𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑. i know where i've been

THE ENGINE OF THE CRUISER HUMMED low and steady, a rhythm almost hypnotic in the silence between them. Thomas leaned against the cool leather of the passenger seat, his head tilted just enough to watch Rick out of the corner of his eye.

He envied how Rick sat upright, hands firm on the wheel, his posture unconsciously commanding, even though his body bore signs of exhaustion: the pale pallor of his skin, the faint tremble in his fingers as he adjusted his grip, the way his breaths were measured and shallow, as though each one had to be accounted for.

It wasn't fair, Thomas thought, the way Rick seemed to adapt to this brutal new world after only a day out of a coma. A coma. Two days into this apocalypse, and Rick was alert, present, already strategizing their next move.

He looked healthier now, even after a single day of rest, thanks to Morgan's help. His face was clean, save for the stubborn stubble that shadowed his jaw. His torso was bandaged tightly beneath his shirt, the bloodied scraps he'd worn when they first met now discarded in favor of fresh clothes.

Thomas shifted in his seat, his knees bumping the glove compartment, the seatbelt cutting awkwardly across his chest. He was clean, dressed in clothes that didn't belong to him, yet he still felt like an intruder.

Morgan had been kind, more than kind, giving him a shirt, jeans, even socks that didn't have holes in them. But the weight of them pressed against his skin, a constant reminder that he hadn't earned any of it.

Rick didn't seem to notice. He kept his gaze fixed on the road ahead, the gray expanse of asphalt stretching endlessly into the horizon, lined with abandoned cars that gleamed dully in the overcast light. They passed a rusted pickup overturned on the shoulder, its bed spilling shattered glass and faded cans of motor oil. Beyond it, the woods pressed close, their skeletal branches clawing at the edges of the road like they wanted to reclaim it.

Morgan had called it a lifeline. Rick had called it hope.

Thomas didn't have a name for it.

"You doing okay?" Rick's voice broke the silence, rough and hoarse, but warm in its tone. It caught Thomas off guard, like an unexpected patch of sunlight on a cold day.

Thomas hesitated, caught between wanting to deflect and the gnawing ache of isolation that begged him to speak. "Yeah," he said finally, though it came out quieter than he intended.

Rick glanced at him, a flicker of concern in his blue eyes before he returned his focus to the road. "If you need anything, just say so. We're in this together now."

Together. The word felt foreign. For two months, Thomas had been alone. He'd spent the first few weeks barricaded in the upstairs bedroom of Rick's house, staring at the peeling wallpaper and waiting for the world to end.

Now, sitting in this car, with Rick driving them toward Atlanta, he wondered if he'd made the right choice in leaving his safe little prison.

"Thanks," Thomas said, the word heavy on his tongue. He wasn't used to gratitude, didn't know how to give it or receive it without feeling exposed.

Rick nodded, his expression unreadable. He seemed deep in thought, his eyes scanning the road ahead, but Thomas could tell he was listening. Rick had a way of making you feel like you mattered, even when you didn't believe it yourself.

Thomas envied that too.

They drove in silence for a while, the hum of the engine and the faint rustle of the wind through the broken windows their only companions. Thomas watched the landscape blur past, the barren trees and the occasional abandoned farmhouse, their windows staring blankly like the eyes of the dead.

He wondered if the people who had lived there were still inside, or if they'd fled, only to meet their end elsewhere.

"Atlanta's not far now," Rick said, breaking the quiet. There was a note of hope in his voice, a quiet determination that made Thomas want to believe him, even as doubt gnawed at the edges of his mind.

Morgan had told them about the refugee camp, said it was the best chance of finding safety. Rick had latched onto the idea like a lifeline, his conviction unwavering. He spoke of his wife and son with a tenderness that made Thomas's chest ache.

"How do you do it?" Thomas asked suddenly, the question spilling out before he could stop it.

Rick turned to him, brow furrowed in confusion. "Do what?"

"Keep going. You woke up to... this," Thomas gestured vaguely at the world outside the windshield. "And you're just... doing it. Like it's nothing."

Rick's lips pressed into a thin line, his expression unreadable. For a moment, Thomas thought he wouldn't answer. But then Rick exhaled, a long, slow breath that seemed to carry the weight of everything he'd seen and done in the last twenty-four hours.

"It's not nothing," Rick said finally. "It's survival. I don't have a choice."

Thomas looked away, his gaze falling to his hands, which rested in his lap. Clean hands. Strong hands. But they didn't feel like his.

"I spent two months hiding in a house," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Didn't leave until I saw how fucked up you looked. And even then, I didn't... I didn't want to. I just wanted to sit there, waiting for something to change." Rick didn't interrupt, didn't try to reassure him or offer platitudes. He just listened, his presence steady and unyielding. "I see you," Thomas continued, his words tumbling out in a rush. "You've been awake for what? Two days? And you're already... useful. You're already someone people can count on. I don't know if I can be that."

Rick was quiet for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. Then he spoke, his voice steady and calm.

"You're here," he said simply. "That's enough."

Thomas wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe that just being here, just surviving, was enough. But deep down, he wasn't sure it ever would be.

The police car rumbled along the highway, its tires crunching over loose gravel and shards of glass from the wreckage of civilization. Inside, the air was quiet except for the occasional creak of the suspension as the car jolted over cracks in the pavement.

Thomas leaned against the passenger window, his forehead almost touching the cool glass. His eyes flicked over the blur of skeletal trees and rusting cars, not really seeing them but finding a kind of rhythm in their sameness.

Rick shifted in his seat, reaching for the radio mounted to the dashboard. His movements were deliberate, as if every gesture carried weight and purpose. The device crackled faintly as he adjusted the frequency, the static filling the silence. Without preamble, he pressed the button on the side and brought the mic close to his mouth.

"Broadcasting on emergency channel," Rick began, his voice steady but carrying an edge of urgency. "I'm approaching Atlanta on Highway 85. If anyone can hear this, please respond."

Thomas didn't turn his head, but he listened, his focus split between the sound of Rick's voice and the desolate landscape sliding by outside.

"Hello?" Rick tried again, his tone rising slightly as if sheer force of will could conjure an answer. "Can anybody hear my voice? Anybody out there?" Only static greeted him, a hiss that seemed louder in the absence of anything human. Rick didn't let up. He adjusted his grip on the mic and repeated himself, his words slow and deliberate. "Approaching Atlanta. Highway 85. If you hear this, please respond."

Thomas smirked faintly, though his gaze remained fixed on the window. The monotony of Rick's efforts had begun to scratch at his nerves in a way that was almost funny.

"Persistent, aren't you?" Thomas muttered, his tone laced with dry humor.

Rick paused mid-sentence, the corner of his mouth twitching in what could almost be a smile. He glanced at him, and for a fleeting moment, there was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "Used to be a cop," he said. "You don't stop until you get an answer."

"Even if the answer's just a whole lot of nothing?"

Rick chuckled softly, the sound barely audible over the hum of the engine. "Sometimes nothing's better than the alternative."

Thomas didn't respond, but the weight of Rick's words settled in his chest, a reminder of all the times he'd wished for silence, for stillness, when the world outside his boarded-up windows had been anything but.

The car began to sputter as the gas gauge dipped toward empty. Rick frowned, tapping the wheel lightly with his fingers before glancing at the needle again. The road ahead stretched out desolate and unforgiving, a maze of wreckage and abandonment that seemed endless. Without a word, he slowed the vehicle and pulled to the side of the highway. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as they rolled to a stop.

Thomas exhaled sharply, the sound halfway between annoyance and resignation. He'd been lulled by the monotony of the drive, the hum of the engine, and the occasional static bursts from Rick's attempts at the radio. Now, silence hung between them again, broken only by the creak of the car doors as they both stepped out.

Rick adjusted his belt and gestured toward the trunk. "Grab the bag," he said, his tone matter-of-fact, as if asking for a favor that wasn't worth arguing about.

Thomas nodded, though the command irked him. He moved to the back of the car, lifting the trunk and staring at the duffel for a moment before slinging it over his shoulder. It was heavier than he expected, the weight pulling slightly against his collarbone.

"Where are we going?" he asked as he followed Rick, who had already started walking toward the shadow of a house just visible through the trees.

Rick didn't turn around. "We need supplies. Gas, maybe food. Anything that's useful."

The air felt still as they approached the property, the kind of quiet that wasn't natural. No birdsong, no rustling leaves — just the occasional groan of the wind through empty spaces. The house loomed ahead, its windows gaping like empty sockets, the door ajar and swaying faintly on its hinges.

Rick stopped abruptly, holding up a hand to signal Thomas to stay back. "Wait here," he said firmly.

Thomas didn't argue. He dropped the bag to the ground and leaned against a withered tree, crossing his arms. "Sure. I'll just stand here and do nothing," he muttered under his breath. It suited him fine — he wasn't in any rush to get his hands dirty.

Rick stepped cautiously onto the porch, his movements quiet and deliberate. The wood creaked faintly under his boots as he looked through the windows.

Minutes passed. Thomas kept his eyes on the house, half-expecting to hear the sudden crack of gunfire or a shout, but the stillness persisted. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, impatient but unwilling to move closer.

Then he heard it — a faint, rhythmic sound. At first, it was so soft he thought it might be the wind, but it grew louder, more distinct. A hollow clop-clop that sent a shiver down his spine. He furrowed his brows and turned his head, scanning the treeline for the source.

It wasn't long before Rick emerged from the side of the house, riding a horse.

Thomas blinked, momentarily stunned by the sight. The animal was a mottled gray, its mane tangled but still regal in a rugged way. Rick sat upright in the saddle, looking almost too natural, as if this were a regular occurrence and not an absurd twist in an already surreal day.

Thomas shook his head, a smirk creeping onto his face. "You've gotta be kidding me."

Rick smiled faintly, guiding the horse closer with practiced ease. "What?"

"What do you mean, what?" Thomas gestured broadly at the horse. "What's next? You gonna dig up a suit of armor and declare yourself sheriff of Camelot?"

Rick laughed, the sound genuine and deep, a rare warmth that momentarily eased the tension between them. "It's been a while since I've ridden one," he admitted, patting the horse's neck.

Thomas raised an eyebrow, unable to suppress his curiosity. "Seriously? You just — found it in the backyard?"

"Stable out back," Rick explained, his tone casual. "Figured it'd be more convenient than the car. No gas to worry about."

Thomas huffed, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, real convenient. Except for the part where I'm supposed to, what, walk to Atlanta while you trot along like some cowboy?"

Rick smirked, shifting in the saddle. "Not exactly." He gestured toward the horse. "You're riding, too."

Thomas's smirk faded. He glanced at the animal warily, then at Rick, as if searching for a loophole in this plan. "You're kidding."

"Nope. Grab the bag and hop on."

Thomas hesitated, his gaze flicking between the horse and the duffel bag. Finally, he sighed, grabbing the bag and slinging it over his shoulder like a crossbody strap. The weight settled awkwardly against his side as he stepped closer to the horse, eyeing it like it might suddenly decide to bite him.

"Here," Rick said, leaning down to offer a hand.

Thomas shook his head. "I got it."

It took a couple of tries — his first attempt left him hanging awkwardly off the side, much to Rick's amusement — but eventually, Thomas managed to swing his leg over and settle into the saddle behind Rick.

"Not bad," Rick said, glancing over his shoulder.

"Shut up," Thomas muttered, adjusting the bag to a more comfortable position.

Rick chuckled and nudged the horse forward. The animal moved smoothly, its hooves striking a steady rhythm against the asphalt as they made their way back to the highway.

The city loomed in the distance, a hazy outline against the horizon. As they rode, the silence stretched between them again, but this time it felt less oppressive, softened by the steady cadence of hooves and the faint rustle of the wind.

The closer they came to Atlanta, the more the silence began to weigh on them. The rhythmic clop of the horse's hooves was steady and unyielding, a metronome marking time as they approached the city. It should have been louder, filled with the noise of life — cars honking, pedestrians chatting, distant sirens — but now there was nothing but the unsettling stillness of abandonment.

The first signs of the city came in the form of scattered wreckage. Broken-down cars lined the road, their windows shattered and their metal husks scorched and rusted. Some sat askew, half-jacked up on curbs, their wheels missing as if they'd been looted in a hurry. Others bore deeper scars — doors bent unnaturally, roofs caved in, windshields stained with dark streaks that Thomas didn't want to think too hard about.

As they moved further into the city, the skyscrapers loomed ahead, their glass faces fractured and gleaming in the waning sunlight. Broken windows created jagged patterns against the steel, like the jagged edges of teeth. Shards of glass littered the streets, catching the light in a way that might have been beautiful if not for the pervasive sense of decay.

Trash was everywhere — empty soda cans, faded wrappers, and torn scraps of paper blowing listlessly across the asphalt. Shopping carts lay tipped over in the gutters, their wireframes rusted and their wheels bent. The occasional abandoned suitcase sat on the sidewalk, its contents spilling out as if whoever left it behind had been interrupted mid-flight.

Buildings that once stood proud now slouched under the weight of neglect. Storefronts were boarded up or broken into, their signs dangling precariously by a single bolt. "Clearance Sale!" read one sign, its bright red letters faded to a dull pink.

A mannequin stood in a window, its head missing and one arm outstretched as if caught mid-wave.

The air smelled faintly of dampness and rot, an earthy scent that clung to the back of Thomas's throat. Occasionally, a faint metallic tang wafted by, the smell of blood long since dried.

Rick led the horse cautiously, his body tense in the saddle. The streets narrowed as they ventured deeper, and the remnants of what had once been a bustling metropolis became more apparent.

A bicycle lay in the middle of the road, its tires deflated and its frame bent. Nearby, a child's toy truck rested on its side, its bright plastic faded and its wheels missing.

Thomas kept his eyes moving, taking in every detail. The city felt alive in its emptiness, as if it were holding its breath. A faint creak echoed from somewhere to their left — a door perhaps, or a shutter swaying in the breeze. It was the kind of sound that might go unnoticed in a bustling city but now seemed deafening against the quiet.

The streets were uneven, the pavement cracked and buckling in places where tree roots had pushed their way to the surface. Puddles of stagnant water filled the potholes, their surfaces covered with a thin film of grime.

Every so often, they passed cars that were not just abandoned but destroyed. One vehicle had its roof torn off completely, the metal curled back like a sardine can. Another was burned down to its frame, the blackened skeleton of what had once been a van.

Above, the skyline framed a peculiar mix of beauty and horror. The light of the setting sun reflected off the glass and steel, painting the buildings in hues of gold and orange. But the broken windows and the scars of the city marred the view, turning it into a bittersweet tableau of ruin.

A crow cawed from somewhere above, the sharp cry breaking the monotony of their journey. Thomas glanced up and saw the bird perched on a traffic light, its dark silhouette stark against the sky. It flapped its wings once, twice, and then took off, disappearing into the void between buildings.

They passed a bus tilted on its side, its windows smashed and its doors bent outward as if something had forced its way in — or out. Some seats inside were empty, their cushions ripped apart and their stuffing spilling onto the floor. Some had those of the dead, unmoving.

The rhythm of the horse's hooves echoed through the hollow streets, their steady cadence marking the passage of time in the otherwise timeless, decaying city. Rick's posture remained firm in the saddle, his eyes scanning their surroundings with a vigilance born from necessity. Thomas, perched behind him, clung tightly to the bag of guns slung across his chest, the weight of it feeling both reassuring and oppressive.

It didn't take long for the first of them to appear. A low groan, guttural and wet, broke the stillness. Thomas's head snapped toward the sound, and he saw it — no, them. They staggered out from an alley, two at first, then three, drawn by the sound of the horse's hooves against the cracked pavement. The walkers, as Morgan had called them — though Rick seemed to have adopted the term as well — moved with a slow, unrelenting hunger.

Thomas's breath caught in his throat. His hands gripped the bag tighter as his chest tightened, his world narrowing to the grotesque figures stumbling toward them. Skin sloughed off in patches, revealing sinew and bone beneath. Their eyes were milky, empty, yet somehow fixed intently on their prey.

He squeezed his eyes shut, as if by not seeing them, he could will them out of existence, a childish reflex that he couldn't shake.

The horse shifted nervously beneath them, its ears flicking back and forth as it sensed the danger. Rick leaned forward, his voice low and soothing as he murmured to the animal. "Easy now. Just a few," he said, his words deliberate and calm. "Nothing we can't handle."

Thomas opened one eye, just a crack, and glanced at Rick. For a moment, it felt as if Rick's words weren't meant for the horse at all but for him. His uncle's steady tone cut through the panic swirling in Thomas's mind, grounding him enough to draw a shaky breath.

The walkers closed in, their movements erratic but purposeful. Rick clicked his tongue, nudging the horse forward. The animal obeyed, its hooves clopping with more urgency now as they maneuvered around the shambling figures. The walkers reached out, bony hands grasping at the air, but the horse kept just out of reach, its powerful strides carrying them to safety — for now.

As they turned a corner, the city's decay became even more apparent. The ruins of what had once been civilization were laid bare before them. Tanks — massive, hulking machines of war — sat abandoned in the streets. Their barrels pointed uselessly at the sky, their once-imposing presence now reduced to a haunting reminder of what had been lost. The metal was dull, tarnished by the elements, and the insignias painted on their sides were faded and peeling.

Thomas stared at the tanks, his stomach churning. Soldiers had been here. The army. And yet, they were gone. The sight of such overwhelming force rendered inert was anything but comforting. It spoke to the scale of the disaster, to the hopelessness of fighting something that couldn't be reasoned with or subdued.

Rick didn't pause, but Thomas could feel the tension in his body, the slight tightening of his grip on the reins. The horse picked up speed, its gait transitioning from a cautious walk to a brisk trot. The silence of the city was broken now, not just by the horse's hooves but by the guttural moans of the dead, growing louder with each turn they took.

Then came the swarm.

It happened so quickly that Thomas barely had time to process it. They rounded a corner, and suddenly, the street ahead was teeming with walkers. Dozens, maybe more, filled the roadway, their bodies packed tightly together as they moved with single-minded determination. The sound was overwhelming — a cacophony of groans and wet, slapping footsteps that reverberated off the surrounding buildings.

Rick pulled hard on the reins, and the horse reared back, its whinny cutting through the noise. The bag of guns swung against Thomas's chest, and he clung to the saddle, his knuckles white. He couldn't speak, couldn't think. His mind was a blank slate of terror, his body frozen as the reality of their situation sank in.

Rick turned the horse sharply, steering it back the way they had come, but the sound of shuffling feet told them all they needed to know. The swarm wasn't limited to one street. Walkers poured in from every direction, emerging from alleys, doorways, and side streets, their numbers growing with each passing second.

Thomas's breathing became shallow, his chest rising and falling rapidly as his eyes darted around. He could see them everywhere — mangled bodies lurching toward them, arms outstretched, mouths gaping open. He felt like a deer in headlights, his muscles locked in place, incapable of action.

Rick's voice cut through the chaos. "Hang on!" he shouted, his tone sharp and commanding. He spurred the horse forward, weaving through the gaps between the encroaching walkers.

The horse moved quickly, but the walkers were relentless. They reached for the animal, their fingers brushing against its flank. The horse bucked slightly, its panic mirroring Thomas's own. Rick held firm, guiding the animal with practiced skill, but the sheer number of walkers made escape seem impossible.

Thomas's head swam. The world around him blurred, the sounds and sights blending into a nightmarish tableau. He closed his eyes again, clinging to the saddle as if it were the only thing anchoring him to reality.

When he opened them, they were surrounded. Walkers closed in from all sides, their grotesque faces filling Thomas's vision. He could see every detail — the mottled skin, the gaping wounds, the cloudy eyes devoid of life.

Rick pulled the horse to a stop, its nostrils flaring as it stamped nervously. Thomas looked at his uncle, his heart pounding in his chest. Rick's face was set in a grim expression, his eyes scanning their surroundings for any possible escape.

But there was none. They were trapped.

The air was heavy with the guttural moans of the dead and the stench of rot, closing in like a suffocating fog. Thomas barely had time to register the clawing hand that latched onto the strap of the bag slung across his chest.

The walker's grip was impossibly strong, its mangled fingers digging into the canvas with an almost mechanical precision. The sudden jerk sent Thomas tumbling off the horse, the world spinning as he hit the pavement hard, the bag sliding away from his body with terrifying ease.

Pain shot through his palms and knees as he scrambled backward on the cracked asphalt, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. He could feel the heat of the horse above him, hear its frightened whinnies and the pounding of its hooves as it reared up in panic. Rick's voice was a distant roar, drowned out by the snarls and groans that surrounded them.

Thomas clawed at the ground, his nails scraping against concrete as he tried to put distance between himself and the walkers converging on him. Their hands reached for him, a sea of decayed flesh and unrelenting hunger. He screamed, the sound raw and desperate, echoing off the deserted buildings.

The horse went down. Its massive body hit the ground with a sickening thud, the weight of its collapse shaking the pavement beneath Thomas. The walkers swarmed it instantly, their teeth sinking into its flesh, ripping and tearing as the animal let out one final, harrowing cry.

Rick was fighting too, kicking a walker off him with a grunt of effort before reaching for Thomas. His hand found Thomas's collar, tugging hard enough to choke him slightly, but the movement wasn't enough to break the paralysis that gripped him. Thomas was frozen, his limbs locked in place as his mind raced.

This is it, he thought. This is how it ends.

Rick shouted something — Thomas couldn't hear the words, only the urgency in his uncle's voice. The next thing he knew, he was being dragged across the ground, his collar cutting into his throat as Rick tried to pull him toward the underside of the tank that loomed nearby. But Rick didn't get far. A walker grabbed him, pulling him away, and he was forced to fight it off with his bare hands.

Thomas was alone again. The walkers closed in, their groans filling his ears, their rotting faces inches from his own. His breath hitched, his chest heaving as he stared into the clouded eyes of one that lunged for him. At the last second, he managed to shove it away, the movement clumsy but enough to buy him a few precious seconds.

The tank was his only chance.

He crawled backward, his hands and feet scrambling for purchase on the blood-slick pavement. The walkers followed, their movements slow but relentless, their grasping hands inches from his boots. When he reached the tank, he grabbed onto the cold metal and began to climb, his muscles screaming in protest. It was awkward and desperate, not unlike how he had mounted the horse earlier, but this time, his life depended on it.

He reached the top, his fingers trembling as he grabbed the edge of the hatch. It was open, mercifully so, and he threw himself inside, pulling the heavy lid closed behind him with a resounding clang.

Inside, the world was dark and suffocating, the air thick with the lingering stench of death. Thomas fell to the floor, his chest heaving as he gasped for breath. His heart pounded in his ears, drowning out the muffled groans of the walkers outside.

A faint sound below him made him glance down. Rick was there, entering through a lower hatch, his face slick with sweat and blood as he shut the entrance behind him. For a moment, they were both still, the only sounds their ragged breaths and the muted cacophony of the swarm outside.

Thomas's chest tightened, a sob threatening to escape, but the adrenaline coursing through his veins kept his emotions at bay. He pressed his back against the cool metal wall of the tank, his hands shaking as he tried to steady himself.

Then came the groan.

It was low and wet, impossibly close. Thomas froze, his eyes darting to the source of the sound. There, in the dim light of the tank's interior, a walker moved. Its arm, twisted and broken, reached for him, its fingers brushing against his collar.

Panic surged through him, his body refusing to move as the creature's milky eyes locked onto him. He could see every gruesome detail — the jagged edges of its broken jaw, the blackened flesh peeling from its face.

Before he could react, a deafening gunshot shattered the oppressive silence.

The walker's head snapped back, its skull exploding in a spray of gore that splattered against the wall. Thomas flinched, his ears ringing from the sound. The shot had been too close, the confined space amplifying the noise to an unbearable level.

Rick stood there, his gun still raised, his face grim but focused. He lowered the weapon slowly, his lips moving as if to speak, but Thomas couldn't hear him. The ringing in his ears was too loud, a high-pitched whine that drowned out everything else.

Thomas stared at him, his chest heaving, his hands pressed against his ears as if that could block out the sound. His body trembled, the adrenaline giving way to a wave of exhaustion and fear.

The oppressive silence in the tank was shattered only by the unbearable ringing in their ears, a shrill sound that filled the small space and refused to let go. Thomas hunched over, his hands pressed tightly against his ears, as if willing the pain to stop. His face was twisted in discomfort, his breaths shallow and rapid. Rick wasn't much better — his jaw was clenched tight, and his brows knit together as he shook his head slightly, as though trying to clear it of the sharp, incessant noise.

The seconds felt like hours. Slowly, the ringing began to subside, ebbing away like a retreating tide, leaving behind a strange and heavy quiet. Both of them sat still, their bodies tense, their breathing labored. The dim light of the tank cast long shadows on their faces, illuminating the streaks of sweat and grime that marked them.

Thomas lifted his head, his eyes meeting Rick's. Neither of them spoke, but the shared glance said everything — disbelief, fear, and a grim acknowledgment of how close they had come to death. Rick leaned his head back against the metal wall, his chest rising and falling as he tried to steady himself. Thomas swallowed hard, his throat dry and tight, and mirrored Rick's posture.

For a moment, the world outside seemed distant. The growls and groans of the walkers were muffled, their clawing hands against the tank a faint reminder of the chaos they had just escaped.

The interior of the tank was claustrophobic, its walls too close, the air too thin, and the sharp tang of gunpowder and decay too overwhelming.

And then, cutting through the stillness like a blade, came the faint crackle of static.

Thomas's head snapped up, his eyes darting around the confined space. Rick sat up straighter, his attention fixating on the source of the sound. The static grew louder, fizzing and popping until a voice broke through.

"Hey, you."

The voice was male, calm and almost conversational, a strange juxtaposition to the chaos outside.

"Dumbasses."

Rick and Thomas exchanged wide-eyed glances, their mouths slightly agape. Rick's gaze shifted toward the source of the sound — a dusty walkie-talkie mounted on the tank's console. He reached for it with a swift, almost desperate motion, his hands trembling slightly as he brought it to his mouth.

"Hello? Hello?" Rick's voice was urgent, his tone hovering on the edge of panic.

"There you are," the voice replied smoothly. "You had me wondering."

Thomas leaned back against the tank wall, his body sagging with a mix of relief and disbelief. He closed his eyes briefly, the adrenaline still coursing through him making it hard to think clearly. Rick, however, was focused, gripping the walkie-talkie tightly as if it were a lifeline.

"Where are you?" Rick asked, his words tumbling out in rapid succession. "Outside? Can you see me right now?"

"Yeah, I can see you," the voice answered, his tone tinged with wry amusement. "You're surrounded by geeks. That's the bad news."

Thomas let out a dry, humorless laugh, the absurdity of the situation catching up with him. His shoulders shook slightly as he fought back the urge to let the laughter devolve into something more hysterical.

Rick, however, was undeterred. "There's good news?" he pressed, the hope in his voice almost painful to hear.

"No," the voice replied flatly.

Thomas snorted, a sound that was equal parts disbelief and bitterness. He shook his head, pressing his palms against his temples. If they weren't going to die from starvation in this steel tomb, it would be from sheer madness, of that he was certain.

Rick cast a quick glance at his nephew, noting the way Thomas seemed to be unraveling at the edges. "My nephew's doing enough of that freaking out for both of us," he muttered into the walkie. "Listen, whoever you are," Rick continued, his voice a mix of frustration and desperation, "I don't mind telling you I'm a little concerned in here."

The voice on the other end chuckled softly, a sound that grated against the tension in the air. "Oh, man. You should see it from over here. You'd be having a major freakout."

Thomas groaned, running his hands through his hair and rocking slightly where he sat. If it were a cartoon, he thought bitterly, he'd probably have steam coming out of his ears right about now. He let out a deep, shuddering breath, his chest tight with anxiety.

Rick's brow furrowed as he looked at Thomas, then back to the walkie-talkie. "Got any advice for us?" he asked, his tone sharp.

The voice on the other end paused for a beat before responding, "Yeah. I'd say make a run for it."

Rick's jaw dropped slightly, his expression a mix of incredulity and annoyance. "That's it? Make a run for it?"

"My way's not as dumb as it sounds," the voice replied smoothly. "You've got eyes on the outside here. There's one geek still up on the tank, but the others have climbed down and joined the feeding frenzy where the horse went down. With me so far?"

"So far," Rick said cautiously.

"Okay," the voice continued. "The street on the other side of the tank is less crowded. If you move now, while they're distracted, you stand a chance. Got ammo?"

Thomas's stomach dropped at the mention of ammo. His mind flashed back to the moment he'd hit the ground outside, the bag slipping from his shoulders and landing amidst the chaos. His throat tightened as he whispered hoarsely, "The bag. It's out there."

The voice on the other end must have heard him, because there was a heavy sigh before he spoke again. "Forget the bag, okay? It's not an option. What do you have on you?"

Rick glanced at Thomas, his expression tense. Thomas could only shake his head slightly, his hands gripping his knees as he tried to steady his breathing. His heart was pounding again, a relentless drumbeat that seemed to echo in the small space.

The weight of the situation pressed down on them like the walls of the tank itself. They were running out of options, and every second they spent sitting there felt like borrowed time.

Rick's fingers pressed into the walkie, his voice tight. "Hang on." He shifted, pulling his sidearm from its holster and ejecting the magazine. He counted the bullets one by one, his lips moving silently. Fifteen rounds. It wasn't much, but it was enough — if they were smart.

His gaze flicked to Thomas, who was still leaning back against the tank wall, his breaths coming shallow and fast. The boy looked like he was about to pass out. Rick's voice cut through the haze of fear clinging to Thomas like a second skin.

"Check him. Search. Now." Thomas blinked at him, his wide eyes betraying a flicker of hesitation, but Rick's tone brooked no argument. "Check his pockets, his belt. Move!"

With shaking hands, Thomas pushed himself upright. The corpse lay crumpled near the corner of the tank, its body grotesquely contorted, its face frozen in a grotesque grimace. The dim light caught on the dried blood that streaked its uniform, the dull sheen of its dog tags reflecting faintly.

Thomas hesitated for just a moment, his fingers trembling as he reached toward the soldier's chest. His stomach churned, the closeness of death a visceral thing. The fabric of the uniform was rough under his touch, damp with fluids he didn't want to think about. He patted down the chest, the belt, the sides — finding nothing.

"Keep looking," Rick barked, his voice sharp.

Thomas flinched but obeyed, his hands moving quicker now. He reached for the soldier's hip when something caught his eye — a glint of dull metal tucked against the soldier's vest. He froze for a moment, staring, before carefully pulling it free. It was heavier than he expected, its ridged surface cold against his skin. A grenade.

"Rick," Thomas whispered, his voice barely audible.

Rick turned immediately, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the small explosive in Thomas's hands. He snatched it quickly, inspecting it with a grim nod of approval.

"That'll do," Rick muttered, tucking it away. He pressed the walkie to his lips again, his tone more resolute. "I've got a Beretta with one clip, fifteen rounds."

The voice crackled back through the static. "Make 'em count. Jump off the right side of the tank, keep going in that direction. There's an alley up the street, maybe fifty yards. Be there."

Rick nodded, but before he moved, he turned to Thomas, grabbing the younger man by both sides of his face. His grip was firm, almost bruising, and his eyes burned with intensity.

"Listen to me," Rick said, his voice low but forceful. "You don't freeze again. You hear me? You freeze out there, you're dead. I can't carry you. I can't save you if you shut down. You run. You follow me. You keep moving. Understand?"

Thomas stared back at him, his mouth opening and closing as if he wanted to argue, but the sheer ferocity in Rick's gaze left no room for defiance. He swallowed hard, his throat tight, and gave a small, shaky nod.

"Say it," Rick demanded. "Say you won't freeze."

"I — I won't freeze," Thomas stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Rick released him with a small shove, his face softening just slightly. "Good."

They moved in near-silence after that, every sound feeling amplified in the oppressive confines of the tank. Rick climbed toward the hatch, his movements deliberate, his breaths slow and steady. He pushed it open just enough to peer outside. The sunlight was blinding after the dim interior, and the cacophony of moans and shuffling feet was deafening.

"Stay close," Rick murmured, his voice barely audible over the din.

He swung himself out, landing on the side of the tank with practiced ease. Thomas hesitated for a fraction of a second before following, his hands gripping the metal edges tightly as he climbed out into the chaos.

The world outside was a hellscape. The walkers were everywhere, their grotesque forms swarming like insects around the remains of the horse. Its body was a bloodied mess, flesh and entrails strewn across the pavement as the creatures fought over the scraps. The stench was overwhelming, a sickly mix of rot and copper that made Thomas gag.

Rick didn't hesitate. He dropped to the ground on the right side of the tank, his gun already raised. He fired once, twice, clearing a path through the stragglers. Thomas landed beside him with a graceless thud, his knees nearly buckling.

"Move!" Rick barked, shoving Thomas forward.

They ran, their footsteps pounding against the asphalt, the sound muffled by the groans and growls around them. Rick's aim was precise, each shot finding its mark as he cleared the way. Thomas kept his head down, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he focused solely on following Rick's lead.

The alley came into view like a mirage, a narrow escape route flanked by crumbling brick walls. Rick didn't slow, his pace relentless as he pushed forward. Thomas stumbled after him, his legs burning, his lungs screaming for air.

"Here!" a voice called, sharp and urgent.

At the far end of the alley, a figure waved them forward — a young man with sharp eyes and an air of calm authority. He gestured toward a ladder bolted to the side of a building, his movements quick and deliberate.

"Go, go, go!" the boy shouted.

Rick reached the ladder first, turning briefly to cover their approach. He fired twice more, the shots echoing off the narrow walls.

"You next," Rick said, shoving Thomas toward the ladder.

Thomas didn't argue. He grabbed the rungs and climbed, his hands slick with sweat, his muscles trembling with exertion. The young man was already scaling the ladder above him, his movements quick and fluid.

Rick brought up the rear, his gunfire providing a desperate cover as the walkers surged into the alley. He climbed with one hand, his other gripping the gun tightly.

The three of them scrambled onto a small balcony overlooking the alley, their chests heaving as they collapsed against the railing. Below, the walkers pressed against the base of the building, their hands clawing at the walls, their guttural moans filling the air.

For a moment, none of them spoke. The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the relentless growls from below. Thomas leaned back, his head resting against the cool metal railing, his eyes squeezed shut. He felt like he might pass out, his body trembling from the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

"Hell of a day, huh?" The boy said, a hint of a smile breaking through his otherwise serious expression.

The air on the balcony was oppressive, thick with the fetid scent of the walkers below. The boy, still catching his breath, leaned on the railing, his sharp eyes scanning Rick up and down. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he took in the stranger's ensemble: the boots, the well-worn sheriff's uniform streaked with dirt and blood.

"Nice moves there, Clint Eastwood," He quipped, his voice laced with dry amusement. "You the new sheriff come riding in to clean up the town?"

Rick's expression didn't shift, though his lips pressed into a thin line, his exhaustion etched deep into the lines of his face. "It wasn't my intention."

"Yeah, whatever," he said with a sarcastic flourish of his hand. "Yeehaw."

His gaze drifted to Thomas, who was slumped against the metal rail, his face pale and glistening with sweat. His chest heaved, his breaths shallow and ragged, as though his lungs were still catching up with the chaos they'd just escaped. He raised an eyebrow. "Geez," he muttered, shaking his head. "What happened to you? You look like you just lost a fight with a lawnmower."

Thomas shot him a withering glare, his pride stung. "And you look like you just walked out of a Sears catalog. What's your point?" he snapped back, his voice sharp despite his obvious fatigue.

The boy chuckled, rolling his eyes as he crossed his arms. "Still dumbasses, both of you."

Rick stepped between them, his tone cutting through the tension. "Rick Grimes." He extended a hand toward him, his grip steady despite the chaos swirling around them. "Thanks."

He glanced down at the outstretched hand, his expression hovering somewhere between bemused and begrudging. With a sigh, he clasped Rick's hand in his own, giving it a firm shake. "Glenn," he said curtly. "You're welcome."

Thomas, still bristling, straightened up slightly, his arms crossed. "Thomas," Glenn gave a small nod, acknowledging the name but not bothering with a handshake.

The exchange was cut short by Glenn's sudden shift in focus. His eyes dropped to the ladder below, and his expression darkened. "Oh, no," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the din of the walkers below.

All three of them turned their attention downward. One of the walkers, grotesque and relentless, had managed to grip the ladder. Its rotted fingers clutched the rungs as it pulled itself upward, its head tilted at an unnatural angle, jaws snapping at nothing.

Rick's hand instinctively went to his gun, but Glenn raised a hand to stop him. "Don't waste the ammo," Glenn said quickly, his tone clipped. "We've got bigger problems."

He turned, pointing to a second ladder bolted to the side of the building behind them. It was rusted and narrow, with no rails to steady them and no platform at the top — just a direct path to the roof above. Glenn's lips twitched into a grim smile.

"Bright side?" he said, glancing between Rick and Thomas. "If we screw this up, at least it'll be the fall that kills us. I'm a glass-half-full kinda guy."

Thomas swallowed hard, his stomach churning at the sight of the precarious ladder. The thought of climbing it, with nothing but empty air and a horde of ravenous walkers beneath them, made his legs feel like jelly.

Glenn didn't wait for a response. He was already moving, testing the first rung of the ladder with a cautious step before starting his ascent. "Let's go," he called over his shoulder.

Thomas hesitated, his gaze flickering between the advancing walker and the ladder. Rick's hand clapped onto his shoulder, the grip firm and steady. "Now, Thomas. Move," Rick said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Thomas nodded stiffly, forcing his legs to obey as he stepped onto the ladder. The metal was cold and slick beneath his palms, and the rungs groaned faintly under his weight. Each step felt like a leap of faith, his fingers gripping tightly as he climbed higher and higher.

Rick followed closely behind, his gun still in hand, his eyes darting between Thomas above him and the walkers below. The moans grew louder, a rising tide of desperation that sent a chill down Thomas's spine.

Glenn reached down as Thomas neared the top, gripping his forearm and hauling him onto the roof with a grunt of effort. Thomas collapsed onto the flat surface, his limbs trembling, his breaths coming in short, shallow gasps.

Rick was next, his movements deliberate as he climbed the final rungs.

Glenn and Thomas both grabbed Rick's arms as he reached the top, pulling him onto the roof just as another walker began its ascent.

The rooftops stretched before them in uneven angles and jagged lines, the cityscape reduced to a maze of decrepit structures and broken skylines. Rick led the way, his eyes scanning the alley beneath them as they moved.

"Are you the one who barricaded that alley?" Rick asked, his voice carrying over the muffled groans from the streets below.

Glenn shook his head as he hopped over a crumbling ventilation unit, his boots landing softly on the next rooftop. "Somebody did. Probably when the city got overrun. Whoever it was, they were smart, figured not many geeks would manage to get through."

Rick nodded, his gaze lingering on the barricades below, before turning back to Glenn. "Back at the tank... why'd you stick your neck out for us?"

Glenn let out a short, self-deprecating laugh, brushing a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. "Call it foolish. Naive, even. But I've got this dumb hope that if I'm ever that far up shit creek, somebody might do the same for me." His words hung in the air for a moment, and then he added, quieter, "I think about my sister a lot. She's out there somewhere — at least, I hope she is. If she ends up in trouble, I'd want someone to help her too."

Thomas slowed his pace slightly, glancing at Glenn with an expression that teetered between surprise and disbelief. But Glenn didn't look back, didn't wait for validation or argument. Instead, he stopped abruptly at the edge of another roof, crouching beside a rusted hatch embedded in its surface. The metal groaned faintly as he lifted it, revealing a ladder descending into darkness.

Glenn smirked, looking up at Rick and Thomas. "Guess that makes me an even bigger dumbass than you."

Rick didn't respond, his face impassive as he glanced briefly at Thomas.

Rick gestured for Thomas to go next, and he muttered something under his breath before gripping the ladder's rungs and descending into the shadows. Rick followed last, his eyes flicking upward toward the distant skyline before he vanished into the darkened shaft.

The space below smelled of mildew and rot, a cramped and claustrophobic passage that forced them to move quickly. Their footsteps echoed faintly as they emerged into a narrow alley, its walls towering around them like prison bars.

Glenn pressed his hand to the walkie clipped to his vest as they ran. "I'm back," he panted. "Got two guests, plus four geeks in the alley."

The faint static from the other end crackled, but Glenn didn't wait for a response. They reached the bottom of the alley's staircase, but two walkers emerged from the gloom, their guttural groans reverberating off the walls.

Thomas' breath hitched, but before any of them had to react, a door burst open to their left. Two figures — one wielding a crowbar, the other a bat — rushed forward with practiced efficiency, dispatching the walkers in swift, brutal blows. The sound of metal meeting flesh was sickening, a wet, hollow crunch that made Thomas grimace, his stomach lurching.

Glenn didn't hesitate, and neither did Rick. They both sprinted through the doorway, their shoulders brushing against the narrow frame. Thomas lingered for half a second, his gaze fixed on the mangled remains of the walkers sprawled across the pavement, before he forced himself to move. He ducked inside, his chest heaving as he stumbled into the dimly lit interior.

The door slammed shut behind them, the sound ringing like a gunshot in the confined space. Thomas leaned against the wall, his hands braced on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. The adrenaline still coursing through his veins made his limbs tremble, his vision swimming slightly at the edges.

The room was a whirlwind of frantic energy and fear. The walls seemed to close in as the sound of groaning walkers outside grew louder, their relentless hunger pressing against the fragile barrier of glass. Rick stood still, his shoulders squared and his eyes scanning the unfamiliar faces surrounding him. He didn't flinch when the blonde woman stormed forward and shoved him hard, her face twisted in fury.

"You son of a bitch!" she hissed, her voice trembling with equal parts rage and terror. She raised a gun, the barrel leveled squarely at Rick's head. "We ought to kill you two right here!"

Rick didn't move, didn't blink. His breath was steady, his hands at his sides, though his eyes flicked briefly to Thomas, who stood frozen just a few feet away.

"Ease up," someone said from the corner, their voice strained but steady.

"Back off, Andrea," another voice chimed in, this one louder and more commanding.

But Andrea ignored them all. Her hands tightened around the grip of the gun as her glare shifted toward Thomas, who paled visibly. The weapon swung toward him, and his breath hitched audibly. He instinctively stepped backward, the heel of his boot striking a metal shelving unit behind him. The loud clatter echoed through the small space, drawing every pair of eyes toward him.

Andrea scoffed bitterly, shaking her head. "We're dead because of these stupid assholes," she spat, her voice breaking on the last word.

Thomas swallowed hard, his face tense. His lips parted, perhaps to offer a defense, but the words caught in his throat.

Before either of them could speak, a man stepped forward — Morales, as someone in the room had shouted moments ago. He placed himself directly in Andrea's line of sight, his broad shoulders blocking both Rick and Thomas from her aim.

"Andrea," Morales said firmly, his voice calm but resolute. "I said, back the hell off." Her hands trembled visibly, the gun shaking ever so slightly as her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths. But she didn't lower the weapon. Morales didn't flinch. He took another step closer, his gaze never leaving hers. "Well then," he said quietly, his tone measured and deliberate, "pull the trigger."

Andrea's face crumpled at his words, her resolve splintering like fragile glass. Her hands faltered, and the gun lowered as tears filled her eyes, spilling over onto her flushed cheeks. She shook her head slowly, her voice breaking into a sob. "We're dead," she whispered, her voice hollow now, devoid of the anger that had fueled it moments before. She sank to her knees, the gun clattering uselessly to the floor beside her. "All of us. Because of you."

For a moment, the room fell silent, save for Andrea's muffled weeping and the ceaseless groaning from outside. The oppressive weight of despair hung in the air, pressing down on everyone in the room like a tangible force.

Rick glanced at Thomas, who still looked stunned, his jaw tight and his hands twitching at his sides. Slowly, cautiously, Rick stepped forward, his eyes scanning the faces around him. "What's going on?" he asked quietly, his voice calm but firm.

"Look for yourself," a man said, gesturing toward the front of the store.

Rick moved toward the glass entrance, his boots scuffing against the tile floor. Thomas followed hesitantly, keeping a few steps behind. What he saw made him stop in his tracks.

Walkers. Dozens of them, their grotesque faces pressed against the glass, their decaying hands clawing at the barrier. The glass quivered faintly under the pressure, the sound of scraping and groaning filling the air like a macabre symphony.

"They weren't this bad before," Morales said, coming up beside Rick. "Then you fired that gun, and now..." He trailed off, gesturing helplessly at the horde outside.

Rick's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the situation. "The sound drew them in," he said quietly, almost to himself.

"Damn right it did," another man snapped, his tone sharp with anger. He was older, grizzled, his face weathered by both time and the horrors of their new reality. "You just rang the dinner bell."

Thomas looked away, his stomach churning at the sight of the walkers, their lifeless eyes fixated on the glass as if sheer will alone could break through.

"It's not just the noise," another voice chimed in — a woman's this time, her expression grim. "They can see us. That glass won't hold forever."

"Shit," Thomas muttered under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair.

Andrea, still on the floor, wiped at her tear-streaked face and looked up. "We were fine until you two showed up," she said bitterly, her voice thick with emotion. "Now we're sitting ducks."

AUTHORS NOTE

this was so much fun to write

also glenn thinking about wendy oh we cry

thomas has no idea that's his soulmate fr

also hope yall don't get annoyed by thomas but he's gonna freeze a lot okay

that's the whole point (˶‾᷄ ⁻̫ ‾᷅˵)

character development Ｏ(≧∇≦)Ｏ

much love,