𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄. deep dive

IF SOMEONE HAD TOLD THOMAS THAT he'd be walking the streets of Atlanta, coated in a foul concoction of walker blood and guts, alongside his uncle and a complete stranger, he would've laughed in their face — if not passed out outright. But not before accusing them of lying.

Yet here he was, doing exactly that, every breath a measured gamble between staying silent and succumbing to the urge to gag. The stench clung to him like a second skin, thick and rancid, crawling into his nostrils no matter how he tried to hold his breath. Every few steps, his breath hitched, his chest tight with terror as another walker came too close, its cloudy, milky eyes sweeping over him, sniffing at the air. The creatures' rancid flesh oozed decay, their gnarled hands reaching for nothing and everything.

Thomas forced himself to walk evenly, resisting the urge to quicken his pace or glance toward Rick and Glenn. Each step felt precarious, as though the asphalt beneath his boots might crumble, sending him tumbling into the abyss that loomed just beyond the thin veneer of composure he had left.

The streets were desolate yet alive in a way that unsettled him. Shattered glass glinted like malicious eyes in the faint gray light, remnants of shopfronts long since looted or abandoned. Rusted cars lined the curb, their doors flung open in panicked haste, their interiors stained with memories of lives lost too suddenly. Overturned shopping carts spilled their contents across the cracked pavement — cans of soup, baby formula, a stuffed animal missing an eye — all incongruous relics of a world that no longer existed.

Above them, the sky hung low and oppressive, a sheet of tarnished silver smeared with streaks of darker gray. It was the kind of sky that promised rain, the heavy, suffocating kind that drowned the streets in minutes.

Thomas glanced upward, a flicker of dread seizing his chest. If the rain came, it would wash away the grisly mask that was keeping them alive. The thought made his stomach churn, though it was hard to say if the nausea came from fear or the stench that clung to his skin.

The city had a sound now — a low, guttural murmur that pulsed through the air like a heartbeat, carried on the groans of the undead and the distant creak of metal bending under unseen pressure. The wind was faint but carried with it the acrid tang of rot and decay, mingling with the faint coppery smell of blood. It was a cocktail of horror that Thomas felt in his lungs, his throat, his very bones.

Every so often, they passed the crumpled remains of what had once been people — now little more than grotesque heaps of flesh and bone, torn apart by the ravenous horde. The walkers seemed to pay these corpses no mind, stepping over them with the kind of grotesque indifference that only made them more monstrous.

Rick led the way, his posture impossibly steady, his steps purposeful. Thomas resented him for that steadiness, for the way he seemed unaffected by the terror that churned like acid in Thomas's gut.

He hated the stranger, too — Glenn — who moved with a grim efficiency, like this nightmare had already been normalized for him. And yet, Thomas couldn't deny the tiny flicker of admiration that nestled somewhere in his anger.

The buildings loomed around them, their windows shattered like the hollow sockets of a skull. Some still bore faint traces of humanity — a curtain fluttering in the breeze, a chair tipped on its side, a hastily scrawled message on the wall pleading for salvation. "Help us," one said in smeared red letters. Below it, the answer: "No one is coming."

Thomas swallowed hard, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His uncle's voice echoed in his mind, the lecture that had forced him into this situation replaying on an endless loop.

Man up, or you're dead.

That had been the gist of it, and Thomas hated how right it sounded. He didn't want to die. Not here, not like this.

The walkers continued to mill about, their movements jerky and aimless, yet eerily coordinated in their unyielding hunger. One brushed past Thomas, its shoulder grazing his arm, and he felt his knees weaken, the scream caught in his throat burning like bile. The walker's head tilted slightly, as if considering him, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop. But then it moved on, its gaze settling elsewhere, and Thomas exhaled shakily, his legs trembling as he forced himself to keep moving.

The clouds above seemed to darken with every passing second, the oppressive weight of the atmosphere pressing down on him. He could feel the first hints of moisture in the air, the humidity thickening like a warning. If the rain came, if it washed away the blood and guts that marked them as kin to the dead, there would be no second chances.

They'd be exposed, naked in their humanity, and the horde would descend on them like vultures to carrion.

The thought drove him forward, each step a battle against the instinct to run, to scream, to do anything but keep walking. He focused on the sound of his boots against the pavement, the steady rhythm grounding him in the chaos.

Ahead of him, Rick gestured subtly, his movements calm and deliberate, as if to remind them both that panic was their enemy as much as the walkers were.

A gust of wind swept through the street, stirring the debris at their feet — a torn page from a child's book, a crushed soda can, a single shoe caked in dried blood. The noise drew the attention of a nearby walker, its head snapping toward them with a sickening crack. Its sunken eyes locked onto Thomas, and for a heart-stopping moment, he thought it had seen through the charade.

But then Glenn shifted slightly, drawing its gaze away, and the walker shuffled onward, its grotesque moan fading into the cacophony of the horde.

The street ahead seemed endless, a labyrinth of despair and desolation that offered no promises of safety. And yet, Thomas kept walking, his breath shallow and his heart hammering against his ribs.

The three of them kept walking, their steps steady but tense, each of them hyperaware of the thin line they walked between survival and doom. Glenn had started to limp, dragging one leg slightly behind him in a mimicry of the walkers' uneven gait. The effect was uncanny, enough to unsettle Thomas as he watched the strange, shuffling rhythm Glenn adopted.

Glenn whispered, his voice barely audible beneath the ambient groans of the undead, "It's gonna work. I can't believe it."

Rick, walking ahead, turned his head just enough to respond, his tone a low, commanding growl. "Don't draw attention."

But then a walker shuffled into their path, close enough that the rancid stench of decay became a tangible thing, and Glenn was forced to pause. The creature tilted its head, its cloudy eyes scanning him with unsettling focus. Glenn began to growl, a guttural, unconvincing imitation of the walkers' hollow rasp, but it seemed to suffice.

Thomas glanced sidelong at him, one eyebrow lifting in skeptical amusement despite the tension that clamped down on his chest. "Really?" he muttered, voice as low as he could manage.

Glenn shot him a glare, then shoved him — not hard, just enough to disrupt Thomas's stride and send a silent message to quit it. Thomas stumbled slightly but said nothing more, focusing instead on the careful rhythm of their movement. They were fine for a moment, blending seamlessly with the horde around them.

Then, without warning, the sky broke open.

The rain came in heavy sheets, drenching them in seconds. It wasn't the light drizzle Thomas had been dreading but a torrential downpour that drenched everything it touched. The sound of the rain hitting the pavement was deafening, each drop a hammering reminder of how precarious their situation had become.

Thomas's breath stopped short, caught somewhere between a gasp and a curse. He gripped the hatchet in his hands tightly, his knuckles turning white as his jaw clenched against the rising panic. The blood and guts coating his body began to run in streaks, the rain diluting the protective mask that had shielded them thus far.

A walker turned toward him, its head tilting in a grotesque parody of curiosity as it sniffed the air. Its hollow eyes seemed to lock onto Thomas, and for a moment, the world seemed to shrink to the space between them.

Thomas whispered hoarsely, his voice trembling with restrained fear. "The smell. It's washing off."

Rick didn't look back, his steps steady as he hissed through clenched teeth, "No, it's not."

Glenn muttered under his breath, his limp becoming more exaggerated, "It's washing off. It's definitely washing off."

Finally, Rick turned his head just enough to glance at a walker that had been staring at him too long, its gaze almost sentient in its scrutiny. "Okay," Rick growled reluctantly. "Well, maybe."

That was when it happened.

One of the walkers lunged at Rick, its rotting arms outstretched, its jaw snapping with feral hunger. Rick was fast, quicker than Thomas could process. He spun, raising his weapon — a rusted axe — and buried it in the walker's skull with a sickening crunch. The creature crumpled to the ground, lifeless once more.

"Run!" Rick barked, his voice cutting through the storm.

Thomas didn't need to be told twice. He bolted, his boots pounding against the slick pavement, the hatchet clutched tightly in his hands. Around him, walkers stirred, drawn by the sudden commotion. He swung the hatchet instinctively as one lurched too close, the blade slicing through its arm with a nauseating squelch. The walker reeled back, momentarily incapacitated, but Thomas didn't look back to see if it fell.

The streets became a blur of gray and red, rain and blood mingling in a chaotic swirl. Thomas ran with everything he had, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. The hatchet felt heavy in his hands, its weight a cruel reminder of the violence he had yet to fully embrace. He swung it a few more times as walkers came too close, each impact sending a jolt up his arms, but he couldn't bring himself to deliver a killing blow.

Glenn was ahead of him now, his smaller frame darting through the chaos with surprising agility despite his earlier limp. Rick followed close behind, his movements calculated and deliberate, his axe rising and falling with grim efficiency.

They reached the fence, the metal structure looming like a barrier between salvation and despair. Glenn reached it first, tossing his weapon over the top before scrambling up with practiced ease. Rick was next, his movements smooth and unhurried despite the urgency of the situation.

Thomas hesitated, his breath hitching as he glanced over his shoulder. The walkers were closing in, their grotesque forms shambling through the rain, undeterred by the weather or the obstacles in their path.

"Move!" Rick's voice cut through his paralysis like a whip.

Thomas threw the hatchet over the fence, the clang of metal against metal drowned out by the storm. He grabbed hold of the slick, rain-soaked bars and began to climb, his heart hammering in his chest. The cold metal bit into his hands, but he didn't stop until he was over the top and dropping to the other side.

They didn't linger. The three of them tore off their blood-soaked jackets, tossing them aside as they broke into a sprint. The rain washed away the last remnants of gore from their skin, leaving them vulnerable and exposed.

Ahead, the box truck came into view, its hulking frame a beacon of hope amidst the chaos. Glenn reached it first, pulling the door open and climbing inside. Rick was next, hauling himself into the driver's seat with practiced ease.

Thomas scrambled in after them, his chest heaving as he collapsed into the middle seat. The cab smelled faintly of oil and sweat, a welcome reprieve from the stench of death that had clung to them moments ago.

Rick started the engine, the truck roaring to life with a satisfying rumble. Thomas leaned back against the seat, his hands still trembling as he stared out the window at the horde they had narrowly escaped.

The truck roared through the rain-soaked streets, its engine a low, steady growl that mingled with the patter of water on the windshield. Rick's hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles pale beneath the strain. The cab vibrated with the effort of the vehicle surging forward, its tires slamming through shallow rivers that had formed in the uneven asphalt. Each bump sent jolts through Thomas's body as he sat in the middle seat, staring blankly ahead, his mind racing.

The world outside the truck was a smear of gray and red. The walkers pressed against the chain-link fence, their grotesque forms heaving and clawing as though sheer persistence could dissolve the barrier. The rain slicked their decaying skin, glistening under the dim, filtered light that managed to push through the thick cloud cover.

"Oh my God, oh my God." Glenn's voice broke through the heavy silence, his words tumbling out in a rush. He leaned forward, his eyes wide as they fixed on the horde spilling out from the department store. "They're all over that place!"

"You need to draw them away." Rick's response was sharp, a bark of command that snapped Glenn out of his spiraling panic. His eyes never left the road, focused on navigating the truck through the labyrinth of debris and ruined vehicles that littered the streets.

Thomas's heart thudded against his ribs, each beat a frantic reminder of just how close they were to catastrophe. The walkers outside weren't a distant threat anymore. They were here, surrounding the store, moving in numbers that seemed impossible to break through.

"How exactly are we supposed to do that?" Thomas snapped, his voice cutting through the cab like a whip. He didn't mean to sound angry, but fear had a way of sharpening his words. His grip on the seatbelt tightened as he glanced at Rick, waiting for an answer.

Rick's jaw set, his gaze flicking briefly to Thomas before returning to the road. "Those roll-up doors at the front of the store — that area? That's what I need cleared. If we can get them away from there, the group inside has a chance to make it out."

Thomas stared at him, his disbelief plain on his face. It wasn't just the logistics of the plan that had him shaken; it was the sheer audacity of it. Rick's confidence felt reckless, almost absurd, in the face of what they were up against.

Glenn, still hunched forward in the passenger seat, muttered, "And I'm drawing the geeks away how? I missed that part."

Rick's gaze darted between the two of them, his expression hard, resolute. "Noise," he said simply, his voice steady despite the chaos around them.

Thomas frowned, his brow furrowing as he tried to parse the simplicity of the answer. Noise? He glanced at Glenn, who looked just as perplexed, and then back at Rick. "What the hell does that mean?"

Rick's eyes settled on Thomas then, the weight of his stare heavy, purposeful. "You remember how to hotwire a car?"

The words hit Thomas like a slap. His chest tightened, and for a moment, the tension in the cab felt suffocating. He opened his mouth to argue, to protest, but all he managed was a strangled, "You promised you'd never bring that up."

Rick didn't waver. "And I wouldn't, if it wasn't a matter of life and death. But right now, we need a distraction, and you're the only one here who knows how to do it."

Thomas let out a sharp, exasperated sigh, his head tipping back against the seat. The rain pounded against the roof of the truck, filling the silence that followed Rick's words. He hated that Rick was right. More than that, he hated the reminder of a past he'd spent years trying to leave behind.

"What's the plan?" Glenn asked hesitantly, his voice breaking the tension.

Rick leaned forward, pointing to a cluster of abandoned cars up ahead. "We break into one of those, get it running. The noise will be enough to draw the walkers away from the store. You or Thomas can drive it, lead the horde away. Once the coast is clear, the group inside will make a run for it."

Thomas's stomach churned at the thought. The idea of stepping out of the relative safety of the truck, of being exposed to the walkers and the rain and the overwhelming smell of death, made his hands tremble. He clenched them into fists, forcing himself to focus.

Rick pulled the truck to a stop near the cluster of cars, its engine rumbling to a halt. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the sound of the rain and the low groans of walkers in the distance.

"Thomas," Rick said, his tone firm but not unkind. "We need you to do this."

Thomas nodded, his throat tight as he reached for the door handle. The moment the door opened, the smell hit him — a putrid mix of rot and rain-soaked earth that made his stomach turn.

The Dodge Challenger sat there like a sleek relic of a bygone world, its red paint slick with rain, reflecting the dim, gray sky above. It was out of place amid the abandoned husks of other cars, their colors faded and their frames battered by time and neglect.

Thomas hesitated for a moment, his heart pounding as he approached it, the sweat running in rivulets down his face. The idea of sitting in something so pristine, so untouched by the apocalypse, felt almost absurd.

The smell of wet asphalt and rot clung to the air as Thomas crouched by the driver's side door, the rain from before slicking his hair to his forehead. He could feel the weight of Rick's gaze from the truck, his uncle's eyes burning a hole in his back, but Thomas focused on the task at hand.

Sliding into the driver's seat, Thomas felt a strange, unexpected thrill. The interior was immaculate, untouched by the chaos outside. The leather seat cradled him, a stark contrast to the hard plastic and peeling vinyl he was used to. For a moment, he let himself imagine this car in a different world — speeding down a sunlit highway, the windows down, music blaring.

The dashboard gleamed, and Thomas let out a low whistle, impressed despite himself. His hands trembled slightly as he reached beneath it, his fingers finding the familiar tangle of wires. Red and yellow — always red and yellow. He stripped the ends with quick, practiced movements, his breath shallow but steady, and touched them together.

The Challenger roared to life.

The sound was intoxicating, a deep, guttural growl that echoed through the rain-drenched streets. Thomas let out an involuntary laugh, a sound that was equal parts relief and exhilaration. He slammed his palm against the steering wheel, the horn blaring in response, and for a moment, he forgot about the walkers, the rain, and the looming danger.

"Hell yeah!" he shouted, the grin spreading across his face so wide it hurt.

Glenn appeared beside him, his eyes as round as the car's headlights. "Holy crap!" he shouted over the alarm, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. He leaned through the smashed window, his excitement uncontainable. "You did it! Dude, let me drive it!"

Thomas scoffed, leaning back in the seat and crossing his arms. "Not a chance. I got it running. That makes it mine."

Glenn grabbed his shoulders, shaking him with mock desperation. "Yours?" Glenn's jaw dropped like Thomas had just insulted his grandmother. "You can't claim dibs in the apocalypse!"

Thomas laughed, shoving Glenn's hands off him. "Dream on! You'd probably wreck it in ten seconds."

Their playful argument escalated, their voices rising above the sound of the idling engine and the patter of rain. Glenn reached for the steering wheel, and Thomas swatted his hand away, the two of them acting more like bickering siblings than grown men in the middle of a life-or-death situation.

"Hey!" Rick's voice cut through the noise like a whip. Both of them froze, their heads snapping toward the box truck where Rick stood in the open driver's side door, his expression a mix of exasperation and amusement. "You two done playing around?" he called, his voice carrying easily over the rain. "Get it together before you bring the whole damn horde down on us."

Thomas groaned, leaning his head back against the seat. "Fine," he muttered, dragging the word out like a petulant teenager.

Rick pointed at him, his tone firm. "Out. You're riding shotgun. Glenn's driving."

"What?!" Thomas protested, sitting up straight. "You can't be serious! He —"

"Now, Thomas," Rick said, his voice brooking no argument.

Thomas let out an exaggerated sigh, throwing up his hands in defeat. "Unbelievable," he muttered under his breath as he climbed out of the car, stomping around to the passenger side. Glenn was already sliding into the driver's seat, his grin so smug Thomas wanted to wipe it off his face.

"Don't wreck it," Thomas grumbled as he slammed the door shut behind him.

Glenn just laughed, gripping the steering wheel like it was the greatest thing he'd ever held. "Oh, don't worry. I've got this."

Rick climbed back into the box truck, and the plan was set in motion. Glenn revved the engine, the Challenger's growl echoing through the streets and drawing the attention of every walker in earshot.

The car lurched forward, its tires screeching against the wet pavement as Glenn navigated the maze of abandoned vehicles. The walkers turned en masse, their grotesque forms stumbling after the sound like moths to a flame.

The car growled like a caged animal as Glenn maneuvered it through the rubble-strewn streets, the alarm's high-pitched wail cutting through the thick, humid air. The sound carried far, echoing against the skeletal remains of Atlanta's buildings, drawing the dead like moths to a flame.

Thomas sat stiffly in the passenger seat, the adrenaline still buzzing through his veins. His fingers curled and uncurled against the hatchet in his lap, the metal cool and reassuring in his grip. The walkers responded to the noise almost immediately, their decayed bodies jerking into motion, drawn by the irresistible lure of sound.

Glenn glanced in the rearview mirror, his face tense but focused. The mass of walkers that had been scattered moments ago was now a shambling horde, their vacant eyes locked on the car. They moved with unsettling coordination, their numbers growing as more emerged from alleys and side streets, their grotesque figures illuminated by the Challenger's headlights.

The car slowed to a crawl as Glenn carefully reversed, his foot steady on the brake. He let the walkers close the distance, their bony hands clawing at the air, their guttural moans filling the cabin even with the windows rolled up. Thomas swallowed hard, his pulse quickening with each inch they gained.

The first walker slammed into the front bumper with a wet thud, its lifeless face smearing blood across the hood. Another pressed against the passenger side, its milky eyes staring directly at Thomas. He flinched, turning away before realizing what he needed to do.

Without thinking, Thomas rolled down his window. He gagged, but the walkers didn't pause. Their arms reached for him, their groans deepening with hunger.

Gripping the hatchet tightly, Thomas leaned out and brought it down hard against the car's hood, the clang reverberating like a bell toll. The walkers surged forward, their focus sharpening on the sound.

He struck again and again, each blow louder than the last. The hollow echoes ricocheted off the surrounding buildings, amplifying the chaos. The horde shifted as one, a gruesome wave of flesh and bone converging on the car.

The intensity of their movement unsettled him. The walkers didn't run, didn't sprint; they simply moved with relentless purpose, their collective weight pressing closer. The Challenger groaned under the strain as bodies piled against it, smearing the windows with streaks of filth and blood.

Glenn held steady, his eyes darting between the rearview mirror and the road ahead. The walkers pressed in, crowding the front of the car until it seemed impossible to move without plowing through them. But Glenn didn't panic. He eased the car back another few feet, baiting them into forming a tighter mass.

Thomas kept hammering at the hood, his arm burning with effort. Sweat dripped down his temple, mixing with the grime on his face. Every swing of the hatchet was met with a renewed surge of walkers, their snarls growing louder, more insistent.

The car shook as they pushed against it, their movements almost rhythmic in their desperation. One of them clawed at the open window, its fingers brushing Thomas's arm. He jerked back instinctively, his breath hitching as the reality of their proximity sank in.

"Come on," he muttered to himself, his voice trembling despite his best efforts. He struck the door this time, the sound sharp and metallic. More walkers turned toward him, their rotting faces contorted with blind hunger.

The horde was a living wall now, an undulating mass of bodies that pressed against the Challenger with terrifying force. Thomas glanced at Glenn, who gave a sharp nod, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. It was working. The walkers were fully drawn away from the department store, their attention fixed entirely on the noise and the car.

Then, through the chaos, a faint sound crackled over Glenn's radio. It was too distorted to make out, but it was enough to make Glenn glance over at Thomas.

Thomas knew what it meant. The others had made it to the box truck. They were safe.

"Time to go," Glenn said, his voice tight.

Thomas nodded, rolling up the window and gripping the dashboard as Glenn shifted gears. The Challenger's engine roared to life, drowning out the walkers' groans as it surged forward. Glenn maneuvered with precision, steering around the horde and leaving the mass of dead behind them.

The car picked up speed, its tires screeching as Glenn navigated the maze of debris and abandoned vehicles. The walkers gave chase, but they were no match for the Challenger's power. One by one, they fell away, their figures growing smaller in the rearview mirror.

Thomas leaned back in his seat, his chest heaving as the adrenaline began to ebb. The city blurred past them, a surreal blend of crumbling buildings and empty streets bathed in the eerie glow of the setting sun.

As they reached the edge of Atlanta, the city's silence swallowed them whole. Glenn pressed the accelerator, and the Challenger sped onto the abandoned I-85, its tires skimming over the cracked asphalt.

The highway stretched out before them, desolate and endless. Cars were scattered like forgotten toys, their doors hanging open, their contents spilling onto the pavement. The skyline of Atlanta faded into the distance, replaced by the heavy expanse of gray clouds that loomed overhead.

The car alarm blared on, a grating, ceaseless wail that should have been unbearable in the confined space of the Dodge Challenger.

Yet, neither Thomas nor Glenn seemed to care. The sound had become white noise, a backdrop to their escape from Atlanta's desolation.

Glenn drove with an ease that suggested he was used to chaos, his hands steady on the wheel even as the remnants of the city blurred into the open stretch of road ahead. The silence between them wasn't strained but something else — muted relief, perhaps, or a temporary truce after the adrenaline-fueled madness of the day.

The air inside the car was heavy with the lingering scent of sweat and grime, mingling with the faint tang of metal from the hatchet still clutched loosely in Thomas's lap.

The landscape outside shifted subtly as Glenn explained their destination. Somewhere in the mountains, he'd said, in a tone so casual it was as though they were heading to a weekend retreat instead of the last vestiges of safety. Thomas didn't ask for details, and Glenn didn't offer them.

For a time, the only sound was the alarm, a sharp counterpoint to the rhythmic hum of tires on asphalt. The road stretched endlessly before them, flanked by the occasional wreckage of cars abandoned in haste, their interiors hollowed out by time or looters. Overhead, the sky was a deepening gray, the clouds heavy with the promise of rain that never quite fell.

Thomas broke the silence first, his voice cutting through the monotony with an unexpected question. "So, you mentioned earlier you had a sister?"

The question hung in the air, and Glenn's hands tensed briefly on the steering wheel. His expression shifted, the easy confidence he wore like armor slipping away to reveal something raw and unguarded. For a moment, Thomas thought he'd overstepped, the casual inquiry tipping into something too personal.

"Yeah," Glenn said finally, his voice quieter than before. "Wendy."

Thomas nodded, unsure whether to press further, but Glenn continued without prompting. Maybe he needed to talk, or maybe the silence had grown too heavy.

"She was at an archery competition when everything went to shit," Glenn said, his gaze fixed on the road but unfocused, like he was seeing something far away. "It was a big deal — state finals or something. She'd been practicing for months, barely had time for anything else."

Thomas furrowed his brows. "Archery competition?"

Glenn nodded, a faint, fleeting smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah. She was the captain of her team. They had this fancy indoor range, all the targets lined up perfectly, with those high-tech bows and everything."

There was a weight to his words, a mixture of pride and something darker. Regret, perhaps, or the ache of unfinished stories. Thomas could see it in the way Glenn's jaw tightened, the way his knuckles whitened against the steering wheel.

"I tried to go to her school," Glenn said after a moment, his voice tinged with something sharper now. "When it started, I mean. But it was already overrun. Geeks everywhere. I couldn't even get close."

The air in the car seemed to grow heavier with each word, the alarm's shrill cry somehow dulling in comparison to the gravity of Glenn's voice. Thomas shifted uncomfortably, unsure how to respond.

"She was good," Glenn said, almost to himself. "With a bow, I mean. Better than good. Could hit a bullseye at fifty yards without breaking a sweat. Always joked she could take down a superhero before they even saw her."

Thomas nodded, sensing the edge of something unsaid. "Hard to imagine someone like that not making it out here," he offered, trying to lighten the mood.

Glenn glanced at him briefly, his expression unreadable. "Yeah," he said. "That's the thing, isn't it? You always think someone like that would make it. But it's the what-ifs that get you."

The words hung in the air like a challenge, daring Thomas to respond. But what could he say? That he understood? That he didn't? Instead, he stared out the window, watching the barren landscape roll past.

Glenn's voice softened, almost wistful. "She'd make these little feather charms for good luck," Glenn said, a faint smile breaking through the somber tone. "Used to give them out before big competitions. Said it was to remind everyone to fly straight. I still have one, somewhere."

The alarm blared on, relentless and indifferent to their conversation. The car sped down the highway, leaving the ruins of Atlanta far behind. The road ahead was uncertain, but for now, it was enough to keep moving.

Glenn's hands rested on the wheel, steady but slack, his mind clearly wandering far from the road ahead. The gray of the sky mirrored his expression — calm on the surface, but shadowed by something heavier. Thomas glanced at him, sensing the shift.

"I don't know why I'm telling you all this," Glenn said suddenly, his voice breaking the stillness. He wasn't looking at Thomas, his eyes fixed on the horizon. "It's not like talking about her changes anything."

Thomas shrugged. "It sounds like you've got a lot to say."

Glenn huffed a faint laugh, more breath than sound. "Yeah. Guess I do." His grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles whitening. "Wendy wasn't... easy," he began, his tone soft but carrying an edge. "She had this way about her — sharp, quick to fire off, like she'd been holding something back for so long that when it finally came out, it burned. And it wasn't just anger. She cared, you know? Too much sometimes. About people, about things. But she'd never admit it. Not in words."

Thomas nodded, unsure whether to interrupt. Glenn seemed to need the space to let the memories unfurl.

"She'd get into these arguments — little things, like who got the last pancake at breakfast. But big things too. Teachers, coaches, even me sometimes." He smiled faintly, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Wendy never let anything go. Not until she'd said her piece, whether you wanted to hear it or not." He paused, as if picturing her. The smile faltered. "And she was so damn stubborn. Always thought she knew best. Maybe she did, half the time. But God, she could drive you crazy with it."

Thomas leaned his head back against the seat, letting Glenn's words wash over him. The faint whine of the car alarm, still blaring, seemed distant now.

"She didn't really have friends," Glenn continued. "Not because she didn't want them. I think it's just... people didn't know what to do with her. She was all or nothing. If she liked you, she'd fight tooth and nail for you. But if you crossed her? Man, you'd better watch out. She'd cut you down with a look."

Thomas raised an eyebrow. "Sounds intense."

Glenn let out a quiet laugh. "She was. But not in a bad way. I just... I hope, wherever she is, she's not alone. I hope she's found someone to talk to, someone who'll listen. Because if she hasn't..." His voice trailed off, and for a moment, the only sound was the low rumble of the engine.

Thomas tilted his head toward Glenn. "What?"

Glenn's jaw tightened. "Nothing."

Thomas didn't press. He could see the tension in Glenn's posture, the way his shoulders seemed to carry a weight that had little to do with the road ahead.

"Sometimes, I think I should have tried harder to find her," Glenn said, his voice barely above a whisper. His hands gripped the wheel so tightly that the leather creaked. "I mean, Rick's out here risking his neck for his family. And what did I do? I checked her school, saw the geeks, and I just... left. What kind of brother does that?"

Thomas frowned. "You said it was overrun. What else could you have done?"

Glenn shook his head. "I don't know. Something. Anything. She's just a kid. I was supposed to look out for her. But instead, I'm here, driving a stolen car out of Atlanta while she's..." He didn't finish the sentence, but the silence that followed spoke volumes. The guilt in his voice was palpable, a heavy, choking thing that seemed to fill the car. "She'd probably say I was being stupid," Glenn said eventually, his tone lighter but no less pained. "She hated when I worried about her. Used to tell me to stop being such a big brother and let her handle things. But that was just her. Always had to act tough."

He glanced at Thomas, his expression weary but laced with a flicker of something softer. "You know, she wanted to be an Olympic archer someday. Had it all planned out. Training schedules, competitions, everything. She had this notebook where she kept track of her scores, her goals. Said she'd be famous one day, that people would watch her on TV and think, 'Man, she's unstoppable.'"

Thomas nodded, trying to picture her. "Sounds like she was."

Glenn smiled faintly. "Yeah. She is."

The silence returned, but this time it was different — less heavy, more contemplative. Glenn's shoulders seemed to relax slightly, though his grip on the wheel remained firm.

"I keep thinking," he said after a while, "what if she's still out there? What if she made it, and she's waiting for me to show up? And what if I don't?"

THE CAR ROLLED INTO THE MOUNTAIN clearing. The makeshift campsite unfolded before them, a scattering of tents, vehicles, and weary faces weathered by survival. Smoke curled lazily from a firepit at the center, its embers glowing dimly as though mirroring the fragile hope shared among the group.

Thomas let his gaze flicker over the scene briefly. The people here were strangers to him, their expressions hard to decipher, a mix of suspicion and exhaustion. He dropped his head, focusing instead on the tangle of wires beneath the steering column. His fingers worked instinctively, the practiced movements of someone who had hot-wired one too many cars. Around him, voices began to rise — sharp, accusatory, and tense.

"What the hell is that racket?"

"You trying to bring walkers right to us?"

"Kill it! Shut it down now!"

Thomas flinched but kept his focus on the wires. Before he could isolate the right one to silence the car's wailing heart, the hood popped open with a metallic groan. Through the small gap of the front window, he caught movement — broad shoulders, a firm grip, and the deft twist of hands on the engine. The alarm ceased abruptly, the sudden silence as startling as the noise itself.

Thomas squinted, trying to see the person responsible. He couldn't make out their face, just the silhouette against the glare of the midday sun. And then the voice came, low and biting, cutting through the quiet like a blade.

"Are you crazy driving this wailing bastard up here? Are you trying to draw every walker for miles?"

The breath hitched in Thomas's chest. That voice. It was unmistakable, seared into his memory from the chaos of Atlanta. He hadn't heard it in weeks, but it still carried the same sharpness, the same edge of authority tinged with frustration. He'd last heard it whispering to Lori, urging her to take Carl and stay safe while he went off to find his own parents.

Shane Walsh.

The name echoed in Thomas's mind as he abandoned the wires and shoved the door open. His boots hit the ground with purpose, his steps brisk and unrelenting as he rounded the car. His eyes scanned the scene.

He spotted him at the hood of the car, standing tall, his features set in a familiar scowl. Shane's head turned sharply, his expression shifting from annoyance to disbelief as his gaze locked onto Thomas. For a moment, the air between them seemed to hum with unspoken recognition, thick with the weight of shared memories and the paths that had led them here.

Thomas barely registered the others around him, their curious stares and muttered questions fading into the background. His focus was singular, drawn to Shane like a magnet to steel. But then, from somewhere to his right, a voice cut through the haze.

"Tommy?"

The sound sent a jolt through him, rooting him to the spot. He turned his head slowly, almost unwillingly, and there he was — Carl. The boy's face was dirt-smudged, his hair only slightly longer than Thomas remembered, but those wide, earnest eyes were unmistakable.

Before Thomas could process it, Carl was running toward him, his small frame colliding with Thomas's legs. Thomas dropped to his knees, his arms wrapping around the boy with a ferocity that startled even him. Carl's arms clung tightly around his neck, and Thomas held him as though he might vanish if he let go.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Thomas allowed himself to feel the full weight of everything he'd carried. The guilt, the fear, the endless wondering about whether Carl had made it, whether Lori had kept him safe — it all poured out in the way he hugged the boy close. He could feel Carl's ribs beneath his hands, hear the slight grunt of protest as his grip tightened, but Carl didn't let go either.

Thomas's throat burned, a lump forming that he couldn't swallow down. He buried his face in Carl's hair, the scent of sweat and dirt oddly comforting, a tangible reminder that the boy was alive, that this wasn't some cruel trick of his mind.

"Carl!"

Lori's voice rang out, and Thomas lifted his head, his gaze snapping toward her. She stood a few feet away, her hand pressed to her mouth, her eyes wide and glassy with shock. She looked almost exactly as he remembered, though thinner, her cheekbones more pronounced, her hair tied back in a haphazard braid.

Her gaze flickered from Carl to Thomas, and her hand dropped slowly. "Thomas," she whispered, her voice trembling.

Thomas rose to his feet, keeping one hand on Carl's shoulder. Lori took a hesitant step forward, her expression a mixture of relief, disbelief, and something deeper — guilt, maybe, or a kind of hope she was afraid to let herself feel.

And yet, beneath all of that, Thomas saw the flicker of another emotion in her eyes. A question. A possibility.

Rick.

The box truck rumbled up the incline, its engine grumbling like a tired beast pulling its last weight. The uneven ground trembled beneath its approach, kicking up dust that hung in the air like a gauzy veil. Thomas felt the vibration through his boots, a low hum that climbed up his legs and settled deep in his chest. He turned his head toward the sound, his gaze narrowing as the vehicle drew closer, its headlights cutting through the afternoon haze.

It was a battered thing, streaked with dirt and streaks of dried mud, its metal siding scratched and dented from what had undoubtedly been a grueling journey. The truck crawled to a stop in the clearing, exhaling with a guttural hiss as its brakes locked into place. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

He'd been about to tell Lori the truth — about Rick, about how they'd made it out together, about how Rick's determination had carried them all this far. But as he looked back at Lori, still clutching Carl tightly to her chest, he hesitated. Her eyes, wide with unspoken hope, flicked between the truck and Thomas, and he knew. He didn't need to say it.

This was Rick's moment.

The truck's back doors groaned open, their hinges screaming with the effort. A small crowd gathered near the opening, their faces painted with worry and relief in equal measure. Some rushed forward, their arms outstretched to embrace loved ones as they descended, one by one, from the vehicle. Tears flowed freely, murmured words of gratitude and disbelief forming a chorus of human connection in the midst of their shared despair.

Thomas's heart clenched as he watched them reunite, their joy a stark contrast to the heaviness that had settled over him. He glanced at Lori and Carl again. Carl was fidgeting now, his small hands tugging at Lori's sleeve as though urging her forward. But Lori remained rooted in place, her body taut, her eyes fixed on the truck with a sharp intensity.

And then, there he was.

Rick emerged last, stepping down from the truck with a slow, deliberate grace. His face was shadowed, his shoulders slightly hunched as though the weight of the world still clung to him. But as he straightened, his eyes scanned the clearing, searching, until they landed on Lori and Carl.

The transformation was immediate. His face crumpled, his features folding into a raw, unguarded expression that stripped away all pretense of strength. His steps quickened, and then he was running, his arms reaching out as though afraid they might vanish before he could touch them.

Carl broke free from Lori's grasp and sprinted toward Rick, his small body colliding with his father's with a force that sent Rick staggering back a step. Rick dropped to his knees, his arms wrapping around his son with a desperation that was almost painful to witness. His fingers dug into Carl's back as though anchoring himself to the boy, his head dipping low to rest against Carl's shoulder.

Lori followed, slower, her steps hesitant at first but gaining speed until she was there, falling to her knees beside them. Rick's free arm reached for her, pulling her into the embrace, and the three of them clung to each other, their sobs breaking the silence that had settled over the clearing.

Thomas stood back, his arms hanging limply at his sides as he watched. The scene before him felt almost sacred, a moment so private that it seemed wrong to witness it. But he couldn't look away. His throat tightened, and he swallowed hard, forcing himself to stay still, to let them have this.

Beside him, Shane shifted. The man's jaw was set, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. For a moment, Thomas thought he saw something flicker across Shane's face — a mixture of relief and something darker, more complicated. But then Shane's expression hardened again, and he gave Thomas a small nod.

It was a gesture of respect, of understanding, and though Thomas wasn't entirely sure what it meant, he returned it with a slight nod of his own.

Rick's cries carried through the clearing, a raw, guttural sound that spoke of relief and agony and everything in between. Thomas's chest ached at the sound, a deep, hollow ache that he couldn't quite name.

He looked away, his gaze drifting to the mountains in the distance, their peaks shrouded in the golden haze of the late afternoon sun.

Rick's family was whole again, if only for now. And as Thomas stood there, watching the reunion unfold, he felt the faintest glimmer of something he hadn't allowed himself to feel in a long time.

AUTHORS NOTE

reunion!!!!

also much much talk about wendy, im so excited to get back to her in the next ch bc there's gonna be some tension

dun dun dun

might also skip some episodes or majority because i don't plan on thomas being with them the whole time especially when they go back to all to get merle back

much love,