for a second.

“You really were planning to keep walking like this, huh?”

He shifts. Mumbles something. Incoherent.

Sonia doesn’t wait.

She reaches for his crossbow, slipping it off his shoulder with practiced ease. Slings her own bow to her back, and keeps his in her left hand.

“Next time you see a wall with your forehead,” she mutters, “try ducking.”

A glance over her shoulder: the street behind them is full of sound now. Groaning, dragging feet, muffled impacts. Closing in.

She steps in again, shifts Daryl’s weight with care, and hooks his arm over her shoulders. One arm tight around his back, the other steadying his crossbow against her ribs.

“Real strong, Dixon. You’re doing great.”

A grunt as she steadies them both.

“‘I’ll be the muscle,’ my fucking ass.”

Then she moves. Bow bouncing against her back, fingers clenched around his crossbow grip like it’s part of her now.

They’re out of options.

And she’s not dropping either of them.

She drags him through the alley, uneven pavement catching her boots, broken tiles shifting underfoot. One wall scrapes her arm raw each time they pass a tighter spot. Trash bags burst under their weight. The air smells like rot and mildew.

Behind them: groaning. Closer now. More of them.

The pace falters.

Daryl's heavier than he looks. Not dead weight yet, but very fucking close. His breath is shallow against her collarbone. One arm hangs useless over her shoulders, limp as rope.

She adjusts. Keeps going.

The crossbow in her left hand is slipping. She grips it tighter, fingers aching.

“You couldn’t pass out after we got home?” she mutters, jaw tight. “No. Not dramatic enough for you, huh?”

Another step. Then another. She hits a patch of slick tile, almost goes down.

She catches herself. Keeps going.

The alley twists. Opens onto a new street she doesn’t recognize. Every storefront is dark. Doors bolted. No cover.

No time to think.

“Bet this is what your brother felt like after every bender,” she mutters. “Dead weight and zero apologies.”

Daryl groans faintly. She ignores it.

“You better not be dying, Dixon.” Her voice is tighter now. Low and clipped. “I did not survive courtrooms and childbirth to get eaten because you forgot what a fucking wall was.”

A walker groans somewhere too close behind them.

She doesn’t turn.

She just keeps dragging.

They round a corner and a stairwell yawns open beside them.

A walker lunges out of the shadows. Fast. Too fast.

Sonia jerks back on instinct, nearly loses her grip on Daryl. She can’t reach her bow, it’s strapped useless across her back. Can’t drop him.

So she shifts her weight hard and yanks the crossbow forward.

She swings.

The weapon connects with a crunch as wood and steel slams into the walker’s face. Bone splits. Teeth shatter. The second hit drives it down. The third cracks the skull.

It drops in a heap at their feet.

She’s panting now, legs shaking. She almost dropped him. Almost fell.

Too close.

“You hear that?” she snarls, dragging Daryl forward again. “That’s me saving your ass with your own goddamn crossbow.”

He doesn’t respond. His head slumps slightly. She adjusts again. She’s now under his arm, chest to chest now, half-carrying him more than guiding.

Sweat pours down her spine. Her grip’s starting to fail. Her thighs burn. But she keeps moving.

“I take back every nice thing I ever almost said about you.”

They pass another blocked storefront. The street ahead is clogged, cars overturned, one on fire. No movement. No walkers. Yet.

She veers sideways, toward another alley.

“You’re the worst team project I’ve ever had,” she mutters, voice shaking. “And I went to Yale.”

Another growl rises behind them.

Too many.

They’re too slow.

She doesn’t say anything else. She just clenches her jaw, tightens her grip, and pushes forward again, dragging him through the dark with everything she’s got.

They reach a slight incline. It’s barely a slope, but it feels like a goddamn mountain now.

Sonia digs in, drags him step by step. The asphalt shifts underfoot, broken and uneven, but she doesn’t dare stop. Not with the moans swelling behind them. Not with his head starting to roll like his spine’s gone soft.

She adjusts him again. Her shoulders are screaming, fingers are numb from clutching both the crossbow and his half-dead weight.

And then, just for a second, her voice drops to something real. Barely audible.

“If you die on me… I’m gonna break my rule. I’m gonna cry.”

A beat. Then her jaw sets.

“And then I’ll find a way to kill you twice.”

They round the corner and it hits them.

Sound.

All at once.

A wall of noise crashes down like a wave. Groaning, snarling, the scrape of limbs and bone and hunger. Walkers pour in from both ends of the block, clawing over trash bins, crawling across burnt-out hoods, dragging their ruined bodies like they smell blood in the air. Shit.

Sonia’s eyes snap from one side of the street to the other.

Left: nothing but brick. Right: shuttered storefronts, most of them tagged or boarded, no doors visible.

And then—

A flicker.

There. A sign, barely legible through grime: Wash ’n’ Spin.

The door’s glass is smeared, cloudy. No lock visible.

She hauls Daryl to the threshold, nearly drops him. He slips against the frame like water, and her shoulder slams into the glass just to keep them upright.

She reaches for the handle. Pulls.

Stuck.

A growl curls right behind her.

She shoves it. Hard. The door doesn’t budge.

Again.

THUD.

Metal creaks. The sound of footsteps. Too many.

"Come on," she snarls. “Come on—”

She throws her whole body into the third hit.

CRACK.

The door gives.

She almost falls with it, drags Daryl through on raw momentum, stumbles into thick air that smells like mold and metal and death. The laundromat is pitch black except for the faintest strip of dull gray light filtering through the grime-slicked window.

She kicks the door shut with her heel.

CLANG.

Fumbles for the bolt. Finds it. Slams it home.

BANG.

A walker hits the glass a second later.

Then another.

Then three.

Smearing blood. Pressing their faces against the door like dogs sniffing out meat.

Sonia lurches back, almost collapsing. She catches herself on a rust-streaked washer. Her whole body shakes, her knees buckling, ribs tight like they’re wrapped in wire.

The dark is thick. Hot. Rank. It clings to her skin and hair.

No light. No generator hum. Just the throb of blood in her ears, her own breathing, and Daryl’s weight slowly pulling her down.

“That’s it,” she gasps. “You’re officially my least favorite Dixon.”

Half a second later,

THUMP.

Sonia whirls and drops to her knees beside Daryl.

He’s down. Limp. Eyes closed.

“No. No, no, no—hey.”

She slaps his cheek once. Sharp, but not panicked.

Nothing.

Her brain flips gears. Combat triage.

She peels back his eyelid quickly, firm. Pupils: still uneven. One blown. One tight. Tracking’s gone.

“Shit.”

Her fingers go to his neck, counting beats by feel. Thumb pressed hard to the side, below the jaw.

Pulse: rapid. Thready. Still there.

She exhales, just once, and moves on. Opens his jacket. Checks his chest, ribs. No sunken spots. No spreading blood.

Bleeding from the head's slowed. Not stopped.

Another crash.

The glass door jumps. Cracks spider from one corner.

She doesn’t flinch.

Just leans in closer, steady hands against his sternum, watching the rise and fall of his breath.

Barely but it’s rising.

Her lips move while she works. Not soft words, not comfort. Just focus.

“If I just carried your ass through two goddamn city blocks so you could bleed out in a laundromat…”

She checks for spinal swelling. None obvious. Fingers trail along the side of his head. Skin’s hot. Sticky.

THUD.

The window warps again. A smear of black blood against the fogged glass.

“Come on. Come back.” Her voice is lower now. Teeth clenched. “I don’t do mouth-to-mouth, so you better fucking pull through on your own.”

She grabs his chin again. Turns his face toward hers.

Still no reaction. Not even a twitch.

“I trusted you,” she mutters.

A beat.

Quieter now.

“You don’t get to make me regret that.”

Her hand stays on his jaw a moment too long.

Then she pulls back. Her knees ache.

Her hands won’t stop shaking.

She drops the med pack at her side and yanks it open. Gauze, antiseptic, pressure bandage. No time to think, just move.

Outside, the moans don’t stop.

If anything, they’re getting closer now, layered, overlapping like a broken radio stuck on horror.

She keeps her head down. Tears open a gauze pack with her teeth. Presses it hard against Daryl’s head. Blood soaks through almost instantly.

Then—

A shift.

Not from outside.

Inside.

Her body stills. One hand lowers to her bow.

The walkers slam the glass. Louder now. Snarling. Scraping.

She draws fast. Silent.

Arrow notched before her heartbeat catches up.

 “Three seconds,” she says, cold. “Or I shoot.”

A pause.

Movement.

Behind the table.

Low. Human. Breathing.

But for how long?

Chapter Text

He moved.

Not fast. Not enough to startle. But enough to keep her arrow trained steady, right between the seams of his scavenged mess of armor.

Sonia shifts just slightly for a cleaner angle.

Then he peeks up.

Slow. Deliberate. Hands raised like a hostage, mouth already running.

“Okay, okay,” he says, voice trembling just enough to crack the end. “Easy. No need to get homicidal.”

He steps out fully.

And Sonia actually blinks.

What the hell.

He looks like a hardware aisle exploded and came back wrong. Chest plated in rusted license plates, flannel hanging in shredded layers beneath canvas duct-taped into place. One shoulder’s bulkier than the other, Georgia overlapping Ohio and Maine, held together with leather belts and what looks like a toothbrush handle. The whole thing clanks faintly when he shifts.

His knees are wrapped in old tactical pads, one already cracked. His shins? Mismatched armor: metal on one side, black plastic rimmed with hazard tape on the other. Zip ties everywhere. Screws. Bolts. Like tetanus incarnate.

He’s got a sawblade in one hand. No, a weapon made out of a sawblade. The center's been bolted through with some kind of jagged spike, and the whole thing’s gripped in what might be a bike handle wrapped in duct tape.

And the glasses.

Thick black frames. Cracked at the corners. The nose bridge is literally taped. Some kind of strap hooks around the back of his head like he’s expecting turbulence. The lenses are tinted faint green, scratched, and barely holding together.

It takes every ounce of her focus not to say what the fuck out loud.

Instead, her voice stays flat, arrow still trained between his collar and throat.

“That guy. He bit?” he asks, nodding toward Daryl. His tone’s cooler now, trying to sound casual. It doesn’t land.

“Concussed,” Sonia answers, steady as stone.

He squints at Daryl again, nose wrinkling faintly. “You got a place?”

She doesn’t move. “Do you?”

There’s a pause. He hesitates, half-lowering his weapon, then catches himself.

“…What makes you think I’d help?”

Sonia’s tone doesn’t change.

Still low. Still precise.

Still fatal.

“Because I can see the seam where your neck armor ends. Just under your jaw. It's bare, unprotected. Right where your hypoglossal nerve crosses the airway.”

She tilts her head just slightly. One degree to the left. Her aim tightens.

“One shot through that, and you’ll spend your last thirty seconds choking on blood and half your tongue.”

Beat.

“Long enough for me to drag his body out the back, and throw yours out the front so they’ve got something warm to rip apart while we leave.”

Behind them, a walker slams into the glass again. The door creaks. Cracks spread.

Sonia doesn’t blink.

She levels him in her sight and says, voice like a scalpel:

“You helping, or are you about to be bait?”

That does it.

The guy steps out fully, hands still up, sawblade lowered.

“Okay. Jesus. Fucking psycho,” he mutters, eyes darting to Daryl again.

Then he looks back to her.

Actually looks. Covered in blood. Bow still drawn. Hair slicked with sweat, soaked shirt clinging to her like she’s been through hell.

He exhales slowly.

“Why are the hot ones always deranged?”

Sonia doesn’t blink.

“You’re two seconds from finding out,” she says, still deadpan, still aimed like death.

The guy just grins. Of course he does. He has the vibe of someone who’s survived this long on nothing but sarcasm and luck.

“Yeah, alright, fair,” he mutters, lifting a hand to gesture vaguely past the row of busted washers. “You want a way out? You’re looking at it.”

He jerks his thumb toward the rear hallway.

“I live upstairs.”

Sonia narrows her eyes. “How far?”

He winces. Grimaces like he’s just remembered something deeply stupid and deeply his fault.

“Seventh floor.”

She blinks once. “You’re kidding.”

“I’ve got food. Water. A door that actually locks.” He shrugs, like this is all extremely reasonable. “You wanna stay down here and make out with the munchers, be my guest.”

Her aim finally drops. Enough to shift focus, not enough to relax.

“You’ve got his right side.”

He looks at Daryl, lying limp on the floor like a corpse with attitude. His lip curls.

“What is he, made of lead and spite?”

Sonia exhales through her nose. “Mostly muscle. Some poor decisions.”

The guy crouches awkwardly, half-grunting as he wedges himself under Daryl’s shoulder. Daryl doesn’t stir.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, hauling him up with effort and zero grace. “Fine. But if I herniate something, I’m haunting both of you.”

They shift his weight together, Sonia bracing him under the ribs, the stranger locking his arm under Daryl’s with a grunt of effort.

“Name’s Byte, by the way,” he says after a beat. “Byte. With a Y.”

She doesn’t respond.

He glances at her. Maybe hopeful. Maybe desperate for acknowledgment.

“…You know. Digital. Computer stuff. Like a—”

“I know,” Sonia says, flat.

His mouth opens, then shuts.

Small voice now.

“Right. Cool.”

They start dragging.

Most laundromats didn’t have stairwells like this anymore. But this one? Old building. Pre-renovation. Still had interior access to the residential floors, a fire code nightmare. Byte probably loves that.

They push through the service corridor. It's narrow, foul, damp like a basement that never stopped leaking. Byte leads with a flashlight zip-tied to a broomstick, but it shakes with every step, casting erratic shadows across the cracked walls and exposed pipes. Behind him, Sonia supports Daryl’s left side, one arm locked under his ribs. Byte’s got the right, grip awkward but committed, his shoulder wedged up under Daryl’s armpit like they’re prom dates from hell.

Daryl’s dead weight between them. Still breathing. Still bleeding. But barely.

The air shifts as they reach the stairwell. It smells worse here. Mold. Piss. Something deeper. Human once, maybe. Now just rot and history.

“Welcome to the Tower of Bad Decisions.”

Sonia doesn’t answer. Just hitches Daryl higher with a grunt and starts up the stairs.

“Start climbing.”

They go together, dragging him between them like he’s their broken third leg.

Byte breathes harder by the second. “You know, you’ve got the whole wrath-of-god vibe down, but this would go way faster if your boyfriend here wasn’t built like a truck.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Sonia mutters, too tired for inflection.

Byte, ever unbothered, grins anyway. “So just the guy you drag through hell for fun. Got it.”

She doesn’t respond.

Daryl shifts mid-step. Groans low, just enough to remind them he’s still there. Then his right leg gives. His knee dips fast, unexpected and heavy.

Sonia catches it with a hard lurch, nearly smacking her shoulder into the wall. Byte flails on the other side but manages to keep them upright, breath wheezing through his teeth.

“You with me?” she asks quietly, not to Byte.

Daryl makes no sound but breath. It's shallow and wet.

Byte coughs as they reach the second landing, his back already damp with sweat. “He doesn’t look great.”

“I noticed.”

Byte leans against the stairwell wall, not letting go of Daryl but definitely not lifting. “Look, if he croaks on floor five, I’m calling it. Strict policy. No corpses past the fourth level.”

Sonia shifts her grip again, jaw clenched. “You want to carry him solo the rest of the way?”

“Absolutely not,” Byte replies immediately. “Please continue suffering.”

Third floor.

Each step is hell. Sonia’s arm is going numb. Daryl’s boot keeps dragging, catching on the edge of the steps. Byte’s elbow is jammed too close, his shoulder armor digging into her bicep with every shift.

Fourth floor.

Sonia almost stumbles when Daryl’s full weight drops again. Byte stifles a curse but adjusts with her, trying to re-center the body between them.

“Don’t you quit on me,” Sonia hisses at Daryl, not slowing.

Byte snorts. “Do I get a pep talk too, or is the grumpy guy your only fan club?”

“You’re still conscious,” Sonia says. “You don’t need one.”

Fifth floor.

Daryl groans again, head lolling forward. Sonia watches blood drip from his hairline, thick and sluggish. She doesn’t think, just moves. Bite down. Step up.

Byte wheezes beside her.

“Unreal,” he gasps, shifting his grip. “I’ve carried water heaters that felt friendlier.”

“Then shut up and lift.”

They hit the sixth floor. Sonia’s shirt is soaked through. Byte looks like he’s about five minutes from spontaneously combusting.

“He drops, I drop,” Byte mutters. “I’m not dying in a stairwell with a guy who probably hates my guts.”

“You don’t have guts,” Sonia replies, panting. “Just wires and caffeine.”

Byte wheezes a laugh. “You get me.”

Seventh floor.

Byte kicks open the hallway door with a grunt. Sonia doesn’t even feel the weight of it anymore; just the ache, deep in her spine, buzzing in her joints. She’s not sure her hands work. Daryl’s crossbow keeps knocking against her ribs like it’s trying to kill her too.

They step through.

Metal barricades. Junk walls. Wire nets and springs and license plates hanging like patchwork armor.

Sonia doesn’t pause.

She hauls Daryl past the tripwire, through the trap-laced entry, and toward the only real furniture in sight: a battered couch with plaid cushions.

Byte chokes.

“Whoa—WHOA—no, no, no, not the couch!”

“He’s bleeding. He needs elevation,” Sonia snaps.

“That’s my bed-slash-desk-slash-fortress-slash-everything!”

Sonia drops Daryl onto it anyway.

“Now it’s triage.”

Byte stares at the couch like he’s just witnessed a murder.

“He’s leaking on my everything.”

Daryl groans faintly as his body hits the cushions. His head slumps to the side, cheek smearing a dark streak across a throw pillow that was already too far gone to matter.

Sonia doesn’t look back.

She’s already unzipping the med kit, pulling gauze packets free with the practiced speed of someone who’s done this too many times on too many floors with too little time. One tear rips open between her teeth. Her fingers are scraped raw, dirt caked under the nails.

Byte paces a slow, distressed circle behind her.

“I built this place,” he mutters. “I put up defenses. Reinforced the walls. I had rules.”

A pause. He looks down at the blood pooling into the cushions like it personally betrayed him.

“No blood on the furniture was rule one.”

Sonia glances up, gaze calm and hollow.

“Rule two better not be ‘no murder,’ because I’m getting real close.”

Byte freezes.

Hands lift like she just drew on him again. He backs away from the couch like it might bite.

“You know what? Yeah. Cool. Mi casa, su… hospital.”

Sonia leans back over Daryl, pressing gauze to the deep gash at his temple. The bleeding’s slowed, but not enough. She applies pressure with both hands. Steady, unflinching, even as fresh red blooms through the white.

Neither of them speaks for a long moment.

Then Byte, still hovering off to the side, gestures weakly toward the mess that used to be his throne.

“So, uh…”

He clears his throat.

“…do I get to know the name of the woman who just murdered my couch, or is this a ‘bleed on it and ghost me’ situation?”

“Sonia,” she says, without looking up.

Byte makes a face like the name physically hit him.

“Figures. Sounds like someone who doesn’t apologize for war crimes.”

She tosses aside the blood-soaked gauze, angles Daryl’s head toward the light, what little filters down from the dim solar lantern hanging above.

She checks his pulse. Neck first. Then wrist.

Faint. Thready. But steady.

Her jaw clenches.

Next: eyes. She peels one eyelid open with her thumb. The pupil reacts, but slow. Too slow.

“Pupil response slow,” she mutters under her breath. “Could be swelling.”

She doesn’t pause. Reaches for her belt pouch, rips open a clean bandage with her teeth. Her fingers move fast, in tight, practiced turns that wrap his head cleanly above the brow. Every motion is precise. Every movement loaded.

The bleeding’s slowed. Not stopped. The cut above his right eye is still swollen, skin puffed and discolored, but at least it’s not gushing anymore.

“Don’t you fucking die on me now,” she mutters, voice low and clipped. “I didn’t haul your stubborn ass up a hundred stairs to lose you on a couch.”

She pulls the wrap snug, anchors it with a firm knot behind his ear. No hesitation. Just pressure. Control. It’s muscle memory now.

But her knuckles are white.

She wipes the sweat off his neck with her wrist, absently, like it’s just another obstacle getting in her way.

Behind her, Byte shifts a little too loudly.

“Is that a standard military wrap,” he asks carefully, “or the angry girlfriend edition?”

Sonia doesn’t look up.

“Would you like to be the demonstration?”

Byte raises his hands immediately, backing off like she’s armed again.

“Nope. Great work. Five stars.”

She leans back slightly, eyes locked on Daryl’s chest.

It’s rising. Falling. Shallow, but it’s there.

Still fighting.

And so is she.

Finally, finally, Sonia lets herself look around.

The couch is stained now. That’s a given. But the rest of the apartment?

Organized chaos. But not apocalypse chaos.

The kitchen is clean. Countertops wiped down. Cabinets closed. There’s a dish towel hanging neatly from the oven handle, like someone still gives a shit about appearances. An electric kettle sits on the island, unplugged but warm-looking, like it was used not long before they arrived. No grime. No rot. No mold choking the walls.

Even the air feels different: filtered, maybe. Lived in. Safe, in the way nothing else has been in weeks.

This isn't a bunker.

This is… normal.

Her voice comes low, quieter than she expects.

“…You live alone?”

Byte blinks like the question caught him off-guard. Then the corner of his mouth pulls up, smug as hell.

“Shocking, right?”

Sonia scans the space again. Neutral colors. Sturdy furniture. Throw blanket tossed over the side of the couch. A few battered license plates hang on the walls like weird urban art pieces. Georgia, Maine, one from Idaho. She remembers Glenn commenting on it just before they came into the city, that none of the cars had plates anymore.

She wonders if this guy pulled them off personally, like trophies.

“Not like anyone else would want to climb seven fucking flights of stairs daily,” she mutters.

Byte grins.

“That’s the point. Munchers can’t climb. Brains go, balance goes, they trip before they try.”

He jerks a thumb toward the stairwell.

“And the living? Well… let’s just say floor three is where the fun starts. Tripwires. Drop traps. One really judgmental mannequin.”

That earns the slightest twitch of her brow. Almost a scoff. Almost.

“You call ’em munchers?”

He shrugs, unbothered. “Isn’t that what they do?”

Sonia doesn’t answer right away. She eases back onto her heels, posture shifting from triage-mode to something almost neutral. She doesn’t lower her guard. But the tension in her jaw loosens. Just a fraction.

“…Right.”

Byte shifts his weight, glancing toward the couch, toward Daryl.

“So… you two known each other long?”

Sonia shakes her head once. “Two, maybe three days.”

Byte’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Seriously? Damn. I thought you were married. Or trauma-bonded. Or both.”

“Neither,” she says flatly. “He pissed me off, then didn’t die. That’s about it.”

Byte grins. “High standards. I respect that.”

She doesn’t answer, but her shoulders drop a little more. Just a notch.

She squints toward the kitchen.

“You’ve got power.”

“Portable panels,” Byte says, with a little too much pride. “Got lucky finding them early. Hooked ’em up through the old generator lines. I only run ’em part-time. It keeps the heat signature low.”

Sonia doesn’t react. Not yet. But that is impressive. Stupid, maybe. Risky. But impressive.

She doesn’t say that either.

Not yet anyway.

Sonia shifts her weight… and freezes.

Warmth.

Wrong place. Wrong kind.

Too much of it.

Her jaw locks. She closes her eyes for half a second.

“…Shit.”

The pad’s soaked through. Figures. No time for anything anymore. Not even bleeding properly.

She exhales once, sharp and controlled, then stands.

“I need your bathroom,” she says, voice firm.

Byte blinks. “What, now?”

“Now,” she snaps. “Watch his breathing. If it stops, shout. If you stop, I shoot.”

Byte throws both hands up, wide-eyed. “Copy that, General Psycho.”

She’s already moving, boots hitting the mismatched tile with purpose. Eyes scanning doors, tracking by instinct.

Byte calls after her. “First door on the left. Towels are clean. Probably. Don’t open the second cabinet unless you want to meet my ex.”

Sonia doesn’t even pause. “If I see a single boobytrap in there, I’m stapling your nuts to the ceiling.”

She rounds the corner, shoulders still tight. The hallway is narrow, neat, too clean for what the world looks like now. The smell of the stairwell hasn’t followed them this far, just dust and detergent, citrus cleaner clinging to the walls.

She reaches the bathroom door and stops.

Something moves near her foot.

She looks down.

A dusty Roomba hums past, slow and determined, bumping into the wall, pivoting, and continuing on like it has somewhere to be.

Sonia just stares at it.

“…The hell?” she mutters.

She opens the bathroom door.

And disappears inside.

Chapter Text

Sonia leans over the sink, turns the cold tap, and splashes her face without ceremony. The water stings—too cold, too sudden—but she doesn’t flinch. She drags her palms down her skin, clearing away layers of blood and dried sweat, grime and smoke. The water runs off her fingers pink, then rust, then clearer. It patters into the cracked porcelain basin like it’s trying to erase the last two days. Good fucking luck.

She reaches for a towel that looks clean enough and presses it to her face. That’s when she sees it in the mirror.

A shallow cut, slicing just under her right cheekbone. Thin, fresh, already crusting at the edge.

She tilts her head slightly. Blinks at it.

No clue where it came from.

Not a walker. Not a blade. Maybe the damn stairwell. Maybe the shattered door. Maybe the universe just needed one more place to split her open.

Cool.

She dabs it dry, then steps back from the mirror. Doesn’t check again.

It’s not the worst thing on her face tonight.

She looks left.

The second cabinet.

Byte told her not to open it.

So, naturally, she does.

The door sticks at first. Swollen from humidity or violence, it’s hard to tell. She tugs again, harder. It creaks open with a groan that sounds like a lawsuit waiting to happen.

And inside?

She just stares.

It’s not porn. Not really. Not in the usual, utilitarian way.

It’s a shrine.

A deranged, alphabetical, alphabet-soup-of-lust museum.

The top shelf is stacked with vintage porn magazines—Penthouse, Oui, Swank, even Playgirl—each laminated like they belong in a climate-controlled vault. They're sorted by decade. By category. There are labels. Tabs. Cross-references.

One of them features a sticky note that reads:

“Centerfold signed by Candy White, 1987, not sticky, just aged.”

A laminated cardstock sign is taped dead center: DO NOT BEND THE CENTERFOLDS. THEY HAVE FEELINGS.

There’s a framed headshot of Jenna Jameson, like a fallen war hero, with a gold star sticker and the words “The American Dream (Pre-2007)” carefully handwritten underneath.

A Ziploc bag of pink glow-in-the-dark condoms sits next to it like a sacrificial offering. Unopened. Possibly cursed.

Below that?

A porcelain hand sculpture with its middle finger raised, wearing a cock ring like a bracelet.

And in the back corner, inexplicably:

A Lara Croft action figure, half-wrapped in caution tape, posed mid-backflip. A sticker on the base reads:

“The Original Sin.”

But the worst part, the part that breaks something loose behind Sonia’s eyes, is the tiny, battery-powered desk fan on the lowest shelf, humming dutifully. It's angled perfectly toward the most tattered Swedish Erotica cover, like it’s guarding the Mona Lisa from mildew.

Sonia just… stares.

No sound. No movement. Her face is unreadable. Her soul, however, is visibly backing out of the room.

She doesn’t even shut the cabinet.

She turns, deadpan, wiping her hands on her pants like the plywood exhaled something foul and spiritual.

As she rounds the corner:

“You need to burn that cabinet. Salt the ashes. Start over.”

Byte calls back, cheerful as ever:

“I told you not to open Janine’s shrine.”

Sonia doesn’t look at him.

“…It had a fan.”

“Humidity ruins pages,” Byte says, deeply offended. “I’m not an animal.”

There’s a chair beside the couch now, angled just right, like someone thought ahead.

She glances at it once, then at Byte, who's on another chair pretending to read something that’s clearly upside down.

She doesn’t thank him. Just sits.

No sharp quip, no heavy sigh. Just the quiet creak of her body lowering down, the soft shift of fabric as she rests her forearms on her knees. One eye still on Daryl. Always.

“This place yours from before?” she asks.

Byte snorts, barely looking up. “Hell no. I lived on Fairfield. Couple blocks over. One-bedroom rat palace with a view of a brick wall.”

He gestures lazily toward the loft. “This place had better stairs. And a working lock.”

Sonia turns her head, slow. “So what, you just upgraded when the world ended?”

Byte leans against the doorframe, the posture somehow smug and weightless all at once. “Didn’t know the world ended. Not at first.”

“First day, internet died. Thought Comcast was just being Comcast.”

She huffs once. Not quite a laugh.

“Day two, I look out the window, see a woman bite a guy’s face off.” He shrugs. “Thought, ‘Huh. Another Tuesday.’ Closed the blinds.”

Sonia’s brow ticks up.

“It’s Atlanta,” Byte explains. “I once saw a guy rollerblade down Peachtree wearing nothing but a Batman cape and a python. People biting people? Felt more like a full moon than end times.”

A beat.

“Day four’s when the power cut. That’s when it got real. No lights. No sounds. Just… nothing.”

Quiet again. The kind of silence that knows things.

Byte doesn’t linger there long.

“Figured I should probably stop pretending it was just a weird week.”

Sonia tilts her head, resting her knuckles against her cheekbone.

“Four days late to the apocalypse. Impressive.”

Byte grins. “I was mentally prepared. Emotionally? I needed the Wi-Fi to die first.”

Byte yawns as he stretches, spine cracking with the kind of dramatic flair only solitude encourages. “Well,” he says, voice casual, already turning toward the hallway. “Sun’s almost up. I’m gonna catch some Zs before I forget how sleep works.”

He gestures vaguely over his shoulder, then pauses, flicking his gaze between Sonia and the unconscious man bleeding into his couch.

“You need anything while… y’know, watching the man bleed into my lifestyle furniture?”

Sonia doesn’t look up. “I’ve got it.”

Byte nods slowly, backing away with a mock salute. “Cool. You’re terrifying. Just holler if he stops breathing or starts speaking Latin.”

He disappears halfway down the hall. A pause.

“Oh, and don’t touch the toaster,” he calls. “It bites.”

The quiet returns, thick and absolute.

Sonia doesn’t move at first.

Then she shifts, slow and deliberate, crouching beside the couch. One knee sinks into the faux grey, slightly peeling carpet tile. Her elbow rests against the cushion’s edge, just beside where Daryl’s ribs rise and fall beneath the gauze. Shallow. Barely moving. Not good.

She leans closer.

Ear to his chest.

Listening.

Lub-dub. Lub-dub.

It’s faint. Unsteady. But it’s there.

Her eyes stay open, tracking the rhythm. One heartbeat, then the next. The sounds blend with the city hush outside, a dull nothingness wrapped around this moment like gauze of its own.

Her body, however, is done.

The crash comes without warning. No drama. No slow fade. Just a total systems failure.

The postpartum blood loss, the weight of adrenaline bleeding out of her spine. Two miles of hauling his dead weight across cracked pavement. Seven flights of stairs. Every tendon in her body sings in protest, every nerve flickers with the dull buzz of collapse.

Her shoulder slides downward, catching against the edge of the cushion. Her cheek rests against the fabric, just above where his heartbeat thumps weakly beneath her ear.

Her hand slips from his chest to her lap, limp.

She doesn’t mean to fall asleep.

She just… doesn’t lift her head again.

Time folds.

Sonia blinks. Slow, disoriented. A few feet away, something clinks, followed by the faint pad of footsteps and the quiet rustle of fur against tile.

“Chair, no,” Byte mutters somewhere out of sight, followed by a faint hiss and the delicate clink of a mug shifting. “You can’t have coffee. You’re a cat. Your heart would explode.”

Sonia stirs.

Her brow twitches. One hand shifts in her lap, fingers curling. It takes her a second to register the warmth beneath her cheek. Not just the fabric, but the shallow rise and fall beneath it. The rhythm.

Daryl’s heartbeat. Faint. Unsteady. But there.

She lifts her head slowly. Neck aching. Hair clinging to her jaw. Her gloves are tacky with dried blood.

Her eyes land on the small creature slinking past the edge of the couch.

Black-and-white. Deceptively clean-looking.

Perfectly symmetrical patches, as if nature tried to make her logical and she took it personally.

Bright green eyes. The kind that clock your pulse and your worst mistake at the same time.

Chair. Judging her.

“…You have a cat?” she croaks, voice gravel and smoke.

Byte’s in the kitchen, just visible past the edge of the open doorway, one hand absently stirring something in a pan. He glances toward the couch, then back to the cat now sauntering across the counter like she owns the lease.

“She showed up when I moved in,” he says, tone casual. “Thought maybe she belonged to the old lady in 77A, but nah. Too obvious. She’s got the vibe of someone who survived a few cults.”

Light creeps in now, filtered through half-drawn blinds. Dust motes float, lazy and golden. The city outside is still quiet like it’s holding its breath.

Sonia leans back against the chair. Her body sinks into it like it’s the first thing that hasn’t asked something of her in days.

Daryl doesn’t move.

Still out.

She watches the slow rise and fall of his chest. Counts the beats automatically.

Byte’s voice returns, brighter now: “If you’re not allergic to breakfast, we’re in business.”

He enters carrying a chipped ceramic bowl and a battered fork, all pride and presentation.

“I present,” he says with a flourish, “mildly charred vegetable hash with canned sausage medallions. Not to brag, but the medallions have shape. That’s rare.”

He hands her the bowl. Sonia takes it without a word, sniffs it. Then eats.

Byte sips from a mug, watching her with mock injury. “Don’t thank me or anything. I live for silent judgment.”

“You used actual seasoning,” she says around a mouthful, tone flat but faintly surprised.

Byte puts a hand to his chest like she’s just professed love. “Ma’am. I may be alone at the end of the world, but I am not uncultured.”

He nods toward the couch. “Still out?”

She nods, still chewing. “Check his pulse twice an hour. Stable. For now.”

Byte whistles low. “Nasty hit. He the run-off-headfirst-into-danger type?”

“No.”

She pauses. Glances at the barely rising chest again.

“He’s the run-in-silence-and-stab-things type. This was new.”

Byte chews, glancing toward the bow she left propped by the couch. “That yours?”

Sonia nods. “Sixty to a hundred-pound draw.”

He pauses mid-bite. “You raised it recently?”

Her voice darkens. “Last few kills weren’t going down easy. Felt like the skulls were… thicker.”

Byte stares at her, fork halfway to his mouth. “Huh. I thought it was just me.”

He finally looks up from the bowl. “You’re a group person, huh?”

Sonia swallows. “No. I’m a math person.”

Byte grins. “You mean like numbers?”

“Exactly,” she says, leaning forward a touch, voice steady. “More people means more eyes, more weapons, more skills. Higher chance of survival. Even if half are idiots, that’s still better than being alone.”

Byte lifts a brow. “Half are always idiots.”

Sonia stabs another bite with the fork. “Which is why you need the other half.”

He shifts to sit on the arm of a chair, nodding thoughtfully. “See, I get that. But I also don’t get stabbed in my sleep. Or get asked to share canned peaches.”

“You also don’t get warned when you’re bleeding out,” Sonia says evenly. “Or bit. Or surrounded.”

Byte taps his temple. “I got traps. I got alarms. I got Chair.”

Sonia gives him a look.

He softens. “Okay, yeah. Chair’s a dumbass. But she’s emotionally supportive.”

A beat passes.

He shrugs. “If I had people, I’d be dead already.”

She watches Daryl’s ribs expand. Contract. Shallow, but present. “If I didn’t, he would be.”

The words hang between them for a moment. Heavy. Honest.

Byte exhales slowly. “Yeah? Was it his idea to come to the city… or yours?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Doesn’t move.

Behind her eyes, the memory presses in sharp and uninvited.

The argument. Glenn’s face. Daryl’s voice, ragged with hurt. It cut through her, clean and deserved. She doesn’t replay the words, not really. Doesn’t need to. The feeling is enough.

The weight of the decision.

The noise of her own voice, too sharp.

The silence that came after.

Her jaw tightens.

“…Mine,” she says quietly, without looking up.

Byte goes still. Just for a second. Then he stands, brushing off jeans that don’t have a speck of dirt on them, like he just needs something to do with his hands.

“I was gonna say ‘that’s heavy,’” he murmurs, “but you seem like the type who hates when people state the obvious.”

Sonia says nothing.

Byte hesitates then offers a lopsided grimace that might be empathy, might just be recognition.

“Alright. I’ll go pretend I know how electricity works,” he says, stepping toward the hallway. “You want me, scream. Or throw something. Or…”

He glances at Chair, now loafed dramatically on a pile of clean socks like she’s been tracking this emotional spiral from a throne of cotton.

“…train the cat to deliver messages. I hear that’s a thing now.”

Sonia doesn’t answer. Her eyes stay fixed on the man on the couch. The blood-stained gauze. The pulse she keeps counting.

Byte backs away slowly, the usual commentary fading to a murmur as he reaches the hallway.

“‘Mine,’ she says,” he mutters, half to himself. “Like it doesn’t weigh a fuckin’ ton.”

The door creaks shut behind him.

And the apartment falls quiet again.

Byte’s gone now. The door clicked shut minutes ago.

Chair hops up beside her and loafs into the corner, tail twitching like she knows secrets.

The apartment holds its breath.

Sonia sinks back into the chair like it’s habit, not choice. Her knees pull halfway to her chest, arms loosely braced around them. The fork dangles from her right hand, forgotten, its weight barely there, just a greasy metallic chill against her fingers. The air still carries the scent of seared vegetables and old sweat, layered with something faintly sour; like blood and smoke that’s settled too deep into the furniture to ever fully leave.

Across from her, Daryl lies motionless.

His chest lifts. Drops.

She exhales through her nose. Reaches down. Peels off her left glove slowly and methodical. The leather’s stiff with blood and grime, its inner seam tacky where it clung to her skin too long. She drops it between her feet. The cool air prickles at the sweat-damp indentations left on her hand.

Then, thumb to palm, she finds the scrape.

A sharp welt. The skin angry, raw. Not from hauling weight. From recoil. A reminder.

Anthony’s face snaps back into her mind; white with panic, eyes too wide, lips forming her name like he still thought she could fix it.

She presses her thumb into the sting without flinching.

Closes her eyes.

“Two days. Five sites. Barely any insulin.”

The words leave her like a breath she forgot to take.

“Anthony’s dead. Maybe Glenn’s too. Grace’s probably next.”

Her jaw tightens. The muscle jumps once, sharp beneath the skin.

“And I screamed at the only two idiots who didn’t leave.”

The silence after is thick, like it’s been waiting its turn.

Her gaze slides to Daryl.

To the gauze. To the blood seeping through. To the slow, uneven rhythm of a body trying to stay alive.

“Yet here we are,” she murmurs.

Beat.

“Because I always know better, right?”

No sarcasm. No fire. Just the flat truth of a woman who’s heard herself be right too many times to still find comfort in it.

She leans forward eventually, hand lifting. She hesitates just once before she touches his jaw.

The blood there is dried and crusted now. It flakes beneath her fingers. His skin’s warm. Too warm.

Her voice thins to a whisper.

“You didn’t deserve this.”

She draws back like the contact scalded her.

Settles again, arms looping around her knees. Head tipping slightly toward the window.

The light there becomes soft over time. Grey-blue. Dust floats in it, suspended like ash that forgot where it came from. Somewhere deeper in the apartment, a warped clock ticks unevenly, its rhythm wrong, its sound too loud.

Sonia doesn’t move.

She doesn’t cry.

She just stares at the slow rise and fall of his chest.

Waiting.

For it to steady.

For his eyes to open.

For proof that she didn’t drag another man into a shallow grave.

Hours pass.

Or maybe minutes. Time’s loose now, slipping between seconds like oil through cracks. The light outside has changed, barely. Gone cooler. A bluish haze pressing through the blinds, casting soft stripes across Daryl’s chest.

Sonia hasn’t moved.

The chair groans beneath her every now and then, like it’s tired of holding someone so still. The fork is gone, dropped somewhere. The bowl’s still beside her on the floor, contents congealed and cold. Her boots are pressed flat to the floor, legs tense, spine curled forward like she never fully uncoiled from earlier.

Daryl hasn’t made a sound.

Just that shallow, almost-invisible rise and fall.

Her eyes don’t leave his face.

He’s pale, greyer than before. Sweat beads along his hairline, dampening the gauze. His lips are cracked. His fingers haven’t twitched in—

A shift.

Small. Barely more than a tremor.

Two fingers twitch.

Then:

A sudden inhale. Sharp. Loud in the quiet like a gunshot underwater. His chest jerks once, lungs dragging in air like they forgot how and are trying to make up for it.

Sonia jolts upright.

Her hand lifts halfway, hovering just above his shoulder, like she’s ready to shake him back into consciousness or hold him in place if he panics.

He doesn’t move again.

Not for a beat.

Not for two.

Chair watches from across the room. The only other living thing not holding its breath.

Then:

“…Where the hell are we?”

His voice is a scrape of gravel and rust. Hardly more than a whisper.

Sonia closes her eyes.

Just for half a second.

It’s not relief.

Not even close to gratitude.

It’s gravity.

The kind that keeps you from flying apart.

The kind that hurts.

“You’re not dying,” Sonia murmurs, eyes locked on the gauze wrapped around his head. “So don’t get any ideas about proving me wrong.”

Daryl shifts like he might try to sit up but the second his torso lifts off the cushion, regret slams through him. His breath catches. His stomach turns sharply beneath the blankets.

Sonia doesn’t flinch.

Her voice is smoother this time, dry, but not unkind. “Easy. Throwing up on the couch’ll make you even less popular than you already are.”

He sinks back with a grimace. Jaw clenched. Eyes still mostly shut.

The silence that follows is thick.

Sonia leans in again, steady as always, and carefully lifts one corner of the gauze. Her movements are quiet, measured. The wound’s closed. Swollen but holding. Still angry-looking, but not seeping. The worst of it is past. Maybe.

She checks his pupils; still uneven, but closer now. Focus returning, if slow.

Her fingertips graze along his jaw, searching out the artery beneath the skin. The pulse is steadier. Thicker. No longer threadbare like it was before.

“Pupils improving,” she says low, almost to herself. “Swelling’s manageable. You’ll live.”

Daryl’s voice is hoarse when it comes again, just a breath. “You sound disappointed.”

Sonia doesn’t blink. “Would’ve been easier if you didn’t.”

Their eyes meet, finally.

It holds for a moment longer than it needs to. Something tight passes between them, too sharp to be affection, too honest to be anything else.

Then she sits back, her body folding against the chair again.

And for the first time in days, Sonia exhales all the way through. Quiet. But real.

Chapter Text

Sonia steps out of the hallway, hair still damp from the shower. Her tank top clings where it hasn’t dried yet, and her dog tags hang loose against her chest, catching the light as she moves. In one hand, she carries a clean square of gauze and a bottle of antiseptic, thumb already flipping the cap.

Daryl’s propped up on the couch, buried in a stack of mismatched pillows. One arm is loosely hooked around another cushion, pressed half to his chest like it’s just something to brace against. The bandage above his brow is soaked through at the edge.

“You let that bleed through,” Sonia says, voice gruff but casual, “you’ll stain the couch.”

“Ain’t my couch,” he mutters.

She raises a brow. Doesn’t argue.

As she crosses to him, there’s a brief, quiet pause. Daryl doesn’t move. But something about the way his eyes track her steps—the way the water beads along her collarbone, the sharp lines of her shoulders in that tank—sticks longer than usual. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.

Sonia kneels beside him, nudges the pillow higher on his chest with the back of her wrist. Her focus is clinical, movements exact. One hand tilts his face toward her with no softness in it.

“You’re lucky,” she says, inspecting the gash. “Just missed the ridge. Half an inch lower and I’d be sewing your face shut with dental floss.”

“Sounds like a party,” he grumbles.

She dabs antiseptic on the cut. He flinches slightly and she doesn’t apologize.

“You even know what you’re doin’?” he asks, squinting.

“Not a clue,” she says. “But I read the back of the bottle.”

A beat. She adjusts her grip. “And you’re not dead yet.”

She leans back just enough to get a better look at the wound, narrowing her eyes.

“Once you’re good to walk, we’ll head back. Grace can take a look, tell us if you actually need stitches.”

She shrugs. “My highly professional opinion? You don’t.”

He huffs something between a laugh and a scoff and his eyes follow her hand as she reaches behind the couch.

The motion shifts her necklace. One of the dog tags slips loose, swinging forward. It clinks once, sharp against her collarbone.

Before she can tuck it back, Daryl’s hand comes up. Reflex. He catches the tag between his fingers.

His thumb runs over the stamped letters, slow. Not like he’s reading but like he’s measuring something.

EVERGREEN, S. A.

O POS

MAJ / USAR

TF ECHO-14 / JAG CORPS

“Evergreen, huh?” he mutters, eyes still on the metal.

“Guess the cat’s outta the bag now,” she says, tone even.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just keeps turning the tag over, narrowing his eyes slightly at the lettering. She waits for the question. The connection. The inevitable weight of it.

The name’s not small. Not in Georgia. Hunting blinds. Trail cams. Tactical gear. Her family’s brand is stamped across half the region, a quiet legacy disguised as utility. The crossbow he carries isn’t one of theirs, but the company that made it licensed Evergreen Tactical for years. If he’s the kind of hunter who paid attention, he’d know.

But he stays quiet.

Her eyes narrow. Maybe he doesn’t recognize it. Maybe he’s not that kind of hunter after all. The real ones usually do. Her father always said only amateurs bought gear blind.

And Daryl Dixon?

He might be good with a crossbow. Might even be damn good. But maybe that’s just muscle memory. Not instinct.

Then:

“What’s the ‘A’ stand for?” Daryl asks, voice low.

She doesn’t answer right away. Doesn’t even glance at him. Just shrugs like it’s nothing, like it’s not the most personal thing anyone’s asked her in months.

“My middle name.”

He shifts slightly. “Gonna make me guess that too?”

She turns her head just enough to look at him out of the corner of her eye. And studies him.

Up close, he looks worse. Left eye swollen, the skin around it dark and stretched. He’s squinting against the light and probably the pounding in his skull. Neck tense, like the pain’s coiled all the way down. His blinks come slow, but not lost. Still sharp enough to throw out questions. Still watching her like he’s measuring something he doesn’t know how to name.

The rest of him is still. Too still.

Not the calm kind. The locked-joint kind. Like if he relaxes even a little, everything’s gonna give. She’s seen it before, men waiting for things to go loud again. Holding patterns in holding cells.

And then there’s his eyes.

Too direct. Too focused. He doesn’t flinch when she meets them. He never flinches. But it’s not confidence. It’s something older. Rougher. A refusal to back down from anything, even a name.

He’s not asking because he cares.

He’s asking because not knowing her is already crawling under his skin.

So she gives it to him.

“Anastasia.”

That gets a blink. Almost a flinch.

“You Russian or some shit?”

She snorts, the corner of her mouth twitching. Reaches up, unclips the dog tags, and lets them stay in his hand. His fingers curl around them, reflexive.

“You couldn’t figure it out from Sonia?”

“…Like, actual Russian?”

“Half,” she says. “Moscow-born mother. Prima ballerina. Taught me to speak before I could walk.”

His face does something complicated. Like he’s sifting through every dumbass thing he’s ever said in her direction since the quarry and regretting all of them at once.

“Shit.”

Sonia leans away just slightly, like she’s giving him room to sit in it. Her voice is dry, but not unkind.

“Mm. You want to go back and audit all the things you’ve said since we met?”

She straightens up without another word and walks to the window.

Outside, the light’s still thin and grey, barely pressing through the grime on the glass. On the windowsill, a row of mismatched planters lines the edge. Some plastic cups, an old tin can, a cracked ceramic mug. Raspberries. Blueberries. Strawberries, half-ripe and still clinging. It’s the kind of thing she wouldn’t expect in a place like this. The kind of thing someone kept alive on purpose.

Behind her, Daryl shifts.

“I didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” he mutters, defensive but already folding in on himself.

She doesn’t turn around. Just tilts her head slightly, eyes still on the strawberries.

“You never do.”

There’s a beat.

Then the sound of fabric dragging as he rubs the back of his neck, like his shirt’s suddenly strangling him.

“You could’ve said somethin’.”

“Why?” she says, still calm. “I wanted to see how deep the hole went.”

And only then she turns to face him.

Like she’s known the punchline for a while now and was just waiting to deliver it.

“You’re still digging, by the way.”

His mouth opens. Closes. Then,

“I mean, I ain’t got a problem with Russians. Or ballerinas or—”

He hears it mid-sentence. Stalls. Grimaces.

“Shit, that sounded bad.”

Sonia doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink.

“Keep going,” she says, tone bone-dry. “You might hit China.”

The door slams open without warning.

Byte bursts in like he’s been shot out of a cannon. A notebook under one arm, a pencil clamped between his teeth, and the kind of caffeinated gleam in his eyes that suggests he either found sugar or danger. Maybe both.

“Okay,” he says around the pencil, already grinning as he kicks the door shut behind him. “Skull density. I’m not saying they’re evolving—”

He pauses dramatically.

“—but I might be saying that.”

His eyes land on Daryl.

The grin widens.

“Well shit,” Byte beams. “Look who’s vertical. Kinda.”

He strides in like it’s his living room (because it is) and drops the notebook onto the counter without looking. Daryl stares at him like he’s watching a feral animal try to open a door.

Sonia doesn’t move. Just plucks a strawberry off the nearest plant and pops it in her mouth.

“You’ve got real ‘woke up in the wrong serial killer’s basement’ vibes,” Byte says cheerfully.

Daryl squints. “Who the hell are you?”

“That’s Byte,” Sonia says flatly. “Be nice. You’re on his couch.”

Daryl looks at her, then back at the kid. “The hell kinda name is Bite?”

“Byte,” he corrects, pulling the pencil from his mouth. “With a Y. Like computer storage.”

Daryl frowns. “The fuck’s that mean?”

Byte shrugs, unfazed. “Doesn’t matter. I’m a man of science, mystery, and bad choices.”

“Sounds crowded,” Daryl mutters.

“He named himself,” Sonia adds. “Let it go.”

Daryl grunts. “Guy’s named after gettin’ bit. Great.”

“With a Y,” Byte says, clearly offended.

“Still sounds like teeth.”

Byte points a finger at Sonia, scandalized.

“You hearin’ this? I walk in here, offer knowledge and charm, and this hillbilly’s disrespecting phonetics.”

Sonia doesn’t even look up. Still chewing the strawberry, unbothered.

“I’m just choosing not to intervene.”

Daryl mutters, “Should’ve stayed unconscious...”

Byte ignores him. He hops onto the counter like it’s a throne, plants his notebook on his lap, and flips it open with the kind of flair reserved for prophets and delinquents.

“Anyway. Bow talk.”

Sonia arches a brow. Daryl doesn’t move, just watches him like he’s still trying to decide whether Byte is dangerous or just annoying.

Byte reads from the notebook like he’s delivering scripture. “Sixty to a hundred-pound draw. Custom cams. High-impact carbon limbs.”

His eyes flick to Sonia.

“You’re not carrying a weapon. You’re carrying a felony.”

Daryl smirks. “She scare you?”

“Only as much as anyone else with god-tier arm strength and no remorse.”

Sonia pops another strawberry into her mouth. “It’s legal. Just gotta file it right.”

Byte stares. “You’re serious.”

She nods, casual. “Tactical simulation device. Sworn under a federal task force.”

Byte freezes. Blinks. “That’s not real.”

“It is when no one reads the forms.”

Daryl mutters, “You made that up.”

“No,” Sonia says, tone bone-dry. “I made it boring. That’s how you win.”

There’s a beat.

Byte lowers the notebook slowly, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, like he’s just been handed a holy text wrapped in red tape and sarcasm.

“I want to be you when I grow up.”

He flips to a new page, kicking his heels lightly against the cabinet like a caffeinated kid deep in the middle of a sacred theory spiral.

Byte flips another page, then stills.

“So,” he says, voice dropping. “Skull density.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, energy different now. More precise, more focused.

“It’s not right,” he says. “Like… not even close.”

Sonia eyes him, unimpressed. “You’re gonna have to be more specific than ‘not right.’”

Byte lifts a hand, drawing an invisible circle in the air. “They’re too dense. Human skulls post-mortem? Fragile. Cracks easy. But these things? It’s like someone kiln-fired the bone. Hard. Brittle in the wrong places, but frontal impact? It’s like hitting ceramic.”

Daryl grunts, not looking up. “Still drop if you hit ’em right.”

“Sure,” Byte nods. “You’ve got velocity on your side. That bolt moves like a bullet. Splits whatever it touches.”

Then he turns to Sonia, expression sharper now.

“But her? She’s using force. Muscle. Angle. She’s depending on draw weight. And the front of the skull’s not taking hits like it used to.”

Sonia flicks the strawberry stem from her fingers, wipes her thumb along her pants.

“Snapped two broadheads this week,” she says. “Had to leave one lodged in a frontal. Wouldn’t give.”

A pause.

“That’s new.”

Byte sits back like that’s confirmation. One hand lifts, finger pointed at her like she just proved the theory he was dancing around.

“Yes. That’s it.”

He grabs his notebook again, flipping to a page near the middle. “It’s not just the rot drying them out. Something’s happening to the bone. I think it’s calcifying. Or… overcompensating. Harder to pierce. Like the virus is reinforcing structural areas it wants to protect.”

Daryl squints. “So what, they’re growin’ armor now?”

“Not armor,” Byte says. “But maybe... yeah. Reinforcement. Selective hardening.”

He pauses. The grin fades.

“They’re not just lasting longer. They’re adapting.”

That hangs in the air. Heavy.

Byte’s eyes flick between them.

“We call ’em walkers like they’re just leftovers. But they’re not leftovers anymore.”

A beat.

“This isn’t just rot. It’s evolution. Fucked-up, meat-wearing evolution.”

Sonia doesn’t answer. Doesn’t blink.

Just mutters, “Jesus,” and leans back.

Daryl scoffs under his breath. “They still move like drunks.”

Byte nods, flipping another page in his notebook. “Sure. But drunks who don’t fall apart. Drunks with skulls like anvils.”

He taps his pen once, then pauses, glancing between the two of them.

“I tested one,” he says, quieter now. “Fresh. Maybe twenty-four hours turned. Took the head off clean, brought it back in a cooler. Wired the jaw to a pressure gauge.”

He leans back, eyes gleaming.

“Torque hit hyena levels. Real crush power. Enough to break bone if they catch the right angle.”

Daryl lifts an eyebrow. “You brought a walker head home?”

Byte shrugs. “It was already off. I’m not a savage.”

Sonia doesn’t say anything, but her mouth shifts barely. Somewhere between a smirk and a sigh.

Byte glances at her.

“And that arrow you had to leave in the frontal?” he says. “With your draw weight? And it still didn’t go clean through. That’s the virus reinforcing cranial structure. Which means it's choosing what to keep intact.”

He flips to another page full with messy sketches, bone density notes, rows of impact data in smeared pencil.

“But it’s not just skulls. There’s something else.”

He pauses, finger dragging along the edge of the page.

“No sag. No bloat. No insect activity. Nothing eats them. They don’t break down.”

Daryl frowns. “They still rot.”

Byte shakes his head. “Yeah, they look rotten. But that’s surface-level. Their tissue integrity’s wrong. There’s no decomposition in the usual places. No maggots. No leeching. Blood clots, but it doesn’t dry right. I’ve seen corpses out there six, seven days in heat. They should’ve liquefied. They didn’t.”

He clicks his pen sharply. Lays it down.

“They’re not dying. They’re holding.”

He flips one more page. This one is rough: hastily drawn, barely legible. Scribbled arrows connect figures: one walker down, another hovering. Circular patterns. Motion paths.

A system.

Byte taps the page.

“I don’t think they’re just lasting. I think they’re maintaining.”

Byte clicks his pen again, flipping to a new page. Even more rough, less structured, less confident. Scribbled arrows loop from corpse to corpse, hand-drawn figures circling each other like ants around a drop of blood.

“I’ve been watching how they move,” he says. “How they stop.”

He doesn’t look up.

“Some go down for good. Clean kill, head smashed. Done.”

A pause.

“So I left a couple out there.”

He lifts his eyes then, just briefly, to glance at Sonia. She meets his gaze. Jaw tight. Then nods once.

Byte presses on.

“Didn’t expect anything big. Figured maybe some limb-twitches. Nerve junk.”

He scratches behind his ear, restless now.

“But then the others came. The ones still moving.”

Sonia tilts her head slightly, eyes narrowing.

“They didn’t ignore the corpses,” Byte says. His voice softens. Slows. “They circled them. Sniffed. Watched.”

He draws a finger across the page, tracing the loops.

“And then… they started eating.”

The room stills.

Across the couch, Daryl’s eyes sharpen. “They eat their own?”

“Not right away,” Byte says. “It’s not a frenzy. No attack. Just… slow. Like it was familiar.”

A beat.

“Like instinct.”

Sonia’s voice comes quiet. Flat.

“They were human first.”

She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away from the diagram.

“Doesn’t matter what they are now. They still smell human. Still meat.”

Byte nods, slower this time. His eyes go a little distant, like he’s following a thought too far.

“Exactly,” he murmurs. “They don’t recognize their own. Just the hunger.”

He taps the page again, once.

“If they can’t rot, they gotta do something with all that dead meat. So they reuse it.”

“Fuel. Biomass. Energy. Doesn’t matter how.”

He looks up now, voice steady.

“What matters is: they keep going.”

Daryl exhales through his nose. Grim. Final.

“Long as one’s still walkin’…”

Byte finishes it.

“…the system feeds itself.”

He taps one last line on the page, underlined three times in thick ink:

No expiration. No entropy.

“They don’t expire,” he says, almost to himself.

A pause.

“They recycle."

Sonia doesn’t respond right away. Just watches them, first Byte, still half-lost in his theory spiral, then Daryl, who hasn’t said a word since the line about systems feeding themselves.

She’s still. But her jaw isn’t. A tiny pulse ticks there, barely visible unless you’re looking for it. The kind of muscle twitch that comes from memory. Old, unwanted, and crawling back through her spine.

Finally, she exhales.

“Cockroaches do that too,” she says, flat.

Daryl snorts, just under his breath. “Cockroaches don’t try to eat your face off.”

Byte grins faintly. “Only ‘cause we haven’t pissed off enough cockroaches yet.”

The tension shifts a little. Enough to feel like breathing is possible again.

Sonia’s shoulders drop, but only a fraction. Her gaze drifts first to the notebook, then to Byte’s face, then Daryl’s. She studies them both as she speaks. Not like she’s telling a story. Like she’s watching for a reaction. Like she’s bracing.

“We started seeing it at Redwater,” she says.

Daryl glances over. “That’s the base?”

She nods once. “Fort Redwater. Field hospital wing. I was there in the beginning.”

Byte leans in, quieter now. “What’d you figure out?”

Sonia doesn’t blink.

“It’s not reanimation,” she says. “We still don’t know how that works.”

A pause.

“But death? That was consistent.”

She looks away now, toward the far wall. Her eyes are distant.

“The closer the bite was to the brain, the faster they dropped.”

Her fingers twitch once, then still.

“Not from blood loss. Just... shut down.”

Daryl shifts slightly, arms folding tighter.

“Didn’t think it worked that way,” he mutters.

“Neither did we,” Sonia says. “But it kept happening.”

She lifts her eyes again. Focuses on nothing. The words are too clean now. Too practiced.

“Arm bite? A few hours. Torso? Maybe one.”

Another pause.

“But a neck wound? Skull? Jaw?”

Her voice dips.

“They were gone in ten minutes. Sometimes less.”

Byte doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink.

“Not turning?” he asks. “Just dead?”

Sonia nods.

“Sometimes mid-sentence. Lights out. Nothing left to save.”

Daryl doesn’t answer this time. But his jaw sets hard. One knuckle twitches where his hand rests on the couch.

Sonia watches that too.

And then she speaks, quieter now.

“We stopped waiting after a while.”

A breath.

“Once it was above the shoulders...”

She swallows. Slow. Barely noticeable.

“Didn’t matter if they were still conscious.”

Byte finally whispers, “Jesus.”

Sonia doesn’t flinch.

“Didn’t wait for him either.”

Silence settles again. This time, it sticks. Heavy. Final. No one moves.

Sonia presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth. That tight tick in her jaw returns stronger now. A flicker beneath the skin she can’t quite control. Her hand twitches once against her thigh.

No one notices. Yet.

She stands.

“I need a smoke,” she says, voice low and even.

She doesn’t wait for a response. Just turns and walks out before either of them can see the tremor blooming in her fingers.

The door clicks shut behind her, sealing off the quiet hum of voices and notebook pages. She steps onto the balcony alone.

Outside, the sky is washed-out gold. Too bright. Too empty. Daylight bleeding slow across the rooftops like it’s trying to make peace with the world and failing.

Sonia leans into the railing, shoulders hunched. Slips a cigarette between her lips. Her hand already shakes as she raises the lighter.

She clicks it once. Nothing.

Tries again.

Again.

The tremor won’t stop. It's sharp, fine, like the weight of Redwater has settled in her nerves and refuses to climb back out.

The fourth click catches. Flame.

She breathes in deep, dragging smoke into her lungs like it might weigh more than everything else she’s carrying.

Below, seven stories down, the dead crawl.

Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds. Twisting, dragging, snarling in broken patterns. Some are missing limbs. Some have bones slicing through rotten flesh. Others are barely bodies at all, just skin and hunger stitched together by decay.

One snags on a rebar spike. Doesn’t stop. It tears through its own gut like wet fabric, intestines unraveling behind it like a scarf.

Another is missing half its jaw. Tongue slack. Gums flapping as it hisses soundlessly into the wind.

And then she sees her.

A girl.

Maybe thirteen.

Too small. Too whole. The face has held on too well, skin almost intact, eyes still wet, hair matted to her skull in two blood-crusted braids.

She’s split open at the ribs. One lung flattened, flesh gaping. But she moves. Crawls forward like gravity won’t let her stop.

And she looks up.

Not blank. Not drifting.

Up. Right at Sonia.

And for a second, everything inside Sonia pulls taut.

The girl is Sophie’s age.

The same height. Same frame. She could be anyone. Could be hers.

Just one more fuck-you from the world, dressed in the body of a child it forgot to spare.

Sonia doesn’t cry. She never does.

But her jaw locks. Her throat clicks. Her fingers tremble so hard the cigarette nearly drops from her hand.

She watches the girl until the swarm takes her again and swallows her whole in movement and teeth and rot.

Then she exhales. 

And stays out there a long time.

Chapter Text

Sonia slips back inside, cigarette smoke still clinging to her skin like something that won’t wash off. She doesn’t speak. Just closes the door behind her with a soft click and lets the quiet settle. Byte’s notebook lies open on the counter, pages unmoving now, forgotten. Whatever momentum they had is gone. It's burned out under too many half-answers and theories that scrape too close to truth.

Daryl shifts on the couch, arms crossed, eyes following her as she moves. He doesn’t look up right away. Just watches.

“Gran used to talk about stuff like this sometimes,” he says, voice low, rough like gravel under tires.

Sonia glances over. No reaction at first, just a slight lift of her brows. Waiting.

“When things went bad,” Daryl continues, “real bad—no explainin’ it—she said there’s stuff out there we ain’t meant to understand. Old mountain stories. Lights floatin’ over the marsh. Ain’t no point fightin’ it, she said. They come when they want. Go when they’re done.”

Byte watches him now, quieter than usual. Something gentler in his eyes.

“And you think this…” he asks, voice careful, “might end like that? Just go when it’s done?”

Daryl shrugs, not quite comfortable with the shape of the conversation. He shifts, rubs a hand along the back of his neck.

“Maybe,” he mutters. “Somethin’ started it, didn’t it? Things start, things end.”

He pauses. Picks at a thread on the hem of his shirt.

“Ain’t sayin’ it’s ghosts or monsters. Just sayin’… we don’t know what it is, neither.”

Sonia doesn’t answer right away. She watches him for a moment, then exhales slow and sits down in the nearest chair. Her knees crack as she lowers herself, bone-deep tired.

“It’s easier when you can blame something you know,” she says softly. “Even if it’s a ghost story.”

Daryl’s eyes flick to her, then away again. Like he’s listening, but not ready to sit with it.

“Folks always made stories up when the truth was worse,” he says, more to himself than anyone else.

Byte smiles faintly. Not mocking. Just a quiet sort of understanding.

“Comfort in chaos, right?”

Daryl doesn’t answer. Just shrugs again, shoulders tight, eyes on the floor now.

“Better than thinkin’ it’s just us,” he mutters. “Gettin’ eaten slow by somethin’ that don’t quit.”

Sonia leans back. The light from the window cuts soft across her face, catching the edge of her jaw. She doesn’t smile. But her gaze softens.

“Yeah,” she says. “Better that way.”

Daryl doesn’t miss a beat.

“’Sides,” he says, voice steady, “you said it’s just the frontal skull.”

He leans forward slightly, eyes flicking to Byte, then Sonia. There’s no weight behind it, just fact. Simple and sharp.

“So you aim for the soft tissue. Temple and shit. Ain’t always gotta make sense of everything. Just gotta drop ‘em.”

Byte stares at him, blink-slow. Something caught between admiration and disbelief forming on his face.

“I mean…” he mutters, “he’s not wrong.”

Sonia exhales through her nose, brow ticking.

“God help me,” she says dryly, “I think you just out-logic’d the both of us.”

Daryl grunts, not bothering to hide the flicker of smugness that curls at the corner of his mouth. He reaches up, picking idly at the edge of his bandage with a dirty thumbnail.

“Ain’t science,” he mutters. “Just killin’ things right.”

Byte leans back, still grinning faintly. Half to himself, half to the room.

“Makes me wanna test that out,” he says. “Might be onto something with the angle.”

Sonia lifts a brow, rubbing her thumb along the edge of her jaw again. She’s amused. A little wary. She’s seen what happens when men get ideas like that.

“Try not to die before we leave,” she says.

Byte puts a hand to his chest, mock-offended.

“Aw. It’s sweet when you care.”

Daryl snorts. “She don’t,” he mutters. “Just don’t wanna haul your ass back as a walker.”

That earns him a flash of a smirk from Soni.

She leans back again in her chair, head tilting, voice dry.

“Temple and shit,” she says. “Got it.”

Byte’s footsteps fade toward the kitchen, a low chorus of clinking metal and muffled motion marking his retreat. The air shifts again. Calmer now, but charged. Sonia turns back toward Daryl, and her posture changes in an instant. Whatever warmth had softened her earlier is gone now, replaced by something precise, clinical.

Her gaze sharpens. Her hands go still and steady.

“How’s your head?” she asks, voice low but even.

“Been worse,” Daryl mutters, his tone rough, almost dismissive.

She doesn’t entertain the evasion. Instead, she scoots closer. Gently, her thumb brushes along the skin near his brow, right where the edge of the gash has started to scab over.

“Look at me.”

Her fingers ghost along his jawline, tilting his face into the dim light spilling in from the kitchen.

Daryl’s eyes shift reluctantly to hers. He holds the contact, but it’s taut, uneasy, like he’s bracing for something.

“You remember what happened?” she asks, voice still measured.

He grunts. “Bits and pieces.”

She adjusts slightly, kneeling just enough to meet his line of sight more directly. Her tone stays level.

“Last thing you clearly remember?”

Daryl exhales slowly through his nose. His eyes narrow, not in annoyance, but concentration. Trying to pick through smoke and static.

“Walker came outta nowhere,” he says finally. “You were in the way.”

Sonia lifts a brow, tone flat. “Excuse me for existing.”

He doesn’t bite. Doesn’t rise to it. Just keeps sifting through the haze behind his eyes.

“Got knocked back. Split my head open on somethin’ metal,” he continues.

She gives a faint nod. “And after?”

That’s when something flickers across his face. A shift in the jaw. A flicker in his brow. Small—just tension—but Sonia catches it. Her eyes narrow, just slightly.

“I killed it,” he says. “Smashed its head in. Then…”

A pause. Longer this time. His fingers twitch where they rest on his thigh.

“Then?”

Daryl’s voice drops. Barely above a whisper.

“Gets fuzzy after that.”

Sonia doesn’t move. Doesn’t fill the silence. Just watches him.

Because she remembers all of it.

And he doesn’t.

She reaches for his wrist with careful, practiced fingers pressing lightly against his pulse point. The rhythm under her touch is steady enough, but she keeps counting anyway. Keeps him talking.

“How’d we end up here?” she asks, watching his face more than the numbers.

Daryl shifts, discomfort flickering across his brow. His gaze drifts away, scanning the room like the answer might be hiding behind a shadow or tucked between floorboards.

“You dragged my ass in here,” he mutters. “I remember you cussin’ at me.”

“Not exactly a unique memory,” she replies, deadpan.

He huffs a breath—almost a laugh—but the sound breaks off into a wince, pain flashing through his jaw as the movement jars something raw.

“Anything else?” she prompts, adjusting the angle of her thumb, eyes never leaving his face.

He’s quiet for a second. Then:

“Hearin’ you talk to the Chinese guy. Somethin’ about insulin.”

He pauses. Blinks, brow creasing faintly.

“He ain’t here, though. Right?”

Sonia's voice doesn't change. But her jaw tenses just slightly. She shakes her head, voice low but steady. “You mean Glenn. Korean guy. He’s safe. Took the insulin back to camp.”

Daryl nods, slow and heavy. The name settles in his chest like a puzzle piece that finally clicks. His hand shifts, fidgeting with something.

The dog tags.

He’s still holding them. Thumb brushing over the etched letters like it might wear the name down into something softer. Something he can ignore.

“Musta got worse after that,” he mumbles. “Don’t remember much else.”

She finishes with his wrist, releasing it gently and sitting back. Her hands fall into her lap, but she doesn’t move to leave. Just watches him. Her sharpness softens, tucked away for now.

“That’s probably for the best,” she says, tone dry. “Your vocabulary deteriorated pretty fast.”

He snorts, eyes falling shut for a beat, exhaustion dragging at his lashes.

“Yeah. Sounds right.”

Sonia lingers a second longer, watching the tags turn in his palm. Watching the quiet, unreadable pull in his face.

“Get some rest,” she murmurs. “Byte’s probably making something weird. You’ll need strength just to chew.”

Daryl grunts softly, lids half-lowered again, but there’s the faintest twitch of a smile at the edge of his mouth.

“Sounds like a threat.”

She rises slowly, the weight of the day pulling at her joints as she straightens.

“Take it however you want, Dixon,” she replies.

He settles deeper into the pillows, breathing steadier now, already drifting. Sonia watches him for a moment longer, her gaze steady, clinical. Making sure he’s stable. Alive. No signs of a second wave of concussion symptoms. No sudden shivers or pale lips.

Only then does she let herself look away.

Just as she turns, a soft thump breaks the quiet. Chair, fluid and silent, hops lightly onto the couch.

No hesitation. No sniffing or testing the waters. Just a practiced little leap and a casual curl, right into Daryl’s lap, like it’s always been hers.

Daryl twitches once, startled half-awake. Blinks down, bleary-eyed and slow, at the sudden mass of fur loafed across his thigh. One hand lifts without thinking, settling gently into the cat’s side.

Chair purrs. Loud. Immediate. Her whole body vibrates.

Sonia glances back over her shoulder. Just a flick of her eyes. Takes in the picture: Daryl Dixon, bruised and half-conscious, slouched against a pillow with a smug little cat draped over him like a crown.

Sonia's lips twitch. Not quite a smile. Not quite anything.

Then she turns away again, pauses in the doorway, arms crossed, her gaze scanning the kitchen like she’s walked into a different world. The air is warm and humid, thick with the scent of soy, ginger, and something fermented. An aroma she can’t quite place but somehow trusts. Her clothes still smell faintly of ash and cigarettes.

And she watches Byte the same way she watches a new terrain. Mapping it.

Steam curls from a battered pot like breath, clinging to Byte’s glasses as he leans over to stir. He doesn’t blink, just tilts his head slightly, unfazed by the fog veiling his view.

Beside him, on a plate that’s seen better decades, rests a slab of tofu.

It hits her immediately. The texture’s too clean, too taut. The edges too uniform to have ever come from a plastic-wrapped package.

Her brows rise slightly. Not in mockery. Genuine surprise. Admiration, even.

Of all the shit she’s seen since the world went to hell—walkers, militia assholes, hoarders with machetes—she never expected tofu in a glass tower. Let alone tofu this… competent-looking.

“You made tofu,” she says, tone quiet, a little impressed despite herself. “From scratch?”

Byte doesn’t look up from the stove. He’s stirring something with a pair of chopsticks, movement fast and sure.

“Hell yeah, I did,” he says. “Soybeans soaked two days. Ground by hand. Pressed with a rig I made from scrap metal and spite.”

Sonia huffs, a quick exhale that could be mistaken for a laugh if you didn’t know her.

“And here I thought the apocalypse was supposed to be inconvenient.”

Byte lifts the lid on a second pot, releasing a cloud of steam that smells distinctly of garlic and rice.

“It is,” he says cheerfully. “That’s why I engineered convenience.”

He flips a piece of tofu with surgical precision, letting it land with a bounce on the plate.

“Store-bought tofu’s weak anyway. This? Got structure. You could throw it at a wall and it’d bounce.”

“Very appetizing,” Sonia deadpans.

“No one respects protein engineering anymore.”

She steps further into the room, leaning her hip against the counter. Her eyes follow the rhythmic motion of his knife as he slices scallions into neat, uniform rings. Every motion Byte makes is practiced, deliberate, like this is more than just survival. It's a habit. Ritual. A comfort.

“At camp,” she says, “we’re lucky if the meat’s not still twitching when we cook it.”

Byte glances at her, interest sparking. “Wild game?”

“Mostly. Squirrels. Rabbits if we’re lucky. Possum if we’re not. We’ve got a smoker rigged to the perimeter, makes the tougher cuts manageable.” She pauses. “And canned food. Lots of canned food.”

“You cure it?”

“Sometimes. Usually just salt and pray. Depends who’s cooking.”

Byte raises an eyebrow as he stirs.

“And you?”

Sonia snorts.

“I hunt,” she says. “Someone else turns it into food. I don’t screw with the edible part. I’d rather gut a boar than dice a tomato.”

Byte slides a steaming cube of tofu onto a chipped plate, then nudges it toward her with the edge of his spatula.

“Go on,” he says. “I promise it won’t bite back.”

Sonia eyes the food like she’s evaluating a new weapon. She picks it up between two fingers, sniffs cautiously, then pops it into her mouth. Chews once. Pauses. Chews again.

“…It doesn’t suck.”

Byte beams like she just recited poetry. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Don’t get used to it,” she mutters.

“Too late. I’m already writing it down in my diary.”

He flips another piece of tofu with practiced flair, glancing sideways at her.

“Didn’t think end-of-the-world soy protein would impress someone like you.”

Sonia narrows her eyes slightly. “Someone like me?”

“No offense,” he says, gesturing vaguely in her direction, “but you’ve got that pre-apocalypse money look.”

She exhales through her nose. “That obvious?”

“You hold your fork like it cost more than my rent.”

A flicker of amusement crosses her face. “It probably did.”

“Let me guess, old money?”

“Older than that,” she replies dryly. “The kind you can’t buy new. It’s inherited or nothing.”

Byte chuckles under his breath. “Figures. You’ve got the posture of someone who’s been yelled at by a ballet teacher and a general.”

“One of each,” she says without missing a beat.

Steam coils from the skillet, dense with ginger and garlic. Byte goes back to cooking without missing a beat. His movements efficient, fluid, clearly used to doing things solo. 

“So who cooks at your little camp?”

Sonia exhales through her nose. “The women do most of the prep. Daryl and I handle the butchering. My husband thinks I shouldn’t be allowed near fire.”

That earns a pause. Byte’s brow quirks as he looks at her sideways. “Husband?”

“Yeah,” she says, lightly, as if the word weighs nothing.

There’s no ring. He notices. Glances down at her hands, then back up. She catches it and shrugs halfheartedly.

“Didn’t think it mattered.”

“You talk like a lone wolf.” A beat. Then a grin. “Didn’t peg you for the domesticated type.”

“Most people don’t.”

“You don’t say ‘we’ much.”

“I don’t do ‘we’ much.”

He slides the tofu around with one hand, wrist flicking confidently. “He back at your camp?”

“Yeah. David. He’s… probably worried shitless right now.” She pauses, searching for the right edge of the truth. “But he’s still trying. Which is more than I deserve most days.”

Byte doesn’t jump on that. Just lets it hang.

“You love him?”

Her answer comes quiet. “Yeah. I do.”

She takes a sip from her cup—something warm, herbal, faintly sweet—and sets it back down with a soft clink.

“Doesn’t mean it’s easy. Doesn’t mean I’m easy. I think I scare him half the time. Or wear him out. Maybe both.”

“So why’s he still around?”

“Because he’s stubborn. Because he’s kind. Because we built a whole life and a kid together, and I think he’s still trying to keep it all from crumbling.” Another beat. “Because he loves me more than I probably let him.”

Byte lifts an eyebrow but says nothing.

“And you?” he finally asks.

“I show it different. Not worse. Just… not with words.” She toys with the edge of a napkin, fingers flicking absently. “He likes talking things through. I like fixing them with action. Or ignoring them until I bleed out.”

A smirk ghosts across her mouth. “We’re a great couple, really.”

Weirdly enough, Byte doesn’t laugh. He just nods once, like he gets it. Like that explains something familiar.

“Yeah, well…” He scratches the back of his neck. “I’m not exactly the candlelit-dinner type either. Relationships weren’t high on the list. Too busy surviving the Georgia tech scene and playing apocalypse prepper.”

This time, she does laugh.

“So this is your element,” she says, not quite teasing.

Byte snorts. “Didn’t say I liked it. Just that I’m good at it.”

The tofu hits the pan with a satisfying sizzle, garlic and soy hissing as they hit the hot oil. He flips the pieces with quick, practiced flicks, like it’s second nature. Sonia watches out of the corner of her eye.

“You know a lot for someone your age.”

He shoots her a grin. “Too many library books. Too many weird documentaries. Not enough people worth talking to.”

“Ah,” she says dryly. “A textbook extrovert.”

Byte laughs. “Hardcore introvert. Used to spend weekends wiring shit that didn’t need to be wired. Built a pressure cooker out of scrap when I was fifteen. Nearly blew my mom’s porch off.”

She raises a brow. “So you’ve always been like this?”

“Pretty much. The world ended and I finally got interesting.”

He scrapes the tofu into a shallow bowl, tosses a handful of scallions on top, and sets three plates down like he’s done this a hundred times.

Then:

“That shit supposed to be food?” Daryl’s voice cuts in from the doorway, thick with sleep, gravel dragged across cement.

He leans one shoulder lazily against the frame, hair tousled, shirt wrinkled, a bruise darkening near his collarbone. The way he’s standing, he looks more annoyed than injured. But Sonia can tell he’s still hurting. He hides it better than most.

She turns, eyes flicking over him. Startled for half a second. Then unimpressed.

“Tofu,” Byte announces brightly, not missing a beat. “Made from scratch. You’re welcome.”

Daryl eyes the skillet like it just offered to kill him in his sleep.

“Ain’t eatin’ that.”

“You are,” Sonia says flatly, already moving to a drawer for utensils. “You’re injured. And it’s food.”

“Is it?” he mutters, dubious.

Sonia returns with forks and spoons, tossing them onto the table with precise disinterest. “You don’t have to like it,” she says. “You just have to chew.”

Daryl grunts, dragging himself forward. “I’ve eaten worse.”

“And now you’re about to eat better,” Byte repeats, still pleased with himself.

For a moment, the world narrows to a few quiet details: the hiss of oil cooling on metal, the soft scrape of plates, the creak of worn floorboards under tired boots. Lamplight spills across the room in a soft wash of gold. The city outside is still out there—waiting, broken, infected—but in here, something holds.

Sonia meets Daryl’s eyes across the table. Neither of them speaks. Her expression is unreadable. So is his.

Nothing happens.

Just a breath held too long.

Then someone exhales.

And they sit down to eat.

For a while, the only sound is chewing and Chair’s monstrous purr, a steady engine vibrating against Daryl’s knee.

Byte eats like he hasn’t in days, fast and focused, barely tasting. Daryl, on the other hand, stares down at his plate like it just insulted his mother. He pokes at a tofu cube with his fork, prods it twice, then finally lifts it to his mouth. Chews. Slowly. Swallows. His face doesn’t change.

Byte watches him, eyes glittering.

“What’s the verdict, counselor?”

Daryl doesn’t even blink. “Texture’s weird.”

Byte looks almost pleased. “That’s how you know it’s real.”

Another grunt. Daryl tests a vegetable. Something green and slick with garlic. Same slow chew. Another grunt.

“He’s alive,” Sonia says, not looking up. “That’s as close to a compliment as you’re gonna get.”

Byte leans across the table slightly, dropping his voice into a mock-conspiratorial whisper. “I could bust out the emergency spam. That stuff’s older than this building.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Daryl mutters.

Sonia raises a brow, catching the edges of a smirk as the two of them size each other up between bites, two different species of chaos. Byte is all kinetic twitch and scattered brilliance, talking like he might combust if he stops. Daryl is weight and bone and tension, a boulder with a crossbow. He only moves when it matters.

“You ever had tofu before?” Byte asks, curiosity sharp as ever.

Daryl chews another bite. Shrugs. “I eat what don’t bite me first.”

Byte snorts. “That your whole survival philosophy?”

Daryl just stares.

“Worked so far.”

Sonia nearly laughs, but doesn’t. She just chews, quiet, letting the rhythm of the room settle around her.

Chair kneads at Daryl’s thigh, utterly blissed out, purring like she owns the place. Daryl scratches behind her ear without thinking, rough fingers surprisingly gentle.

Byte clocks it, something soft flickering through his expression. But he doesn’t mention it. Just taps his chopsticks against his plate.

“You’re all right, Redneck,” he says lightly. “Thought you’d be more… stabby.”

“Didn’t say I ain’t,” Daryl replies, still not looking up.

Byte lifts both brows. “Noted.”

Silence again. The comfortable kind. No pressure to fill it.

Eventually, Byte leans back and pushes his empty plate away, cracking his knuckles with a satisfied sigh.

“You ever wanna see how I make this stuff,” he says, gesturing toward the back room, “I got the whole setup. Tofu press, hydroponics, a battery backup that only shocked me twice.”

Daryl shakes his head, unimpressed. “Don’t know what half them words mean.”

Sonia doesn’t miss a beat. “He fixes engines, Byte. Not soybeans.”

Byte just grins. “Everyone’s got a skill. Me, I keep people fed. You…” he nods at Sonia, “...shoot things.”

Then to Daryl, “And you glare folks into submission, mostly.”

That gets him. Daryl’s mouth tugs into a crooked half-smile, tired and dry.

“That, and I eat whatever’s on my plate.”

Byte lifts his chipped glass in salute.

“To that, then. No apocalypse too weird for dinner.”

Sonia clinks her chopsticks lightly to her plate in reply. It’s not quite a toast, but the ghost of one. Her eyes soften for a moment.

“Okay,” she says, sitting back a little. “Riddle me this: why Chair?”

Byte looks up, entirely too pleased with himself.

“Dead serious? It stands for Chaotic Hardware Entity Assigned In Randomness.”

She blinks at him. Flat. Silent.

“You’re so full of shit.”

He smirks, unbothered. “Would you believe me if I said it’s because she used to sleep on my old motherboard box?”

Sonia tilts her head, considering. “Maybe. That one’s at least half-plausible.”

“I like to keep you guessing.”

Chair stretches luxuriously, yawns like a smug little lion cub, and hops off Daryl’s lap without ceremony, vanishing into the darker part of the apartment, like she’s finished whatever mission brought her there. The plates are mostly cleared, save for a few scattered grains of rice. And on Sonia’s, a small, untouched pile of vegetables. Mushrooms, mostly. A few slimy-looking peppers. Texture things.

Byte notices. Doesn’t comment.

He rises and starts collecting dishes with easy efficiency.

Sonia exhales, tipping her head back slightly, fingers brushing through her hair like she’s trying to untangle her own exhaustion.

“I’m too tired to even pretend I helped.”

“That’s okay,” Byte says, stacking plates with one hand. “You radiated skepticism. That’s a kind of contribution.”

A smirk tugs at her mouth, lazy and crooked. Across from her, Daryl pushes back his chair with a low scrape and stands, stretching his shoulders with a grunt.

“Gonna wash the stink off,” he mutters, grabbing the clean towel draped over the armrest.

“Hot water’s solar-heated,” Byte says, not looking up from the sink. “Short but clean. You’re welcome.”

Daryl gives him a skeptical once-over, then disappears down the hallway. A moment later, the pipes clank to life, old metal protesting against function but ultimately cooperating.

Sonia doesn’t move yet. She lingers in the kitchen a little longer, her gaze fixed on the flickering candle near the wall. Her thumb circles the chipped edge of her cup, slow and absent, like she’s tracing a memory that isn’t hers.

Then, finally, she stands.

No big motion. No fanfare. Just the soft drag of her palm leaving the table, the quiet flex of sore knees straightening as she reaches for the bedroom door without thinking. It’s late. Her bow’s already leaning against the frame, boots half-kicked off beneath it. All she wants is five hours of sleep and maybe, if the stars align, a pillow that doesn’t smell like damp wool.

But then.

The bathroom door opens behind her.

She doesn’t turn.

Doesn’t have to.

The air shifts before anything else, steam rolling out like breath, warm and clean and threaded with the scent of soap. There’s the faint sound of water dripping, a bare step against the floor, the soft rustle of fabric as he adjusts the towel around his neck.

She looks.

Just a glance.

But it’s enough.

Daryl stands in the half-light of the hallway lamp someone forgot to shut off. Hair slicked back, still damp. Shirtless. The towel slung carelessly over his shoulder like it grew there. Light catches the faint scar that cuts across his ribs, the fading bruise on his shoulder. His whole frame drawn sharp. Collarbones, stomach, every inch of him sketched in bone and tension, like a rough draft someone refused to soften.

He pauses.

And so does she.

It’s not a stare.

Not friendly. Not evaluating.

Just aware.

Electric.

A breath held too long.

His eyes catch hers. Hold. Then, slowly, drop. Trail down to the hem of her shirt, then back up again, a flicker too deliberate to be casual.

The silence crackles. Fills the space between them like a live wire, sparking without sound.

Sonia blinks.

Hard.

Then shakes it off like rain.

She’s married. She’s exhausted. Her brain is rewiring itself on adrenaline and too much silence. It’s not attraction. No, no, it’s nerves. It’s heat and blood and survival chemistry.

She’s admired plenty of men before. David knows that. They’ve laughed about it, even. Said she has a “type.” (Spoiler: Daryl isn’t it. Not really.)

But still.

Her eyes linger.

Just a second too long.

And that’s all she lets herself feel.

Only when the bedroom door clicks shut behind her does she exhale sharply, like she’s been holding it since that first glance.

And even then, it’s not enough to clear whatever the hell that was from her lungs.

She’s married.

She’s tired.

Fuck.

And apparently, she’s not sleeping tonight.

Chapter Text

He’s by the door when she rounds the corner.

Same clothes. Same chipped mug in his hand. Same scowl stamped across his face like it woke up there.

But something’s different.

It’s in the way he stands. Too still, too stiff. Like he’s already half gone. Like the conversation hasn’t even started and he’s already decided not to be in it.

“You good to head to the quarry today?” Sonia asks.

He doesn’t look at her. Just keeps his gaze fixed somewhere out the window, or maybe on nothing at all.

“Don’t need lookin’ after,” Daryl mutters.

The words hit… flat. Like they’ve been scraped clean of any real feeling.

She stays where she is. Arms loose at her sides, posture casual, but watching him.

“Didn’t ask if you needed it,” she says, voice even. “I asked if you’re good.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just takes a sip of cold coffee like it might give his hands something to do, something to ground himself.

“I’ll manage,” he says.

And that’s all.

Sonia doesn’t move. Her eyes track him, noticing the lack of limp, the steadiness of his footing, the way he doesn’t flinch or shift his weight. Physically, he’s fine. Better than he should be, really.

But something’s off.

Not the usual quiet. Not that grounded silence he carries like a tool belt.

This is different.

This is withdrawal.

“You hit your head again, and I’m leaving you in a ditch,” she says calmly. “If you start slurring your words mid-fight, that’s on you.”

“Sounds about right,” he mutters.

Okay, cool.

She leads the way to the room Byte has insisted earlier they must come in before they leave.

The moment Sonia steps into the workshop, it hits her.

Not the smell, though that’s there too. Rust and dust and old motor oil, the kind that seeps into everything and never quite fades. It’s the order.

Everything in the room has been bent, stripped, sharpened, painted, or bolted down with purpose. Nothing lies idle. Even the clutter looks curated. Old wiring spools hang in loops from what used to be a curtain rod. Broken fan blades have been hammered into the shape of scythes. License plates—dozens of them, maybe hundreds—cover the walls in rough rows, punched with new holes, edges sanded or still jagged. Georgia. Ohio. Texas. South Carolina. Some are rusted and pitted with age; others gleam like scale armor, lacquered to a shine. He’s turned state bureaucracy into body armor.

As she takes a step further in, sees that the whole apartment has been stripped of furniture. No couch, no table, just concrete floor and makeshift workbenches. Where a bed might’ve once been, there’s a long slab of plywood propped on sawhorses, covered in weapons. Not guns, no. There’s a row of handmade blades lined on a sheet of black cloth. Some are clean and elegant: perfectly ground kitchen knives, narrow machetes, even what looks like a repurposed fencing foil. Others are messier: screwdriver shivs with hockey tape grips, chunks of rebar filed to a cruel point, curved tools made from bike parts and crowbars. Balanced. Sharpened. Clearly tested.

On the far wall, an old cracked whiteboard leans at an angle, half buckled from humidity. It’s covered in scrawled notes. Sonia tilts her head, reading upside down. "test coil rig again", "EMP bait?", "check mesh conductivity" "not too Mad Max".

The last one is underlined twice, like Byte’s trying to remind himself he still has taste.

Sonia’s eyes flick past the notes to a strange mannequin rig set up in the corner, its duct-taped limbs dangling from hooks above a vest made of welded plates. It's heavy, clunky, and too slow for real use but it’d stop a bite. Maybe even a bullet. Probably weighs thirty pounds.

The armor looks like it’s been punched, stabbed, maybe shot. Field-tested, in Byte’s own way. The man is either a genius or a lunatic. Maybe both.

She kicks a stray bolt out of her path and glances over her shoulder.

“This where all the license plates went?” she mutters.

Byte, crouched near the floor with his back to her, doesn’t look up. He’s wrist-deep in some sort of barbed gauntlet, turning a screwdriver with precision more suited to surgery than scrap work.

“Better here than rusting on a Corolla,” he says.

This apartment’s for weaponry. She’d bet another one’s rigged for gardening. One for storage. One for sleeping. One, probably, just for tinkering with things that explode.

The kind of control freak who organizes the apocalypse.

And Sonia, of all people, can’t help but respect that.

She circles the table, eyes landing on the gauntlet Byte’s been working on. It’s brutal-looking, curved metal, barbed edges, ugly and mean. She leans down, studying the sweep of the blade embedded into the forearm rig.

“You know that curve’s gonna snag inside a skull, right?”

Byte doesn’t look up. “Only if you bury it too deep.”

“Or swing too wide,” she replies, tone even. “That kind of hook’s for tearing, not stabbing. Great for intimidation. Terrible for clean kills.”

“Not everything’s gotta be clean,” he says, still focused on tightening a bolt. “Sometimes messy sends a message.”

She snorts. “To walkers?”

That gives him pause. Then he smirks, just a little. “Maybe I like the flair.”

Sonia moves around the table and picks up a half-finished bracer from the bench. She tilts it under the light, fingers brushing over the welds with something close to reverence. 

“It’s good metal,” she says. “Would’ve worked better straight. Quick jab under the jaw, or between ribs. Less chance it gets stuck.”

“And what fun is that?” Byte asks.

She looks at him, deadpan. “The fun part is staying alive.”

Turning the piece in her hands, she runs a finger along the rivets, checking spacing, balance. Then she nods.

“You’re getting better. Welds are tighter. This one might actually survive a walker bite.”

“High praise,” Byte says, eyebrows raised, “coming from you.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Sonia replies. “You still drilled the anchor too close to the wrist. Someone’s gonna lose mobility.”

“Someone?”

She sets the gauntlet down with a soft clunk and gives him a flat look.

“Not me,” she says. “I don’t let my weapons control me.”

Byte whistles, low and amused. “Alright, alright. Next one’ll be smarter.”

“Next one better be lighter,” she adds, smirking faintly. “Unless you want to tire out before you hit the brain stem.”

Daryl picks up the compact crossbow from the bench, tests the string with a frown. “This some kinda kid’s toy?”

Byte doesn’t look up. “Medieval replica. Found the base in a tourist trap. Reinforced the prod with spring steel. Shoots decent… if you squint real hard and pray.”

Sonia crosses her arms, casually watching. “Draw weight’s pathetic. Forty pounds if you’re lucky. You’d have to shove it in a walker’s mouth to get a kill.”

Byte grins. “You say that like I haven’t done it.”

Daryl turns the crossbow over in his hands, inspecting the handmade trigger mechanism, the bolt catch, the way the limbs sit. His mouth pulls tighter. “This thing ain’t gonna hit shit past fifteen yards.”

“That’s generous, honestly,” Byte replies. He taps the side of his glasses. “My depth perception’s garbage. These aren’t for fashion. One eye’s nearsighted, one’s got a stigmatism. I’m basically aiming with a coin flip.”

Sonia steps in, fingertips brushing the limb curve, the angle of the stock. She checks one of the bolts, balances it lightly on her palm, then snorts.

“Your fletching’s uneven. And you cut the nock too shallow. That’s why they’re veering.”

“You always critique weapons like they’re art projects?”

She shrugs. “Only when they’re this doomed.”

Daryl grunts, handing the crossbow back to Byte. “It’s light. Quiet. Might get you one save if you’re lucky. Two if you’re smart.”

Byte takes it with a shrug. “Yeah, well, I’m better with traps anyway. Less need for depth perception, more need for... paranoia.”

He gestures toward a nearby pegboard full with bolts, modified slingshot rigs, weird configurations of rubber and wire that don’t look remotely stable. Sonia eyes a few. Unimpressed, but curious enough to lean in.

“You ever kill anything with these?”

“A possum. Once. Also scared the shit out of a guy in a stairwell. That count?”

Daryl doesn’t even blink. “No.”

Byte looks between the two of them: Daryl, all silence and scowl, and Sonia, cool and surgical, eyes sharp with judgment.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You two are like the ghost of competence past and future.”

“Don’t lump me in with him,” Sonia says, not even looking at him.

Daryl doesn’t rise to it. But he watches her now sharp, narrow-eyed. Like he’s trying to decide if she means it.

Sonia steps forward and plucks the crossbow from Byte’s hands without asking. She checks the weight, sightline, and balance with the ease of someone who’s done this more times than she can count. A flick of her wrist and the bolt’s already set, her eyes landing on the makeshift target: a torn sheet of paper taped to a concrete pillar across the room.

“You mind?” she asks, dry.

Byte straightens slightly, half-defensive, half-hopeful. “If it explodes, I want the record to show I warned you.”

She doesn’t bother answering. Just raises the crossbow, adjusts for the warped limb and the shallow nock, calculating the flaw mid-breath. She exhales.

Fires.

The bolt punches through the center of the paper’s skull. Dead on.

Byte blinks. “...Okay, so, showoff.”

Sonia shrugs, already handing it back like she’s bored. “Sight’s off three degrees right. I just compensated.”

Daryl, leaning near the door with arms crossed, watches her now with something colder under the surface. Definitely not impressed, maybe uneasy?

“You used one of those before?” he asks.

“Started on recurves when I was a kid," she says, wiping her hands on her jeans. “Compound’s better. But I make do.”

She doesn’t look pleased with herself. Doesn’t even glance back at the target.

Byte leans toward Daryl, voice low. “See, I knew she was terrifying.”

Sonia hears him. Doesn’t smile. “You want it re-tuned, I’ll fix it. Or I can just show you how to build one that won’t jam.”

Byte grins. “Deal. But I’m keeping the spikes. For the vibes.”

She hands the crossbow back, grip light but deliberate.

“You sure you don’t want to come with us?” she asks, voice dry with the faintest trace of playfulness. “We’re actually pretty cool.”

Byte snorts. “Cool like tetanus and unresolved trauma?”

“Yup.”

He sets the crossbow on the bench and leans forward, bracing his palms against the edge like he’s steadying more than just his weight.

“I’m good here,” he says. “City’s loud, yeah, but it’s my loud. I know every creak in this building. Every blind corner. Got tomatoes upstairs, and a sink that still spits water if I threaten it right.”

Sonia nods once, slow. “Could use someone like you.”

Byte lifts a shoulder. Shrugs, but there’s something intentional behind it. “You’ve already got people. That’s enough risk for one apocalypse.”

She watches him for a long beat. No judgment. No pressure. Just a quiet sort of respect.

“Doors stay open, Byte. That’s all I’m saying.”

He gives her a lazy salute. “And I appreciate it. But I’m a better ally than I am a roommate.”

Near the doorway, Daryl shifts his weight with a quiet grunt.

“ Heard that,” he mutters.

Byte doesn’t miss a beat. “You’re welcome for the insight, Grandpa.”

Daryl grunts again, noncommittal and unbothered.

Sonia just rolls her eyes. She turns toward the exit, tightening the strap on her quiver as she moves.

“Keep the glasses clean,” she calls over her shoulder. “Don’t shoot yourself in the foot. And if you die stupidly, I’ll come back and laugh at your bones.”

“Hey, got something for the road.”

Byte’s voice calls from the workshop behind them, and both Sonia and Daryl glance back. He’s stepping through the doorway, one hand curled around a strange little object. It’s small, about the size of a fist, cobbled together from scavenged parts: the plastic shell of a kid’s toy, wires jutting out like snapped whiskers, a cracked stereo volume knob, and, yes, jingle bells.

He grins like a kid unveiling a science fair project. “Call it the Banshee.”

Sonia blinks. “It has googly eyes.”

“Exactly two,” Byte says proudly. “For balance.”

Daryl squints. “What the hell does it do?”

Without hesitation, Byte tosses it toward Sonia. She catches it on reflex, it rattles in her hand, something inside shifting like a marble rolling loose in a tin can.

“You twist the dial, hit the switch, and chuck it,” Byte explains. “Timer goes off, and then it screams, spins, flashes, and plays a Barbie karaoke sample at full blast for thirty seconds.”

Sonia stares at it, slow and skeptical. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“And yet,” Byte winks “,walkers love it. Follow it like moths to a bug zapper.”

Daryl grunts. “You test this?”

“Twice. Third time it caught fire,” Byte says, as if that’s a bonus. “But that was mostly intentional.”

Sonia turns the device in her hand, eyebrows raised. “You made a walker magnet with attitude.”

“Ain’t that what you needed?”

She huffs softly, then slides the thing into one of her side pouches with surprising care.

“If this thing starts singing Aqua,” she says, “I’m coming back to haunt you.”

Byte grins. “Come back anyway. You’re good for the atmosphere.”

Daryl snorts. “Let’s go before it gets weird again.”

Sonia pushes open the rooftop door and steps out into the open. The wind hits immediately. It’s stronger up here, sharper. It tugs at her clothes, lifts strands of hair from her braid. The sky is wide and clear, too bright for comfort. No cover. No shadows to hide in.

She pauses, eyes narrowing as she scans the next rooftop. It sits a level lower. Ten feet across, maybe a little more. A jump she could make. She’s done worse, in worse boots. But there’s no margin for hesitation. You screw up here, you fall.

Behind her, the door creaks again. Daryl steps out. Quiet. Slower than usual. His gait’s steady, but tight, his shoulders hunched slightly, like the wind bothers him more than it should.

The air between them shifts.

Something’s off. Not broken, just… pulled back. Held close to the chest.

Sonia doesn’t ask. Not yet.

She just steps toward the ledge and tests the distance with her eyes. Calculating. Preparing. Because whatever this feeling is—whatever’s going on behind Daryl’s silence—it’s not just the wind.

“Next roof,” Sonia says quietly. “Two more after that, there’s a fire ladder. Drops us behind a pharmacy.”

Daryl doesn’t answer. Just shifts the crossbow on his shoulder, the strap digging in.

“Six arrows,” she offers. “You?”

“Three.” His voice is rough. “One’s bent.”

“Don’t miss.”

Still no reaction. No smirk, no dry comeback. Just the faint twitch of his jaw, like it costs him something not to respond.

She studies him for a second longer. The way he’s holding himself. Tight, unreadable. Not limping. Not swaying. But not right either.

“You sure you’re good?”

“Said I’ll manage.”

A nod from her. She draws her bowstring, tests the tension. Focus shifts forward again.

“We move fast,” she says. “Quiet. Stay high. No hero shit.”

Daryl adjusts his vest, eyes fixed ahead. Doesn’t look at her.

“Ain’t the one makes noise.”

That one lands harder than it should. She doesn’t show it.

She steps to the ledge, eyes narrowing as she checks the gap again. No room left for hesitation.

“I go first.”

She backs up a few paces. Breath steady. Legs loose. Locks onto the next roof like it’s already hers.

Then she runs.

One clean leap. No stumble, no doubt.

She lands hard, rolls through the momentum, and comes up light on her feet. 

Then turns.

Daryl’s still at the edge.

Not bracing.

Not moving.

“Clock’s ticking,” Sonia says, voice low and clipped.

Daryl mutters something under his breath, nothing she catches. He adjusts the crossbow again, like it’s heavier than it was ten minutes ago. Then he moves. Not fast. Not steady. A jog, maybe. Nothing like his usual pace.

When he jumps, it’s not clean.

He barely clears the gap. Lands hard, knees locking, shoulder pitching forward from the impact. It’s ugly. Nearly dangerous.

“Graceful,” she says flatly.

He exhales, rough and sharp through his nose, but still won’t meet her eyes.

They move again. She leads. Light-footed, focused. He follows slower, uneven. Dragging a little on the right side.

“Your head still ringing?”

“I’m fine,” he snaps.

Too fast.

They reach the next ledge. A shorter jump. Sonia doesn’t pause, just takes it in stride, lands with the same practiced ease, and turns immediately.

Daryl’s still on the other side.

He closes his eyes for a beat. Not long. Just enough. Then shakes his head, small, tight.

Sonia narrows her eyes.

“Daryl.”

He jumps.

Worse this time. His foot hits too far back, and his center of gravity swings forward. He stumbles, catches himself one-handed on the edge. 

“You’re not fine,” she says quietly.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Daryl mutters.

Sonia doesn’t look at him. “Didn’t say you did.”

They stand there a moment, boots steady on worn rooftop gravel, the wind pulling at their clothes. Somewhere below, the city groans. Steel bending, distant echoes shifting through empty streets.

“If you pass out while we’re surrounded,” she says, voice flat, “I’ll shoot you myself. Save the trouble.”

A faint smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Sure you ain’t already thinkin’ about it?”

She lets the silence stretch, not giving him anything. Then, without even a glance, she says, “I only shoot clean. You’re not worth wasting an arrow on right now.”

He huffs. Not quite a laugh. Still doesn’t look at her.

Sonia moves again, light on her feet. But this time, she keeps him in her periphery. Watching.

The last rooftop looms just ahead: ten feet across, a full story down. The roof opposite angles steep, covered in weather-warped shingles that look ready to peel off with a breath. No cover. No give. No forgiveness.

She crouches at the ledge, eyes narrowing. She could make it. She would make it. The bleeding is better now, her body was trained for this shit.

She glances over her shoulder.

Daryl’s just reaching her, slower now. 

“You won’t land it,” she says, voice flat.

He doesn’t argue. Just squints at the gap, then back at her. Says nothing.

Still that silence.

She exhales. One sharp nod. “Alright. Down it is.”

He doesn’t move.

“You’ve got four bolts. One’s shit. I’ve got six arrows.” Her tone cools further. “Not wasting any of them on your corpse.”

She turns. Walks past him toward the rooftop door.

No protest this time. Just the sound of his footsteps trailing hers.

She grabs the handle.

The door creaks open.

A walker lunges out.

Fast, too fast, a blur of yellow teeth and peeling skin. Sonia jerks back instinctively, but it’s already on her, slamming her against the frame with dead weight and desperate force.

Its jaws snap inches from her throat.

She shoves her forearm under its chin, hard, locking the angle. Teeth clack against leather. Too close. Too loud. Spit strings from its mouth to her cheek. Its breath is a wall of rot and blood. Skin slips beneath her grip, wet and tacky.

The walker thrashes, fingers clawing at her jacket, splitting its own nails in the process. One rotted thumb jams into her collarbone like a rusty nail. Her hand scrambles for her belt—knife, gun, anything—but the pressure is relentless, suffocating.

It snarls. Gore leaks from the corner of its shredded mouth, dripping onto her chest.

She’s barely holding it back.

Its teeth snap again, this time so close she feels the rush of air against her jaw.

Chapter Text

She grits her teeth, keeps the walker at arm’s length.

Elbows locked. Biceps burning. Her boots skid against the concrete, barely holding.

The dead thing snarls, jaws snapping inches from her face, its hot breath reeking of rot and blood.

She grunts, twists her hips, tries to gain leverage—

One hand still locked under its jaw, the other scrabbling down for her belt.

Knife. Knife.

Her fingers fumble over the hilt, slippery with sweat. She’s almost got it—

The walker lunges harder. Her grip slips—

THWIP.

The bolt slices through the air beside her head, close enough to part a few strands of her hair.

It hits home with a wet crunch. Skull shattered.

The walker drops like dead freight. Limbs thudding against the floor, still twitching.

Sonia stays still. Hand frozen on her knife.

Breathing hard.

Then, slowly, she lifts her eyes and turns her head toward Daryl.

“You tryin’ to scare me straight or just cut it short?”

Her tone is flat, unreadable. But the tension still coils tight in her neck, in her jaw, in the tremble in her fingers.

Daryl doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t say a word.

He steps past her, plants a boot on the corpse’s shoulder, and yanks the bolt out in one sharp, clean pull.

Crack of bone. Gush of ruined tissue.

Still no response. Just the faint clink of metal as he resets the bolt and turns toward the stairs.

Sonia exhales slow through her nose. Shakes the tension from her arms. Then reaches back, unhooks her bow with a smooth, practiced motion.

Arrow already nocked. She doesn’t wait.

Steps past Daryl. Takes the lead.

No protest. Just the creak of boots on concrete as he falls in behind her.

They descend in silence.

Each stair groans under their weight. The air thickens. Musty, metallic, faint whiffs of mildew and old blood clinging to the drywall.

Half a floor down: movement.

A walker shuffles from the corner landing, arms rising in that twitchy, slow stagger.

Sonia draws. Releases.

THWIP.

The arrow punches clean through its eye socket. It drops without a sound.

She reaches it in three strides. One boot planted on its skull.

She pulls the arrow free, then flicks the gore off with a sharp snap of her wrist.

No words. No glances back.

She keeps moving.

Daryl follows.

And the silence holds like a thread pulled tight between them.

They slip out the stairwell door and into the harsh daylight and the heat hits like a slap.

The alley’s narrow. Stifling.

Concrete walls on both sides rise like jaws, trapping the smell of garbage rot, piss, scorched oil, something else that might’ve once been human.

A rusting dumpster squats near the corner. They drop low behind it. Flies scatter. Something wet squelches under Sonia’s boot.

She doesn’t look down. Doesn’t need to. Her nose already tells her it’s worse than garbage.

Ahead, the alley stretches maybe thirty feet, just wide enough for a single car to have made it through before the end of the world.

And there it is.

A beat-up blue sedan. Crooked. Blocked in by a toppled fence and a dead fire escape.

The only way out.

But the space between them and the car is packed. Two dozen walkers, maybe more, drifting in slow, erratic clusters. Some stand still, swaying. Others shamble. One drags its foot with a rubbery slap. A few claw absently at the walls, fingernails worn to pulp.

Tight quarters. No clean angles. No cover past the dumpster.

Sonia exhales through her nose. Quiet. Controlled. Daryl crouches beside her. Pulls a bolt from his hip sheath, eyes tracking movement, calculating range.

Neither speaks.

Because they both see it now:

There’s no path around.

No distractions left.

No margin for error.

And once they step out of cover, they’ll only have seconds.

Seconds before the whole alley turns and devours them.

Daryl mutters it low, almost to himself.

“Ain’t no damn way through.”

Sonia doesn’t flinch. Her gaze remains locked ahead. No open lane. No good shots. Not unless they wanted to crawl over bodies to get there.

“Not without drawing them,” she says flatly.

She’s already calculating angles, weak spots, how many she can take before they close ranks. How many she can retrieve, too. Every arrow has to count now.

Daryl shifts beside her, close enough that she hears the slight creak of his vest when he exhales. His voice stays low.

“We go loud, they dogpile.”

She nods once. “If you’ve got a better plan…”

No reply.

She reaches down, fingers brushing the edge of her pouch. Finds the warped metal of Byte’s walker-lure, a bundle of wires and taped plastic that shouldn’t work but somehow does.

“Could use the Banshee.”

Daryl huffs. “Sure. If you wanna hand-deliver it.”

Sonia ignores the sarcasm. Eyes the alley again. “We shoot it far enough, they follow.”

Daryl measures the shot. Then glances at the thing in her hand. “Arrow won’t fly right. Too light.”

“Your bolts are thicker,” she says. “More stable.”

“You shoot cleaner.”

“You’ve got the steadier hand.”

He scoffs. “You just don’t wanna let go of control.”

She turns her head. Looks at him.

“Don’t project.”

He doesn’t rise to it.

Doesn’t smirk.

Just pulls a bolt free. His fingers are sure, practiced. Takes the Banshee from her, weights it in his hand like he’s already adjusting for drag and pull. 

She watches as he ties it off, checks the tension. His brow furrows in concentration.

And when it’s ready—just before he lifts the crossbow—he finally looks at her.

No words. Just a look. She meets it head-on. The kind of look that says: If this goes wrong, I’ll fix it. And if I can’t, I’ll go down trying.

Then Daryl’s eyes wander to the car, jaw tight.

“That thing don’t even look like it wants to start.”

Sonia doesn’t glance his way. Her focus is on the alley.

“We won’t know 'til we’re in it.”

He huffs, low and grim.

“We get there and it don’t turn over…”

A beat.

“We’re dead.”

Sonia draws an arrow, nocks it clean, calm.

“So let’s not fuck up the first part.”

Daryl crouches behind the rusted metal post at the alley’s edge, bolt loaded. The Banshee’s jury-rigged body clicks against the shaft, too light to be stable, too loud not to matter. His jaw’s clenched like he’s grinding the decision down to dust, and his knuckles are whiter than bone.

Sonia stands just behind him, bow half-raised, posture rigid but fluid, ready to move, ready to kill. Her eyes stay locked on the nearest walker, already drifting a little too close.

“You miss,” she murmurs low, “we’re dead.”

Daryl doesn’t flinch. “You got a hell of a bedside manner.”

“I’m not a nurse.”

The wind shifts, and the stink of rot comes stronger, like something wet baking on pavement. A few walkers shuffle closer, arms loose at their sides, jaws already working at the scent in the air.

Daryl exhales slow, like he’s trying to steady more than his hands.

“You always talk this much right before a bad idea?”

“Only when I don’t trust the aim.”

His head turns just slightly, enough for her to catch the edge of his glare, dry and sharp beneath his brow. “Then shut up and cover me.”

She lifts her bow without another word. The arrow lines up fast, the string drawn taut with quiet precision. Her breath barely stirs the air.

“On you,” she says, voice clipped.

Daryl inhales once, chest rising slow. Then he fires.

The bolt arcs wide. For a heartbeat, nothing, then it clatters against concrete, metal scraping stone.

And then:

“I’m a Barbie girl… in a Barbie world…” 

The alley lights up in flashes of color, spinning strobes bouncing off brick and blood. The Banshee shrieks, distorted and too loud, and every dead head turns in eerie, perfect sync.

Twenty-five rotting faces whip toward the noise.

Sonia’s arrow doesn’t waver. “Jesus Christ.”

Daryl’s already pushing forward. “Go.”

They sprint.

Sonia’s out first, boots slamming hard against concrete. She ducks beneath a low pipe, skirts the edge of a slumped corpse without breaking stride. Daryl’s right behind her. His footfalls fall heavier, breath sharp and ragged, the sound of his boots scattering gravel.

The walkers are already reacting. Some stagger forward, some lurch with sudden speed, teeth bared, hands swiping the air where they’d just been.

They have no time to aim.

She lifts her bow mid-run, looses one arrow point-blank into a walker’s face. Doesn’t wait to watch it fall. Another one swings from the left, she plants her foot, spins, and drives the next arrow straight through its eye socket. It jerks, spasms, and drops.

No time to retrieve.

Another walker cuts too close.

Daryl grabs it by the collar and drives it face-first into the side of the dumpster with a wet, meaty crunch. He stomps the skull once for good measure, the bone gives under his boot like a rotted melon. He yanks a bolt from his belt. Fires again. One down. Reload.

Sonia looses her last arrow into the gut of a snarling walker. Not ideal, but it stumbles just enough for Daryl to finish it with a bolt to the head.

They break past the final cluster, barreling toward the car.

Sonia hits the driver’s side. Yanks open the door. Slides in.

Daryl slams the passenger side, already twisting to check the alley behind them. “Ten. Maybe twelve still movin’—”

Locks click.

Sonia jams the key into the ignition. Her breath fogs the inside of the windshield, sweat dripping from her temple as she turns it.

The engine coughs.

Growls.

Then chokes and dies.

A beat of dead silence.

Outside, the walkers pause. Twitch. Begin to turn.

Their heads pivot slowly toward the sound.

Sonia stares through the windshield, hands still gripping the wheel. Her bow’s across her lap. Empty.

“...You have got to be kidding me,” she mutters.

Daryl’s already moving, the glovebox slams open, slams shut. He drops down fast, knees against the floor mat, knife already flicked open in one hand, the other vanishing under the steering column. Metal clinks. Wires spark.

“Starter wire’s loose,” he growls through clenched teeth.

Outside, boots slap against pavement, then something heavier.

SLAM.

A walker hits the hood face-first, jaw snapping inches from the glass. Bone and gore smear the windshield.

Another one crashes into the passenger window. The glass flexes, shudders under the bloody face mashed against it, teeth scraping in a wet, rhythmic gnaw.

Inside, it’s boiling. Breath-fog and fear.

Daryl’s hand jerks. Sparks fly again, dancing off his knuckles.

“Gotta ground it—just—” he snaps, “shut up a second—”

Sonia doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just shifts her grip on her last arrow, now just a blade in her palm. Her fingers are tight around it, knuckles white, arm trembling from restraint. Her breath is measured, forced, controlled.

“You’ve got one second,” she mutters.

Daryl growls. “Then stop breathing on my neck.”

Another slam, the rear window this time. Nails screech down the glass.

Then,

THUMP. Something drops onto the roof.

The whole car rocks under the weight.

They can hear it moving, dragging itself across the roof like a dog with broken legs. Its fists pound once, twice, on the metal above.

Daryl’s hands are lightning, one twist, then another. His knife slips. He swears.

“Come on, come on…”

The wires snap together.

The engine coughs. Chokes.

But then it ROARS.

Daryl’s head jerks up. “Drive!”

Sonia doesn’t hesitate. She slams her foot down.

Rubber shrieks. The car surges forward. Walkers vanish in the dust behind them.

The road stretches out in front of them, fractured and overgrown, heat lifting in visible waves from the cracked asphalt. Trees blur past in green and shadow, the world moving too fast and not fast enough all at once.

Inside the car, it’s quiet. Not the peaceful kind but emptied. Adrenaline drains slow, leaving the tremor behind. The engine hums steady beneath them, a low vibration through the floor.

“So,” she says, eyes fixed on the road. Her hands stay locked on the wheel, knuckles white. Her foot doesn’t ease up. Dust coils behind them, erased almost as soon as it’s made. “Why’d you come?”

“You said I had to or you were gonna shoot me in the face.”

Her jaw tightens. “I meant after that. To the city.”

He looks at her for a long moment. She catches it out of the corner of her eye.

“Why’d you save me?” he says. “Could’ve left me. Saved yourself and the boy.”

“Wasn’t an option.” A shrug. Like it’s obvious.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s right.”

She glances at him then, just for a second. Concussion or not, they’re cut from the same cloth.

“Well… thank you.” Her eyes return to the road.

No. Byte was wrong. You don’t survive alone. You survive with people. And you survive with people like Daryl.

He grumbles something in reply.

The sedan crunches to a stop just outside the quarry lot. Dust billows, clinging to the heat. Sonia’s hands stay on the wheel even after the engine dies, like letting go might bring the whole thing down.

The driver’s door opens.

Her eyes lift slowly, heavy as stone.

David.

He’s running toward her, already calling her name. She hears it this time. The way his voice cracks. The panic and disbelief all tangled up in it.

“Sonia? Oh my god—Sonia—”

She barely gets the door open before he’s there. Hands on her arms. On her face. Holding her like he’s afraid she might vanish again.

She lets him.

She lets herself sag forward, forehead pressing against his shoulder, hands fisting in his shirt like she needs to feel the seams to believe he’s real. For a moment, she breathes. Just breathes.

Behind him,

Sophie.

Their daughter stands frozen a few paces away, wide-eyed, hands clenched in the hem of her shirt.

Sonia reaches. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t have to. Sophie launches forward and wraps herself around her mother’s waist like she’s afraid someone will pry her away.

Sonia’s eyes flutter shut. She wraps both arms around Sophie, presses a kiss into her hair. It smells like sweat and old smoke and safety. Her knees nearly buckle with the relief of it.

There’s a voice calling Glenn’s name. Shane shouting something. She hears it now. She hears all of it.

For just a second, she lets herself believe she made it back to her family.

And then she sees it.

The blanket.

Two men. One woman.

They’re carrying a shape.

Limp.

Arm dangling. Fingernails she recognizes.

She goes cold.

She watches the body move across the gravel, blanket-covered, light in all the wrong ways. Like Grace was never really there to begin with. Just the echo of her.

Voices rise and fall, but Sonia’s brain doesn’t register them as words. Just shape and volume.

Just color and heat and dust.

She feels her heartbeat in her molars.

David’s still talking. His hands on her arms now, trying to ground her but she’s already somewhere else.

Above.

Watching herself from a few feet off the ground.

Like her skin’s too tight, too loud. Like her body’s a room she forgot how to live in.

Everything feels bright and grainy.

As if she’s inside a photograph that hasn’t finished developing.

Someone touches her shoulder. She doesn’t flinch this time. Doesn’t move at all.

There’s something sharp in her chest, but it doesn’t hurt yet.

It just is.

She hears herself say it before she even realizes her mouth is moving.

“Too late.”

There is no emphasis. No emotion. Just data.

Just another fact to file away in the dark.

Chapter Text

It’s gotta be close to noon, far as Daryl can tell. The light’s sharp, heavy. Still too damn bright for his head.

They’d just come back from checking snares. Him and Sonia. Got two rabbits and a possum. Good enough.

Now he’s at the skinning table near the edge of camp. Sonia stepped off a minute ago. Didn’t say why, and he didn’t ask. Not his business.

There’s a kid perched on a flat boulder just past the table. Quiet. Head on her knees, arms looped around. Hair that weird color between blonde and brown. Sunlight keeps catching it, making it shift. Might’ve been cleaner once, but now it’s dull and tangled like everybody else’s.

She looks maybe ten. Could be younger. He’s not great at guessing ages. They all look small lately.

He doesn’t know who she’s with. Seen her around camp. Always alone. Could be Shane’s, for all he knows. Or someone else’s.

She just sits there, watching him.

Daryl doesn’t say a word. Just works the knife slow through the rabbit’s hide, careful not to waste the pelt. The skin peels clean with a soft, wet sound.

Still, she doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

Silence stretches between them. It’s tight, but not uncomfortable.

For now.

Daryl slices through tendon, pulls the rabbit’s leg back with a quiet crack. The kid’s still there. Hasn’t flinched, hasn’t looked away. Just sittin’ there with that stare too sharp for her size.

He doesn’t look up when he mutters, “You ain’t got somewhere else to be?”

She shrugs. Doesn’t even lift her head off her knees.

“Thought they were catchin’ frogs.”

“Not my thing.”

He grunts, keeps working. Silence falls again, broken only by the soft scrape of blade on bone.

After a beat, he glances her way. “You always watch people skin things?”

“Only if they know what they’re doing.”

He side-eyes her, one brow barely ticking up. Smartass. She’s just sittin’ there, legs swinging off the edge of the rock like it’s nothing.

“You skin a lotta possums?”

“Deer, mostly.” Her voice is calm. Matter-of-fact. “Grandpa showed me. If you cut too deep, you’ll nick the scent gland. Makes the meat taste like piss.”

His knife stills for a second. That answer wasn’t rehearsed.

He looks at her, really looks.

“…Yeah,” he says after a moment. “That’s right.”

She just nods. All business. No smile. No pride behind it, either. Like she didn’t just earn a sliver of his respect.

“You’re pullin’ too hard on the haunch,” the girl says. “Gotta work the knife under, not rip it.”

Daryl doesn’t answer. Just pauses a second, eyes flicking to her like he’s about to tell her off but then back down to the carcass. He shifts his grip, adjusts the angle. The blade glides smoother this time. Cleaner.

The silence settles again. The way it is when two people know what they’re doing and don’t need to talk about it.

Sonia comes back a minute later. Sees the kid still perched on the rock, flicks her hand through the girl’s hair in passing. It’s absent, familiar.

“Hey, mouse,” she says. “Why don’t you go find your dad and work on your French, huh?”

The girl nods. Doesn’t say a word. Just slips off the rock and walks off like it’s routine, like she’s used to leaving when told, no pushback. Sonia watches her go for a second, then crouches down beside Daryl without another glance.

She pulls a knife. Starts working on one of the smaller catches from the snares, quiet, efficient.

“I don’t even know why I said that,” she mutters after a beat. “David doesn’t even speak French.”

Another pause.

“And she doesn’t talk either.”

Daryl doesn’t look up. Doesn’t say anything.

But something clicks. He realizes now: that kid’s hers.

He hadn’t known. Not really. But looking back, it’s obvious. The hair’s that weird in-between color: something between Sonia’s gold and that guy David’s dust brown. Mostly the kid looks like him. Soft chin. Same narrow nose.

But the eyes.

That strange color, not quite green, not quite brown. Looks like swamp water in the shade, forest moss in the sun. And the shape, there’s a curve at the corners, familiar now that he’s seen Sonia up close.

Yeah. That’s her kid.

“She talked fine just now,” Daryl says, quiet.

Sonia freezes. Just for a second.

Then she keeps moving. Doesn’t answer. Doesn’t look at him again.

But something’s different now. Her pace sharper. Edges tighter.

Like something slipped loose.

“…What?” she says, not looking at him.

“She wasn’t supposed to?” he asks, eyes still on the carcass in front of him.

“She hasn’t talked since it began.”

He glances over. Sonia’s hands remain steady, movements exact. But her shoulders give it away. That slight shift, barely there. Like someone trying not to flinch.

She doesn’t say anything else. Just finishes the job, wipes her blade off on her thigh. No hesitation, no wasted motion. The smell of blood and sun-warmed fur clings to her skin like it’s part of her.

She stands first. Brushes her hands off on her jeans.

Daryl doesn’t move.

Sonia doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t let herself. Just grabs the skinned meat and starts walking back toward camp, boots crunching through dry leaves, every step a little too careful, like the ground might fall out if she’s not paying attention.

Four weeks of nothing. Not a whisper. And now that.

Not to her.

Not to her father.

Hell, not even to Carl.

To him. To Daryl. A man Sonia still isn’t sure she trusts with a matchstick.

Maybe it means nothing.

Maybe it’s just a word, tossed into the dirt like anything else.

But maybe it’s the first thread in a tapestry she’s not part of.

And that…

That feels worse than silence.

She shifts the weight of the meat in her arms, adjusts her grip like that’ll somehow fix the hollow twisting in her chest. Like holding it steadier might hold her steadier too.

It’s been five days since Grace killed herself.

Not died. Not passed. This wasn’t something the world took from her. Grace made a choice. Took the last vial of insulin from the broken cooler, walked out past the tree line, sat on a moss-slicked log, and put a bullet through her mouth.

Shane found her first. David tried to stop the bleeding. Neither of them succeeded.

Now the camp acts like it makes sense. Like that kind of thing has a clean edge to it. A moment. A reason.

But it doesn’t.

It frays.

The grief, the silence, the questions you can’t ask out loud.

The sick knowledge that someone asked for your help... and still chose to disappear anyway.

It all pulls at the seams...

Four others left after that. Didn’t even say goodbye. Just packed up their cars, took a couple cans and vanished down the road like ghosts. Like this place had turned into something contagious and they didn’t want to catch it.

Sonia keeps walking. The weight in her arms is nothing compared to the one in her chest. One foot after the other. Through dirt paths worn thin. Around tents she helped stake. Past people she’s bled with.

And yet, still…

She walks like a stranger.

She drops the meat onto the prep table with a heavy thunk. The sound carries, sharp and final. She wipes her hands on a rag with slow, deliberate strokes like she’s trying to erase more than blood. Lori’s nearby, sitting on a folding crate with a dented thermos between her palms, sipping something that smells vaguely like chamomile and desperation.

Sonia sinks down beside her. The bench creaks under her weight.

“I don’t even wanna know what animal that was,” Lori mutters, wrinkling her nose.

Sonia doesn’t glance over. “Daryl and Merle’s snares catch decent game. Better than mine, anyway.”

Lori hums. “Guess they’re earning their keep.”

Sonia shrugs, but says nothing. The blood scent still clings to her skin. It’s too warm outside, too still.

“Carl keeps asking why you don’t come sit with us in the evenings,” Lori says after a beat. “We trade stories, play cards, talk nonsense. You’ve got plenty of stories, don’t you?”

Sonia’s mouth pulls at the corner, not quite a smile. “Nothing that’d make anyone less scared of me.”

Lori snorts softly. “You’re not scarier than Merle. And that man never shuts up.”

That gets a quiet huff from Sonia.

Lori takes another sip from her thermos, watching the camp over the rim before her eyes flick to Sonia again.

That’s not true.

She is.

Because Merle’s chaos is loud. Predictable.

Hers isn’t.

“You did everything you could,” she says gently. “Grace made a choice.”

Sonia’s voice is flat when she replies. “Anthony didn’t.”

The silence that follows is heavy and honest.

“No,” Lori says quietly, “but he chose to go with you.”

Lori takes a deep breath after Sonia doesn’t reply.

“People like him. Like Shane… like you. You always run toward the fire.”

Sonia stares past the camp, eyes unreadable, locked on nothing. There’s a stiffness in her shoulders, but her face stays neutral, tight, but unreadable.

“That kind of instinct,” Lori continues, “it’s not something you switch off. It’s who you are.”

Sonia’s voice, when it comes, is flat. “Doesn’t make it easier.”

“No,” Lori says. “But it means it wasn’t your fault.”

Silence again. A softer one this time. 

Sonia shifts slightly. “You rehearsing this?”

Lori shrugs. “Maybe. I get bored in the afternoons.”

The corner of Sonia’s mouth twitches. Barely a smirk, but it’s something.

Lori watches her a moment longer, then adds, “Come tonight. Just sit with us. You don’t have to talk.”

“Why?”

“Because Sophie’s gonna wake up one day and notice you’re not there,” Lori says. “And she’s gonna think it’s because of her.”

Something in Sonia’s chest tightens. A wire pulled too taut.

Then, quiet: “I’ll think about it.”

The rest of the day passes in silence. At least for Sonia.

She doesn’t eat lunch. Just scrubs the blood from her knives, checking every blade for nicks even though she already knows the edges are perfect. Cleans the hafts. Oils the hinges on her folding ones. Then moves to her bow. Again. She’s restrung it so many times she could do it blindfolded. Checks the cams. Checks the string. Draws it. Lets it fall slack. Repeats. Not because it needs it but because she needs it.

David passes by once, offers her half a pear. She takes it, doesn’t eat it. Sets it down and forgets it’s there.

By mid-afternoon, she’s elbow-deep in the pantry, reorganizing cans they already counted.

It’s pointless. And still, somehow, not pointless enough.

If her hands stay busy, maybe her head won’t spin. T-Dog raises a brow but doesn’t say anything. No one does anymore. Sonia’s storms are quiet. Everyone learned that by now.

Later, she wipes down her arrows. Sorts them by damage, by balance. The tips catch the fading light.

One for Anthony.

One for Grace.

One for every time someone looked at her like she could stop death just by holding a bow.

She can’t.

Not even close.

For a second, she stares at them like they might offer an answer. They don’t.

The sun dips low. Orange bleeds into violet. Laughter rises from the campfire.

Sonia stands just at the edge of it all. Watching.

A ghost in her own camp.

Wanting something she can’t name without breaking.

Dale strums something vaguely folkish on that beat-up guitar. Glenn’s teasing Andrea’s half sister Sonia finally learnt the name of: Amy. Lori’s got Carl curled up against her side. Even Merle is talking. He’s too loud, probably lying. But he’s not alone.

Sonia isn’t cold. She’s just still.

She could walk away. Head to the Humvee. Pretend she’s tired. Pretend she’s on watch.

But then her eyes find Sophie.

Fast asleep in David’s lap, safe and warm and far, far away.

Sonia exhales through her nose. And walks toward the fire.

She sits down beside David without a word.

For a moment, she just watches the fire and its low crackle, and the way it throws shadows across the camp. Her eyes drift to Sophie, curled up in David’s lap, her braid coming loose, mouth slack with sleep. 

Sonia’s expression shifts. Softens. Only a little.

Like something old inside her just took one shaky breath.

Then, quieter than usual, she murmurs, “Hey… what’s that?”

T-Dog looks up mid-chew, holding a half-squished lump of graham cracker and chocolate.

“S’mores,” he says. “You ever had one?”

Sonia shakes her head. “No. Not really.”

Glenn perks up. “Try it. You’re gonna hate it.”

Morales snorts. “She’s not gonna hate it. She’s just gonna pretend to hate it so we stop offering.”

“Exactly,” Glenn says. “It’s a dominance move.”

Sonia raises an eyebrow at both of them, unimpressed.

“You think marshmallows are a dominance display?” Sonia asks, deadpan.

Glenn nods solemnly. “I’ve been watching you for two weeks. I’ve never seen you eat anything with more than two ingredients.”

Jacqui chimes in, grinning. “Didn’t she eat a rabbit skull once?”

Dale doesn’t even look up from his guitar. “It was the cheeks. She said the meat behind the molars was tender.”

Amy wrinkles her nose. “That’s worse somehow.”

Sonia shrugs, takes a sip from her thermos. “It was a clean kill. Besides—” she glances at Glenn, “—I chew with my mouth closed.”

“So polite,” Glenn says. “Now eat this gelatinous sugar sponge like the rest of us.”

He hands her a s’more—if you can call it that. The marshmallow’s scorched to hell, the chocolate leaking out the sides like a wound. It looks sad. Doomed.

Sonia eyes it like it might explode in her hand.

“You hold it like that, it’s gonna fall apart,” T-Dog warns.

“I know.”

“Do you?” Morales teases.

“I’m letting it suffer,” she says.

That earns a round of laughter. 

Finally, Sonia takes a bite. She chews. Slowly. Thoughtfully.

Then, with a look of pure betrayal—

“This is… awful.”

“Told you,” Glenn says, smug as ever.

“She’s lying,” Jacqui counters, pointing with a graham cracker. “Look at her. She’s doing the lip press thing. That’s her trying not to smile.”

Sonia shoots her a narrow glare. “You don’t know my lip things.”

From beside her, David speaks softly without looking up. “She does. She’s right.”

Sonia blinks, surprised. Turns her head to him.

David’s still stroking Sophie’s hair with slow, steady fingers. His eyes are fixed on the fire calm and present. It’s the first time in days he hasn’t looked like he’s halfway somewhere else.

Sonia exhales through her nose and hands what’s left of the s’more to T-Dog. No comment. No explanation. He accepts it like it’s worth something.

Behind her, Glenn is already scheming another marshmallow assault.

The fire crackles. Sophie stirs in her sleep, curling a little closer to her father.

Sonia’s hand drifts over, resting gently against her daughter’s leg.

It’s the first time she’s stayed this long by the fire.

Maybe Sophie won’t remember this night.

But Sonia will.

Chapter Text

Sonia’s on the ground, palms pressed to cold dirt, body lined like a drawn bow as she moves through her reps; pushups, pike holds, slow brutal crunches. Calisthenics before dawn, like she always did before. Breathe. Count. Repeat.

First time she’s trained since the delivery.

Her body feels wrong. Off. Like a machine that hasn’t been run in weeks. It’s too slow, too soft, too unfamiliar. Her stomach’s flatter now, but not strong. Not hers. The muscles twitch in protest. Her wrists ache from the strain.

She doesn’t care.

This isn’t for healing.

It’s for reclamation.

Her body failed. That’s what it feels like. No matter what anyone said—no matter what David said—it’s her body that broke down. That wrapped the cord wrong. That stayed silent when it should’ve screamed. That let a daughter die without ever drawing breath.

So now she moves. Hard. Fast. Brutal.

Because stillness is unbearable.

Because if her body is hers again, maybe everything else won’t feel so goddamn hollow.

She doesn't hear Sophie approach at first. Just sees the shadow fall across her hands.

When she looks up, Sophie’s standing there. Barefoot. Hoodie too big. Silent.

She’s holding out a worn notebook, open to a page with conjugated French verbs. Je suis. Tu es. Il est.

Sonia blinks. Her arms burn. She’s still catching her breath. But she pushes up to sit, hands braced behind her, dirt clinging to her palms.

“You want help?” she asks, voice low. Rough from the workout. And something else. Surprise, maybe.

Sophie doesn’t nod. Doesn’t speak. Just stays there, arms extended, the notebook trembling slightly in her grip.

Sonia’s gaze softens. She shifts forward, resting one knee against the ground, and gently takes the notebook from her daughter’s hands.

The page is neat. Carefully written, like Sophie was trying to get it right on her own first. There are faint eraser marks. A question mark in the corner, drawn in the same tiny handwriting Sonia remembers from before—

Before the base.

Before Redwater.

Before the screams behind the birthing curtain.

She doesn’t say any of that. Doesn’t let her mind go there.

Instead, she pats the ground next to her. Not commanding. Not even inviting. Just... open.

Sophie hesitates for a moment. Then sits.

Their knees don’t touch but they’re close. Close enough to feel warmth.

Sonia turns the page. “You’ve got the irregulars down. Want to go over passé composé?”

Still no answer. But Sophie pulls her knees up to her chest and rests her chin there. Watching. Listening.

That’s enough.

Sonia starts explaining, slow and careful, one hand brushing dirt from the corner of the paper.

Her muscles still ache. Her body still feels foreign. Every breath catches somewhere in her ribs. But she keeps her voice steady. Keeps her hands calm.

Because Sophie came to her.

No prompting. No coaxing. No David standing behind her, nudging her forward.

She came on her own.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, Sonia’s not watching her from a distance. Not worrying from a tent flap or a tree line. She’s right here, beside her daughter, shoulder to shoulder. Breathing the same morning air.

Sophie doesn’t speak. But she watches every word, every gesture. Her eyes flick between the notebook and Sonia’s face, like she’s comparing the two. Like she’s checking if this is real.

And when Sonia gently taps the verb with her fingertip, je suis, Sophie’s eyes track it. Not with the hollow look she’s carried since Redwater.

She’s focused.

Present.

Alive.

By the time Sophie stands—still without a word, but with the notebook tucked carefully against her chest—Sonia watches her walk across the clearing toward where Naima, Carol, and little Sophia are setting up the day’s lesson logs. A makeshift circle of milk crates and one fraying yoga mat. Nothing fancy. But safe.

Sophie joins them.

She sits without hesitation.

And Sonia just stays frozen there, knees in the dirt, eyes locked on her daughter’s back.

When she finally exhales, it rattles.

Her shirt is soaked through with sweat. Her hair clings to her neck in damp, uneven waves. She smells like iron and dirt and too many hours spent trying to claw herself back into her own skin.

But for the first time since the screams behind the curtain— Since the day the world rewrote her— She doesn’t feel like a ghost haunting her own body.

Sophie found her.

And that has to mean something.

That has to count for something.

It does.

She heads for the makeshift shower Morales and David rigged. Just salvaged pipework, a dented barrel overhead, and a spigot that wheezes like it’s dying. Barely enough pressure. Colder than it has any right to be.

She strips fast, stepping onto the wood slats someone laid down to keep feet from sinking into the mud. Her muscles protest the motion, still raw from the workout. Still rebuilding.

The water hits sharp. Icy. Mean. It punches against her skin like it’s punishing her for feeling anything.

She tilts her face up into the spray, lets it hit her full-force. There’s no soap. Just runoff and calloused fingers raking through tangled strands, trying to scrub away the salt, the grime, the weight.

The pressure dips. Fails. Comes back in a spit of colder spray. She breathes through it, jaw clenched, eyes closed.

She’s used to discomfort.

It’s the silence that usually gnaws.

Today, there’s a different kind of quiet humming beneath her ribs. One that doesn’t scrape. One that holds.

Sophie came to her.

That happened. That was real.

The thought slips in like heat beneath the cold. It’s small, sudden, undeniable. It settles behind her sternum, low and warm, and she doesn’t push it away.

She finishes quick. Wringing her hair out with practiced hands. The towel David left is already damp. She uses it anyway. Wraps it tight around her shoulders like armor—

— this time, it feels like something else too.

Like grounding. Like proof.

She needs a bucket. Has to replace whatever water she just used. Grabs the dented metal one and starts toward the creek. Cold water sloshing at her side, boots sinking into soft, trampled mud.

On her way back, she spots Merle.

He’s passed out in a sagging lawn chair, mouth open, snoring like it’s his goddamn job. One of the kids’ scavenged comics is half-crushed under his arm. He’s drooled on it.

Sonia stops. Raises an eyebrow.

Then, without hesitation—

SPLASH.

Merle jerks upright, flailing like a cat dropped in a bathtub.

Merle sputters, spitting creek water onto the dirt.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, woman!”

Sonia doesn’t pause.

“You were crushing Carl’s book,” she says flatly. “And you smell like raccoon ass stew.”

Merle groans, rubbing his face with both hands, water dripping off his chin. “You coulda just said something!”

“I did. Three times. You snored through it.”

She drops the bucket beside the water drum, stoops, grabs the comic book—damp but salvageable—and keeps walking.

Merle slumps back into the chair like a beached fish, grumbling, “Women in this camp are cruel, man,” to no one in particular.

Doesn’t turn.

Just lifts one hand and flips him off over her shoulder.

Sonia finds Carl near the edge of camp, crouched by a tree root, fiddling with something in the dirt. He looks up as she approaches and holds out the comic book. She watches it flap in his hand like a weak flag in the breeze.

“Pretty graphic for a thirteen-year-old,” she says.

“Glenn found it,” Carl replies, almost defensive.

Sonia raises an eyebrow. “Glenn also ate pickled pigs’ feet last week. He’s not a role model.”

Carl shifts. “You gonna tell Mom?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Just crouches down beside him, picks up a stick, and starts idly drawing circles in the dirt. The motion is lazy, deliberate. Quiet.

Then she flicks her eyes up, just once.

“Do I look like a snitch to you, Grimes?”

Carl almost smiles.

“Last time you snuck something graphic,” Sonia says quietly, like she’s pulling the words from a distant shelf, “it was that bootleg horror VHS. You puked all over my dad’s wine fridge.”

Carl groans. “You swore you’d never bring that up again.”

“You were six. I had to burn those socks.”

They fall into silence for a beat. The kind that doesn’t need filling.

Then, without looking at her, Carl mumbles, “...You think he’s still alive?”

Sonia doesn’t answer right away. Her gaze stays on the dirt, on the spirals she’s been drawing, half-faded now beneath her thumb.

“I think if anyone can come back from the dead,” she says softly, “it’s your dad.”

Carl nods slowly and quietly. Doesn’t say anything else.

And Sonia lets him keep the comic.

The engine roars before the truck even crests the hill. Sonia lifts her head just as the green Ford Ranger barrels into view, climbing the gravel path with a strained, guttural rattle. It lurches to a stop near the tents, front tires spitting dust. The engine chokes, then dies, shuddering into silence.

A zipper peels open nearby.

Max steps out of his tent barefoot, hoodie half-zipped, blinking against the brightness like he’s still halfway in a dream. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move at first.

Just stares.

The truck is unmistakable.

Faded green. Mud-caked tires. A dent above the left fender he never got around to fixing. The decal peeling from the rear windshield, his name, in stylized block letters. MAX.

His car.

The one his parents gave him.

The one he hadn’t seen since the day they had to leave it behind before they arrived at the camp.

Russell hops out first, expression unreadable. Then David, sleeves rolled up, muttering something as he slams the door shut. Shane climbs down from the driver’s seat last, running a hand through his hair, then heading straight for the back to unload.

They haven’t seen Max yet.

But Max’s eyes are locked to the truck like it might vanish if he looks away. Like if he just blinks wrong, it’ll all collapse back into ash and memory.

One step forward. Then another.

His hands curl into fists at his sides.

Nobody speaks.

Sonia watches from the edge of camp, heart heavy. The look on Max’s face isn’t joy. It’s grief. The kind that sneaks up quiet, cloaked in something that looks like hope, and hits harder than loss ever did.

It’s not just a truck.

It’s the last thing his parents gave him.

And now it’s back. But they’re not.

David approaches with mud caked on his boots and an arrow gripped tight in his hand. It’s one of hers; Sonia knows before he even says a word. The way he holds it, the tension in his jaw, the bite in his steps. Something’s wrong.

"Can we talk?" he asks.

Sonia nods. "Yeah. Sure."

He jerks his head toward the trees and starts walking without waiting. She falls in behind him, boots pressing down on soft earth, each step a little quieter as the camp falls away behind them. The low hum of chatter and smoke-thin laughter fades with every pace, replaced by birdsong and the distant creak of branches in the late afternoon breeze.

They don’t speak until the clearing deepens. Then David stops and turns. He holds out the arrow.

"You recognize this?"

Sonia glances at it. "Yeah."

He watches her a beat longer, then exhales through his nose. "Guess where I found it."

She studies his face. "Based on your expression… not somewhere good."

David doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even fake it.

"We went to bring back Max’s ranger. The one you got so butthurt about last time."

She says nothing. Doesn’t rise to it. Just watches him with that level, unreadable calm that’s started to take over more and more lately.

David runs a thumb over the arrow’s shaft.

"Russell patched it up. It’s running again. While we were there, I figured I’d look around. See if there was anything left of Brianna. For Max. For closure."

"It’s been two weeks," Sonia says. "She’s probably—"

"Chewed up?" David cuts in. His voice sharpens. "Yeah. She was. But not just chewed up."

He lifts the arrow slightly. Lets the implication settle.

“Arrow in her skull,” David says, his voice low, strained. “Yours.”

Sonia doesn’t move. Her face doesn’t change. “What are you trying to say?”

He steps closer, mud flaking off his boots. The arrow’s still in his hand, pointed slightly downward, like even now, he can’t hold it all the way up.

“Did you kill her?” he asks. “Before she turned?”

“Yeah,” Sonia says, calm but clipped. “She was bit.”

David blinks. Like the answer physically hits him. “What the fuck, Sonia?”

“What do you want me to say?” Her voice rises, not loud, but sharp. Controlled. “She was already gone. Max asked me to do it.”

“You’ve killed walkers. This wasn’t a walker,” he fires back. “She was still alive.”

“No,” Sonia snaps, her voice cutting clean through the woods. “She wasn’t.”

David just stares at her. His breath fogs slightly in the cooler air, shoulders tight. Then…

“You just... left her there?” he says, barely above a whisper. “With your arrow in her head like it was any other kill?”

Sonia doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. “You think that makes me a monster?”

David’s jaw tightens. He looks down at the arrow, fingers curling tighter around it.

“I think it makes you a stranger.”

The words settle like ash.

He paces. Three steps, four. Then turns back to her, fire still burning low behind his eyes.

David’s voice tightens, rough and bitter. “I can’t believe how indifferent you are. Like killing’s just… normal now.”

Sonia’s gaze doesn’t waver as she scoffs. “You think this was my first time?”

That hits. David stops short, like the ground dropped an inch beneath him.

Sonia stands still. Steady. “This wasn’t my first, David.”

His voice lowers, sharper now, dangerous. “Who else?”

“That’s not your business.”

“The hell it’s not—I’m your husband.”

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t answer.

David’s breathing quickens. “That’s what happened to Anthony too, isn’t it?”

Sonia doesn’t answer right away.

For a second, the trees vanish. She’s back by the Humvee; Anthony’s blood slick on the gravel, his eyes still open, his voice cracking as he begged her not to do it. The smell of copper and gunpowder. Shane’s silence. Her hand on the trigger.

The echo of the shot still hasn’t left her.

She meets David’s eyes.

“Yeah,” she says. “I killed him.”

The words land like a blade. She doesn’t look away. “And I’d do it again. He was turning. You want me to let him die screaming? Infect the camp?”

David’s eyes flash. “Did you even tell Jacqui?”

“What would I have said?” Sonia fires back. “Hey, I put a bullet in your husband’s eye. You’re welcome?”

“She had a right to the truth.”

“She had a right to survive. Same as the rest of us.”

David takes a step forward, teeth clenched. “You don’t think she’d have chosen to be there with him? Hold his hand, say goodbye?”

“He was already gone,” Sonia says. “Saying goodbye doesn’t work like it used to. Not when you’ve got seconds before teeth are involved.”

“You made a call for someone else’s family.”

“I made the only call that kept the rest of us breathing.”

His voice spikes, ragged with fury. “You talk about survival like it absolves everything.”

“No,” Sonia says quietly. “It just reorders everything. Mercy gets sharper. Love gets quieter. Timing becomes the whole fucking difference between a goodbye and a scream.”

David stares at her. Hard. “You think she’d forgive you?”

“I don’t need her to.”

“Then who do you need it from?”

Silence.

Sonia doesn’t answer.

David exhales, unsteady. The forest around them stays still. Not a sound but wind brushing the high leaves, and the weight of everything between them.

Sonia’s voice is flat. Final. “I killed a walker, David. He just hadn’t dropped yet. That’s the only difference. Hours. Maybe less.”

David steps back like the words hit flesh. “Would that time have made a difference to you?” he asks, voice low and searching. “If you’d waited until he turned?”

Sonia meets his eyes. “Would it have made a difference to you?”

The question hangs there, bare and brutal.

A long pause.

David’s jaw works, but no answer comes. Instead: “You didn’t even tell me. You made that decision alone. Again.”

“It wasn’t a decision,” Sonia says. “It was a response.”

His voice rises. “You think that’s better?”

“I think that’s survival.”

David’s breathing roughens. “Then why the hell don’t I matter when it counts?”

“You do,” she says, softer now. “That’s why I didn’t drag you into it. You were grieving. You still are.”

“So you get to decide what I can handle now?”

“I always did.”

He laughs. It’s short and bitter. “Well, fuck me for thinking trust meant transparency.”

Sonia doesn’t flinch. “Trust means believing I’m still me, even when I do things you hate.”

“That’s not trust,” David says. “That’s damage control.”

“Call it what you want. I didn’t tell you because it wouldn’t undo anything. And I sure as hell wasn’t gonna ask for permission.”

“But you let Max send you to do it?”

“He didn’t send me,” Sonia says. “He begged. And I was the only one who could look her in the eye and follow through.”

David’s fists clench at his sides. “You think I wouldn’t have?”

“I think it would’ve destroyed you.” she says, quiet.

They fall into silence again. The sounds of camp are distant—someone chopping wood, a tin can clattering in the wind—but out here, past the tree line, everything feels suspended.

Sonia stands with her arms crossed, unmoving. David just watches her. Staring like he’s trying to see someone he used to know beneath the woman in front of him.

David’s voice is quieter now, but it cuts deep. “Would you kill me too? If I got bit?”

Sonia doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. The space between them goes still. Too still. Her silence stretches long enough to feel like an answer.

David exhales, barely above a whisper. “Jesus, Sonia.”

“You asked,” she says.

“I didn’t think you’d hesitate.”

She meets his eyes. “I didn’t think you’d ask.”

She swallows once, barely visible. Not emotion. Just air. Like the question lodged somewhere in her throat and left a mark on the way down.

The air thickens, dense with everything they’ve lived through and everything they’ve lost. David waits, wants her to say more, to take it back, to soften the blow. She doesn’t.

She just looks at him. Her shoulders squared, jaw locked, eyes unreadable. Not cold. Just… hollow. Exhausted. And somewhere beneath it all, there’s a fracture. A quiet kind of grief that never made room for tears.

“You want a comforting lie or do you want the truth?”  

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at her.

“Then yeah. I would.”

It lands like a gut punch. The truth, stripped bare. No apologies. No gentle edges.

David exhales through his nose sharp, like the wind got knocked out of him. Not from force. From weight.

The words sit heavy in the silence. Ugly. True.

David nods once, slow. A gesture that says he heard her. That he believes her. That it hurts.

“Thanks for not dressing it up.”

“I’m not the one who does that,” Sonia says.  

Her voice is steady, but inside something draws tight, like the ache of a woman who never gets to break.

David lowers his gaze. The arrow’s still in his hand, splattered, dulled at the tip. He doesn’t hand it back. Doesn’t throw it away. Just holds it like it weighs more than it should.

Chapter Text

The cot groans beneath her as Sonia shifts, again. Fabric catches on skin, the frame creaks like it’s tired of her too. Sleep’s not coming. Hasn’t in days. Maybe weeks.

She swings her legs over the side and stands, barefoot on dirt gone cold with night. The air bites at her skin as she slips past the flap and into the quiet.

The camp’s hushed. Fires down to embers. A pot rattles faintly in the wind where someone didn’t tie it down right. The world feels like it’s holding its breath.

David’s already on the RV roof.

No one asked him to be.

The rifle rests across his lap, awkward in his hands. His grip’s wrong, fingers curled like he’s forcing them into memory. Like he read about it once, maybe saw it in a movie. Posture all stiff and upright, like the weight of the weapon might anchor him in place.

Sonia climbs up the side ladder without a word.

She settles beside him, knees drawn close, arms draped over them. The silence stretches between them, not quite comfortable, but not hostile either. It’s just… there. Like wet canvas. Like unfinished breath.

Far off, a tree groans. Long and low. Like something remembering.

Neither of them speaks.

The weight isn’t the sky. Or the rifle. Or the brittle branches overhead. It’s something deeper. And it’s not going anywhere.

She doesn’t look at him when she speaks.

"I should’ve told you something."

David doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.

"Yeah," he says, voice flat. "No shit."

Sonia exhales through her nose. It’s not a sigh, not quite. Just a leak in the dam.

"You’re my husband—"

He turns his head then. 

"You saying that because you mean it," he asks, "or because you think it’ll fix this?"

"I’m saying it because it’s still true."

There’s a pause. One heartbeat, then two.

"I didn’t tell you about the kill because I didn’t know how," she says, quieter now. "You were already… cracking. After Redwater. After—” she catches herself before the name leaves her mouth. “I didn’t want to be the one to shatter you."

David’s knuckles tighten around the rifle.

"So instead," he says, slow and bitter, "you let me find it in her skull?"

"I wasn’t hiding it," she says. "I just didn’t think it would help."

Another gust cuts through, rustling canvas and leaves below. David doesn’t look at her. Keeps staring out past the treetops like the stars might offer something better.

"Redwater didn’t break me," Sonia adds. "Because I couldn’t afford to break. You had Sophie. I had everyone else."

David’s jaw works, clenched, then loosens. His voice is quiet. Almost swallowed.

"So who was the first?"

Sonia doesn’t answer right away.

Her eyes stay on the dark horizon. She flexes her fingers once against the rooftop, like grounding herself to something real.

When she finally speaks, her voice is low.

Measured.

Honest.

"Corporal Moore," Sonia says.

She doesn’t wait for him to ask who.

"He was twenty-two," she continues, voice even. Like she’s reciting something from a report. "We were outnumbered. Holding a hallway with folding chairs and bad prayers. He watched his little girl die. Torn to pieces, screaming for him. She was only three."

The words hit the air like cold stones.

"Later, he came to me. Said he couldn’t do it himself. That Heaven wouldn’t take him if he pulled the trigger."

Her hands are still. Her face unreadable in the dim light.

"So I did it."

A pause. Just long enough for the breath to catch.

"It wasn’t mercy. It was just the next thing that needed doing."

David closes his eyes. A breath punches out of him like a prayer that doesn’t land.

"Jesus…"

"Don’t say that." Sonia’s tone sharpens. "Don’t look at me like that. You asked."

She still doesn’t turn toward him. Still stares forward, chin lifted, spine straight. But her voice dips lower now, less armor, more bone.

"You were supposed to keep the world soft. That was our deal."

The words hang between them. Heavy. Hollow.

"But softness is dead, David," she says. "It died screaming like that girl."

Her voice just... settles.

"And I didn’t."

David shifts slightly. Like the words pulled something out of alignment in his chest.

"So… what does that make you?"

Sonia’s answer comes quiet. Bitter.

"Alive."

Silence folds over them. The wind presses past. Far off, an owl calls once, then vanishes into the dark.

David exhales. A soft, broken thing.

"I’m still not sure if that’s comforting."

"Neither am I," she says.

And they sit with it. Not as husband and wife. Not as survivors. Just two people too tired to be anything else.

Sonia lets out a breath that’s not quite a laugh, more of a scrape of amusement pulled from somewhere deep and unused.

“So… you want a divorce now?” she asks, half-smirking, voice low and tired.

David doesn’t answer right away. Just keeps his eyes on the tree line like the shadows might give him something simpler than this.

“If I wanted a divorce,” he mutters, “I’d have to find another lawyer first.”

That almost draws a real smile from her. Almost. Her mouth twitches, then settles.

David glances at her. The sharpness is gone from his face now. What’s left is something quieter. Worn, but not angry.

“All I ever wanted,” he says, “was for you to come home in one piece. That’s it.”

Sonia nods slowly, the movement more weight than motion. “I know.”

They fall into stillness again. Not the sharp-edged kind that filled the tent. This one is looser. Tired. Forgiving, in a way neither of them says aloud.

David looks away, back to the horizon. Still holding too much, still keeping the hard things tucked behind his ribs. Sonia shifts closer and places her hand in his lap.

He doesn’t push it away. Doesn’t speak.

But his fingers twitch once, barely, like they remember the shape of hers.

And for now, that’s enough.

Sonia’s voice breaks the quiet again; bare, almost an afterthought.

“She talked.”

David blinks. Turns. “What?”

“Yesterday morning,” she says. “To Daryl.”

That pulls his whole body into stillness. “And you’re just telling me now?”

She shoots him a look. “Don’t start.”