𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐄𝐍. to you alone

THE RV RATTLED AND GROANED as it rolled down the uneven stretch of highway, a battered ark ferrying the remnants of humanity toward an uncertain horizon. Outside, the landscape had grown monotonous, an endless sprawl of sun-scorched asphalt, skeletal trees, and fields gone fallow under the weight of abandonment.

The group had agreed on Fort Benning, 125 miles south of Atlanta, as their next destination. But inside the RV, the air felt heavy, the silence too taut, the closeness of bodies too oppressive.

Thomas sat in one of the worn seats, his gaze fixed on the cracked vinyl floor. His fingers toyed absently with a loose thread on the hem of his shirt, pulling and twisting it until it frayed further.

Across from him, Shane hunched over his rifle, methodically cleaning it with the precision of someone who had found purpose in routine. Andrea perched nearby, her head tilted slightly as if asking a question, her expression open but unreadable. Thomas registered her movement, the way her lips shaped words, but the sound never reached him.

His attention had tunneled inward, spiraling into the dark recesses of his mind where the threads of doubt and memory tangled and tightened.

He didn't want to think about Shane. Not now, not ever. And yet, he couldn't stop himself.

It had started at the CDC, in the low, flickering light of impending disaster. Thomas had caught it then — the way Shane's gaze lingered on Lori, not just in moments of shared desperation but in moments of stillness, too. That gaze wasn't one of camaraderie or even admiration. It was possessive, hungry, as if Shane had claimed a piece of her that wasn't his to claim.

And Lori — she had bristled, pulled away in subtle ways that might have gone unnoticed if Thomas weren't watching so closely.

Now, as the RV bumped and swayed, Thomas's mind replayed those moments like a reel of fractured film.

Shane leaning too close to Lori at camp, his arm brushing hers under the guise of a casual gesture. Lori stiffening, her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes darting toward Carl as if to anchor herself. Then there were the whispers, Shane's lips close to her ear, his words inaudible but his intent clear. Lori's face had always betrayed her in those moments — shock, discomfort, and something darker, something Thomas couldn't name.

He hadn't paid much attention to it before.

Survival had been paramount, and the undercurrents of tension had felt like just another ripple in an ocean of chaos. But the CDC had shifted something in him. It wasn't just the way Shane had looked at Lori; it was the way he had looked at Rick.

Shane had stood just a fraction too close when Rick had spoken, his jaw tight, his hands restless. There had been an edge to Shane, a barely concealed resentment that Thomas could feel like static in the air.

And Rick, oblivious or willfully blind, had trusted Shane in ways that made Thomas's stomach churn.

What had happened before Rick returned? Thomas didn't know the details, but he could imagine the cracks. Lori had been alone, frightened, believing her husband dead. And Shane, opportunistic and emboldened by the end of the world, had likely stepped into the void Rick had left behind. It was human, maybe even forgivable, under different circumstances. But here, now, it festered like an open wound.

Thomas's frustration wasn't with Lori.

If anything, he felt a strange sort of pity for her. He had seen the way she looked at Rick, the way her face softened when she thought no one was watching. She still loved him — of that, Thomas was certain. Shane, though — Shane was the problem.

It was in the way Shane carried himself, the way he inserted himself into every conversation, every decision. He spoke with an authority that wasn't his, wielded it like a weapon. And Lori, for all her strength, was caught in his orbit, her discomfort palpable but her resistance muted.

It wasn't just what Thomas had seen; it was what he hadn't. The silences between Shane and Lori spoke louder than words.

The RV hit a pothole, jarring him back to the present. Shane's rifle clinked softly as he set it down, and Andrea shifted in her seat, her gaze flickering toward Thomas. He didn't meet her eyes. Instead, he stared out the window, watching the barren landscape blur into a smear of brown and gray.

What bothered Thomas most wasn't just the possibility of betrayal. It was the way Shane seemed to embody everything that had gone wrong in their world. He was a reminder that survival stripped people down to their basest instincts, that it turned allies into threats, friends into adversaries.

Shane wasn't just a man; he was a symptom of something larger, something darker.

Thomas closed his eyes, the hum of the RV vibrating through his body. His thoughts spiraled again, circling the same questions with no answers. What would Rick do if he knew? Would it break him, or would it harden him further? And what would happen to the fragile bonds holding their group together if those unspoken truths came to light?

The RV jolted over a crack in the asphalt, and Shane steadied the rifle in his hands, the movement casual, practiced. His fingers moved deftly over the weapon, reassembling its parts with a focus that belied the tension humming beneath his skin.

He could feel Thomas watching him again, the weight of those sharp eyes heavy enough to be almost tangible. Shane didn't need to look to confirm it; he could sense the quiet scrutiny, a slow-burning fuse sparking somewhere across the space between them.

Thomas was a watcher — that much was obvious.

The kid didn't waste words; he didn't fill silences with nervous chatter or try to ingratiate himself with the group. He observed, taking in the dynamics and the cracks between them, his gaze flitting between people like he was cataloging them, one secret at a time. Shane had clocked it the moment Thomas stepped into the RV, his expression unreadable but his body language sharp, coiled.

The kid's lingering glances, the way his eyes darted between Shane and Lori before snapping back to Shane — it was clear he had figured something out, or at least thought he had.

Shane knew better than to show any signs of recognition, keeping his posture relaxed and his tone measured whenever Thomas's gaze lingered a beat too long. He wouldn't give the kid the satisfaction of knowing he'd struck a nerve. Still, it grated on him, that silent judgment, the unspoken questions hanging heavy in the air.

Andrea sat nearby, her head leaned against the seat, the subtle tilt of her brow suggesting some vague disinterest in everything around her. Shane smirked faintly. She was a decent enough ally, someone who could hold her own when the time came, but she didn't pay enough attention to the cracks. Not like Thomas.

He angled his head slightly, catching Thomas's reflection in the streaked window, and for a brief moment, their eyes met in the glass. Shane didn't turn, didn't break his rhythm as he worked on the rifle, but he felt the tension in Thomas shift, like the younger man knew he'd been caught in the act.

"Careful," Shane said finally, his voice low but laced with a sharp edge, the kind that didn't invite a retort. "Staring like that, someone might think you got something on your mind."

Thomas didn't miss a beat. "Maybe I do," he replied, his voice cool, even.

Shane didn't look up. He grunted, a sound that could have been amusement or irritation, and ran the cleaning rod down the barrel of the rifle with deliberate care.

He wasn't about to start something, not here, not now.

If Thomas wanted to poke the bear, let him.

Shane could always snap back harder.

He caught a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision and glanced toward Thomas, whose gaze had dropped to the rifle in Shane's hands. The kid was staring at it, not with fear or even suspicion, but with something else — curiosity, maybe. Shane leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable as he held the rifle up and let it catch the dim light filtering through the RV's grimy windows.

"You ever clean one of these before?" Shane asked, his tone abrupt but casual, like the question had been pulled out of nowhere.

Thomas's eyes flicked up, meeting Shane's for a split second before darting back to the weapon. He didn't answer, but Shane could see the gears turning, the subtle tension in his jaw as he considered whether to engage.

Shane didn't wait for a reply. He shifted in his seat, angling the rifle so Thomas could see what he was doing, and started to talk.

"Most people don't think about this part," Shane said, his voice steady, matter-of-fact. "They think you just grab it and go, but that's the quickest way to get yourself killed. Dirt gets in here —" He tapped the chamber lightly. "— or in the barrel, and you might as well be holding a damn paperweight."

Thomas didn't say anything, but Shane noticed the subtle shift in his posture, the way he leaned slightly forward, just enough to suggest he was listening. Shane pressed on, breaking the rifle down piece by piece, narrating his actions like a teacher giving a lesson.

"This here's the firing pin," Shane said, holding up the small, slender piece of metal between his fingers. "Tiny as hell, but if it's messed up, you're done. No bang, no bullet, no nothing."

He reassembled it with a practiced ease, his hands moving like clockwork. "You keep it clean, keep it oiled, and it'll take care of you. Treat it like garbage, and you're asking for trouble."

To his own surprise, Shane found himself enjoying the task, the rhythm of it, the way Thomas watched him without interrupting. It wasn't often Shane got to feel like the one in control these days — not with Rick back, not with Lori's cold shoulder, not with the weight of everything pressing down on him. But here, in this small moment, he had something to offer, something no one could take away.

As Shane snapped the last piece back into place, he glanced at Thomas again. The kid's expression was hard to read, but there was something there — a flicker of interest, a crack in the wall of quiet judgment. It wasn't much, but it was there.

Shane leaned back in his seat, resting the rifle across his lap. "It's not just about pulling the trigger," he said finally, his tone quieter, almost reflective. "It's about knowing what you've got in your hands and making sure it doesn't let you down."

Thomas didn't respond, but Shane saw the way his gaze lingered on the rifle, the way his shoulders seemed to relax ever so slightly.

The RV lurched to a sudden halt, the groan of its tired engine cutting through the humid air like a sigh of resignation.

Inside, the group jolted forward in their seats, instinctively bracing against the unexpected stop. The hum of conversation quieted, replaced by the low rustle of bodies shifting uneasily. The engine sputtered one last breath before silence settled over them, thick and oppressive, like the weight of another misfortune pressing down.

Thomas turned his gaze toward Dale, who was perched near the front, his face weathered but alert. Thomas had grown used to Dale's steady presence, his cautious wisdom a counterpoint to the louder personalities in the group. Dale always seemed to carry an air of understanding, as though he had seen enough of the world to know its patterns, its ways of turning hopes into dust and fears into reality.

"What's going on?" Thomas asked, his voice cutting through the quiet with a note of concern.

Dale didn't answer immediately. Instead, he gestured toward the front of the RV, his expression inscrutable. "Why don't you head up there and see for yourself?"

Thomas hesitated, but curiosity and unease propelled him forward. He stepped carefully through the narrow aisle, past Andrea's watchful eyes and Shane's brooding posture. The air in the RV was heavy, tinged with the faint acrid smell of overheating metal.

When Thomas reached the front and looked out through the wide windshield, his stomach sank.

The interstate ahead was a graveyard of vehicles, their rusting hulks scattered across the asphalt like the remnants of some long-forgotten battle. Cars, trucks, motorcycles, and semis — all abandoned, their windows shattered and doors flung open, their contents strewn across the road as if ransacked by a desperate hand.

Thomas's breath hitched. He could almost feel the echoes of panic that must have accompanied this exodus, the chaos and desperation of those who had fled their vehicles in search of safety they would never find.

Outside, Dale was leaning out of the RV's window, his voice carrying over the stillness as he addressed Daryl, who had pulled up alongside them on his motorcycle.

"Oh, jeez," Dale muttered, squinting at the mess of vehicles. His tone carried both disbelief and resignation. "Aw no. See a way through?"

Daryl shrugged, his face impassive as his eyes scanned the wreckage. The motorcycle's engine idled, its soft rumble almost a comfort against the silence of the abandoned road.

Behind them, Glenn spoke up, his tone edged with nervousness. "Uh, maybe we should just go back. There's an interstate bypass —"

"We can't spare the fuel," Dale interjected, cutting Glenn off with a wave of his hand.

"Jeez," Glenn muttered under his breath, his worry evident.

Thomas crossed his arms, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "Is it even possible to get through here?" he asked, though the answer seemed painfully obvious.

As if in response, the RV let out a sharp hiss, steam billowing up from under the hood. The sound was sharp, startling, and final. Dale sighed heavily, stepping out of the RV to inspect the damage.

"I said it," Dale muttered, his voice tinged with frustration as he knelt to look under the hood. "Didn't I say it? A thousand times — dead in the water."

Shane stepped down from the RV, his brow furrowed as he approached Dale. "Problem?"

Dale straightened, wiping his hands on his pants. "Oh, just a small matter of being stuck in the middle of nowhere, with no hope of —" He stopped himself, shaking his head. "Okay, that was dumb."

Shane smirked faintly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Can't find a radiator hose here."

Daryl swung his leg off his motorcycle and surveyed the abandoned vehicles. "There's a whole bunch of stuff we can find."

T-Dog joined them, his gaze scanning the rows of cars. "We can siphon more fuel from these cars, for a start."

Carol, her hand resting protectively on Sophia's shoulder, nodded. "Maybe some water."

Glenn chimed in, his tone tentative. "Or food."

Thomas stayed quiet, his eyes lingering on the road ahead. The heat shimmered above the asphalt, distorting the distant wreckage into a mirage of warped shapes.

The group had settled into a rhythm of necessity, splitting off to scavenge through the sea of abandoned cars on the interstate. Their movements were deliberate, purposeful, driven by the primal need to find something that would keep them alive another day.

Thomas found himself wandering toward a cluster of sedans, his steps crunching against the shattered glass that littered the pavement like tiny diamonds catching the light.

The first car he approached was a compact, sun-bleached relic, its paint chipped and faded into a sickly pastel. The driver's door was ajar, its hinges rusted and groaning as he nudged it open. Inside, the vehicle was a chaotic snapshot of lives abruptly interrupted: a child's forgotten sippy cup, its contents long evaporated; a magazine crumpled and dog-eared in the passenger seat; and a pair of sunglasses with one arm bent awkwardly, as if they had been snatched up and discarded in haste.

Thomas reached into the glove compartment, his fingers brushing against a few loose receipts and a small bottle of hand sanitizer, miraculously untouched. He pocketed the sanitizer, knowing its value had multiplied tenfold in this new world. The rest of the car offered nothing but the quiet weight of absence, a story left half-told.

The next vehicle was a sedan with its trunk half open, its contents partially spilled onto the ground as though someone had begun rummaging through it but abandoned the task. He pulled the trunk fully open, revealing a mix of mundane and useless items: a tattered picnic blanket, a set of golf clubs, and a plastic bin of toiletries. He sorted through the bin, setting aside the bottles of Advil and ibuprofen with a quiet sense of triumph. These would go a long way in easing the minor aches and fevers that could spell disaster if left unchecked.

As he moved down the row of vehicles, each one began to blur into the next, their individuality lost in the monotony of scavenging. But then he came across an SUV that felt different. Its windows were tinted, and its trunk was tightly shut, giving it an air of mystery. He tugged at the handle, and with a creak, the trunk door gave way, revealing what could only be described as a jackpot.

Inside was a treasure trove of supplies, neatly packed and waiting for someone to claim them. Boxes of canned goods — beans, fruit, and soups — lined the trunk in orderly rows, their labels faded but legible. The cans glinted in the sunlight, their metallic surfaces untouched by rust or time. A few of the other items — plastic bags of fresh produce and a loaf of bread — had succumbed to the inevitability of decay, their once-vivid colors now dulled and mottled with mold. But the canned goods were a prize.

Thomas grabbed an empty box from the trunk and began carefully unloading the cans into it, his movements deliberate and methodical. Each can he picked up felt like a small victory, its weight solid and reassuring in his hands.

He imagined the people who had packed this car, their preparations for an apocalypse they couldn't have fully comprehended. Whoever they were, they had been ready — or thought they were.

As he worked, his hand brushed against something concealed beneath a heavy blanket in the back of the trunk. The fabric was thick and coarse, mottled with dust. He hesitated, pulling the blanket aside, and there it was: a machete.

The blade gleamed in its holder, its metal polished and sharp. Thomas picked it up carefully, inspecting it with the reverence one might reserve for an artifact. The handle fit snugly in his grip, its surface smooth but firm, designed for both comfort and utility. As he unsheathed the blade, it caught the light, reflecting a warped, ghostly version of his face back at him.

It was pristine, untouched. Whoever had owned it hadn't had the chance to use it — or hadn't known how. Thomas felt a pang of something he couldn't quite name, a mix of gratitude and sorrow for the stranger who had left this behind. He slid the blade back into its holder and attached it to his belt.

It would be useful later, he knew — when the walkers came too close, when the group was pressed against the edges of survival.

He hoisted the box of canned goods, the weight grounding him as he stepped away from the SUV. The others were scattered across the interstate, their figures hunched over trunks and doors, their movements marked by the same quiet urgency.

Thomas thought the box was heavier than it looked as he shifted its weight in his hands. His arms ached from the strain, and his steps felt sluggish on the uneven ground. Each step threatened to trip him over debris — discarded bags, shattered glass, and the odd, rotting corpse. He glanced over his shoulder once, then again, nerves prickling.

He was almost to the RV. Just a few more steps. His boots crunched on the asphalt, and the sound seemed unnaturally loud, as though the world around him had gone silent. A crow cawed from somewhere high above, its cry echoing in the stillness. His heart thudded, a drumbeat in his chest.

He didn't hear Rick coming. One second, Thomas was alone, sweat dripping down his brow, and the next, Rick was there — a blur of motion, a firm hand grabbing his arm. The jolt sent him off balance.

The box slipped from his grasp, and in that agonizingly slow instant before it hit the ground, Thomas could do nothing but watch. It landed with a thud, the lid snapping open, cans tumbling out and clattering against the asphalt. The sound was deafening.

"Damn it," Thomas hissed, his voice low but sharp. His head snapped toward Rick, his eyes blazing with frustration. But before he could say more, Rick's hand was on his mouth, firm and silencing.

Thomas froze. Rick's expression wasn't one of anger or apology. It was fear — sharp, immediate fear. His eyes darted to the side, and then his hand moved, a single finger raised to his lips. "Shh." No sound, just the ghost of the gesture.

Rick's free hand pointed to the side, and Thomas followed his gaze.

There they were.

A hoard of walkers, a slow-moving tide of decay, shambling between the cars. They spilled over the horizon, grotesque silhouettes against the fiery orange sky. Their movements were erratic but purposeful, their groans low and guttural, the sound rising and falling like some macabre chant. There must have been fifty, maybe more. Too many. Far too many.

Thomas's stomach dropped. He bit back a curse, his breath hitching in his throat. His legs moved before his brain caught up, instincts screaming for cover.

He dropped low, almost falling, his hands scraping against the asphalt as he scrambled beneath the nearest car. His heart raced, pounding so hard he could feel it in his temples. The air under the car was thick with the smell of oil and rust. He pressed himself flat against the ground, his cheek scraping against the grit.

Through the narrow slats of light between the tires, he could see some of the others.

Thomas shifted slightly, trying to ease the pressure on his chest. The sound of the walkers grew louder, a chorus of death drawing closer. He could see their feet now — some bare, some shod in worn boots or sneakers, others nothing more than bone and shredded flesh. Each step they took seemed to reverberate in his ears, a sickening rhythm that matched his racing heart.

The asphalt under his hands felt like sandpaper, every grain digging into his skin. Sweat dripped from his brow, pooling at the tip of his nose before falling silently to the ground. He didn't dare wipe it away.

Every movement felt monumental, every sound amplified. His breath came shallow, controlled, though his lungs screamed for air.

A walker passed close, its footfall heavy and uneven. Its shadow fell over him, blotting out the light. Thomas held his breath, every muscle in his body screaming at him to stay still. The walker's feet paused inches from his face. Its legs were mottled with decay, the skin sloughing off in places to reveal raw, glistening muscle. A drop of something — blood, saliva, or worse — hit the ground near him, spreading in a dark, viscous pool.

Thomas closed his eyes, just for a second, trying to steady himself. The sound of the walker's groan was so close now that he could feel its vibration in his chest. It moved again, shuffling forward, its feet dragging against the asphalt. He let out a slow, controlled exhale, his body trembling.

From his vantage point, he could see the others. Glenn's hands were pressed against his mouth, his knuckles white. Lori's eyes were squeezed shut, her lips moving in what looked like a silent prayer. Daryl's gaze was fixed, his face a mask of concentration. Rick's head turned slightly, just enough to catch Thomas' eye. His expression was hard, and unreadable, but his eyes spoke volumes.

Stay quiet. Stay still. Stay alive.

The walkers moved in waves, their movements disjointed and unpredictable. One stumbled against a car, its hands slapping against the hood with a metallic clang. Thomas flinched at the sound, his heart leaping into his throat. The walker didn't seem to notice, its head lolling to one side as it continued on.

Time stretched. Seconds felt like minutes, minutes like hours. The walkers moved past, their groans fading as the bulk of the hoard continued down the highway. But Thomas knew better than to move. Not yet. Not while the stragglers still lingered.

One walker paused near the box, its head tilting as though sniffing the air. Its jaw hung slack, bits of flesh caught in its teeth. It let out a low, guttural sound, its body swaying slightly. Thomas watched it, his breath caught in his throat.

If it turned, if it saw the scattered cans, it would be over. The group's hard-won supplies would be gone, and worse, the noise would draw the rest of the hoard back.

The walker took a step toward the cans, its foot catching on the edge of one. The metal scraped against the asphalt, the sound piercing the silence like a gunshot. Thomas's fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. He willed the walker to move on, to lose interest.

He didn't know if walkers could feel frustration, but this one seemed close, its movements agitated as it pawed at the ground.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the walker let out a huff — a strange, almost animalistic sound — and turned away. It shuffled after the rest of the group, its footsteps fading into the distance.

Thomas let out a slow, shuddering breath, his body sagging with relief. He didn't move yet. None of them did. The silence was fleeting. Just as the group began to inch their way out from beneath the cars, their breaths held tight in their throats, a sound pierced the tension — sharp, high, and unmistakable.

A yelp. Small but terrified.

Thomas froze where he crouched, the sound setting his nerves alight.

Sophia. He knew her voice. That was Sophia. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut.

The yelp turned into screams, raw and desperate, cutting through the oppressive stillness. Every instinct in Thomas screamed not to look, but he couldn't help it. He opened his eyes wide, craning his neck to see from beneath the car.

There, through the blur of scattered tires and asphalt, he saw her — a small figure darting through the chaos, her blonde hair bouncing as she ran. Two walkers lumbered after her, their grotesque forms moving with surprising speed, drawn by her cries.

Thomas's heart seized. For a moment, all he could do was stare, his mind racing through possibilities, each one more futile than the last. The sight of the walkers so close to her made him want to retch. His hands dug into the ground beneath him, as if anchoring himself would somehow slow the horror playing out before him.

Then, instinct took over. He shoved himself out from under the car, gravel scraping his palms, and stumbled to his feet. His mind was blank save for one thought: Get to her. Save her. But before he could take a step, a blur of motion rushed past him.

Rick.

Already running, already closing the gap between Sophia and the walkers. Thomas faltered, his breath catching in his throat. He stayed frozen for half a beat before something stopped him entirely.

Carol's voice. The anguished cry of a mother. "Sophia!"

Thomas turned, his gaze locking on Carol. She was on her knees, her hands pressed to her chest, her face twisted in sheer panic. Tears streaked her cheeks, and her voice broke on every syllable as she called out for her daughter. She looked ready to chase after her, to throw herself into the path of danger if it meant reaching Sophia. But Lori was there, holding her back, her grip firm, her own face pale with fear.

"They're after her," Carol sobbed, her voice rising. "There's two walkers after my baby!"

Thomas's chest tightened. He wanted to say something, to offer reassurance, but the words wouldn't come. What could he say? What could anyone say? Two walkers on her trail. A child, alone in the woods. The odds weren't good.

Instead of speaking, Thomas watched. He hated himself for it, but he watched.

He watched Carol crumble under the weight of her fear, her sobs wracking her body. He watched as Lori whispered something to her, something meant to soothe but clearly failing. He watched as Rick disappeared into the treeline, his form swallowed by the shadows, leaving the rest of them behind.

And then he watched the others. Daryl stood apart, his jaw clenched tight, his crossbow gripped so hard his knuckles turned white. His eyes never left the woods. Glenn shifted uneasily, his hands flexing and unflexing as if unsure whether to follow or stay. T-Dog and Dale exchanged a glance, their faces grim, their postures tense.

Time stretched thin, each second dragging like an eternity. The sound of Sophia's screams faded into the distance, swallowed by the forest. The silence that followed was deafening. It pressed down on them, heavy and suffocating, filled with unspoken fears and unanswered questions.

Thomas found himself moving almost without thinking. He crouched low again, his knees brushing against the rough ground, his eyes scanning the treeline. He didn't know what he was looking for — Rick's return, maybe, or some sign that Sophia had escaped. But all he saw were shadows. Shadows and trees, stretching endlessly.

Carol's sobs broke through the silence again, and Thomas's stomach churned. He turned his gaze back to her, unable to look away.

She looked so small, so utterly defeated. Her hands clutched at her chest as though trying to hold herself together, as though she might fall apart completely if she let go.

Thomas swallowed hard. The guilt was a living thing inside him, clawing at his insides.

He should have moved faster. Should have been the one to run after Sophia.

He'd hesitated, and now Rick was out there alone, and Sophia...

He shook his head, trying to banish the thought. It wasn't over yet. It couldn't be. Rick would find her. He had to.

But as the minutes ticked by, each one slower than the last, doubt crept in. The woods remained still, the only sounds were the distant rustle of leaves and the occasional birdcall. No screams. No shouts. No sign of life.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

guys i decided to skip the whole carl getting shot

skip as in not write it LOL

im rewatching the ep and can't see thomas involved in finding sophia bc the group thinks he's soo soft so there's no point in writing him just at the rv with dale and t-dog ahha

plus, i really want to get going with wendy's plot!

u guys are gonna love it hehe

much love,