𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍. beneath a shared sky of stars

THOMAS HAD CARVED OUT A PECULIAR space for himself within the group. It wasn't that he stood out in any remarkable way — he wasn't loud or boisterous like some, nor did he exude the quiet strength that seemed to anchor the others. But Thomas had a knack for slipping into the gaps, filling the small spaces left by the chaos of survival with his quiet competence.

The women of the group had quickly warmed to him, though not in the way some might assume.

Amy, the only one close to his age, was friendly enough, but there was no spark between them, no charged exchanges or lingering glances. Their interactions were easy, marked by shared smiles over a campfire or brief conversations about supplies.

No, the fondness the women felt for Thomas had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with his willingness to help.

Thomas became their go-to for all the small, thankless tasks that no one else wanted to bother with. He fetched water when the buckets were empty, scrubbed pots caked with soot, and mended tears in blankets with a concentration that made some of the older women chuckle fondly. He peeled fish with quick, precise movements, his fingers deftly stripping away scales without wasting an inch of the precious food.

When the women carried baskets of clothes down to the lake, Thomas would follow without being asked, rolling up his sleeves and plunging his hands into the cold water to help scrub out the dirt and blood that seemed to cling to everything now. His knuckles would turn raw from the scrubbing, the skin reddened and tender, but he didn't complain. The rhythm of the work, the sound of the water lapping against the shore, gave him something to hold onto.

He even found himself keeping an eye on the kids, especially Carl and Sophia, when Lori or Carol needed a break. He'd play simple games with them, teaching Carl how to skip rocks across the lake or letting Sophia braid wildflowers into a tangled crown that she'd proudly place on his head. He played along with their antics, laughing at their jokes even when they made no sense, his voice warm and unguarded in a way that felt rare amidst the tension that hung over the group like a heavy fog.

But his helpfulness came at a cost.

Among the men, there was a growing tension, an undercurrent of disapproval that pulsed just beneath the surface.

Thomas's reluctance — or inability — to engage in the more dangerous aspects of their new reality was a sore spot for some, especially Shane.

Shane watched Thomas with a sharp, scrutinizing gaze, his jaw tightening whenever Thomas chose cleaning clothes over the frontlines, the washboard over the gun.

He never said much outright, but his disdain was clear in the way he lingered near the campfire, making offhand comments that carried just enough venom to sting.

"Hard to keep a group safe when some people can't pull their weight," Shane had said one night, his voice casual but loud enough for Thomas to hear.

The others weren't as overt as Shane, but Thomas could feel their judgment, their unspoken disappointment. He wasn't out there hunting or scavenging, wasn't holding his own against the walkers the way they did. And no matter how hard he worked to fill the gaps, it didn't seem to be enough. But Thomas didn't rise to the bait. He had learned to swallow his pride long before the world fell apart, and he wasn't about to let Shane's jabs get under his skin.

But the truth was, Shane wasn't entirely wrong.

Thomas froze up in moments of crisis, Rick had told them after he decided to leave to find Merle and was questioned why Thomas hadn't gone with, his mind a tangled web of hesitation and fear that left him rooted in place when action was needed. His legs would locked up, his breath shallow, his thoughts spinning uselessly as others shouted and moved around him.

That memory clung to him like a shadow, a constant reminder of his shortcomings. And though he tried to make up for it in other ways — by being the first to volunteer for every chore, by easing the burdens of those around him — it was clear that for some, it wasn't enough.

The camp itself was a small, makeshift community tucked into the mountains, its boundaries marked by hastily assembled barriers and natural rock formations. The group was a mix of personalities, their interactions shaped by the strange, unspoken hierarchies that emerged in such dire circumstances.

Jacqui, soft-spoken but resolute, was the first to defend Thomas when the snide remarks started. "He's helping in ways that matter," she had said one evening, her voice steady despite the quiet venom in Shane's tone. "We all have our strengths."

Lori, too, seemed to appreciate Thomas's contributions, though her support was quieter, less direct. She often handed him tasks with a small, grateful smile, her shoulders visibly relaxing as he took them on without question.

Even Daryl, gruff and solitary as he was, had acknowledged Thomas's efforts in his own way. When Thomas had brought back an armful of wild herbs from the woods around them, uncertain if they were edible but willing to bet on their usefulness, Daryl had given him a curt nod and muttered, "Good find."

But for every nod of approval, there was a sneer or a whispered comment from those who saw Thomas as nothing more than dead weight. The divide was stark, and Thomas felt it keenly, though he rarely let it show.

But the tension with the men remained, a simmering unease that threatened to boil over with every passing day. Shane's disdain was the loudest, but it wasn't the only voice in the chorus.

"Not everyone's cut out for this," one of the men, Jim, he learned, had said one evening, his tone pointed as he glanced toward Thomas. "We can't afford dead weight."

Thomas had clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around the handle of the pot he was scrubbing. He didn't look up, didn't respond.

Because what could he say?

He knew he wasn't like Rick, who carried himself with an unshakable resolve that inspired those around him. He wasn't like Shane, whose brash confidence masked a darker edge. He wasn't even like Glenn, whose quick thinking and resourcefulness had saved more lives than Thomas cared to count.

He was just Thomas.

Instead, he busied himself with the small tasks that no one else seemed to want to do. It was easier to focus on the mundane than to confront the reality of his shortcomings.

But the tension in the camp was growing. The divide between those who carried weapons and those who carried baskets was widening, and Thomas could feel the weight of it pressing down on him.

Because deep down, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was letting them down.

The sun hung heavy in the sky, its light filtering through the swaying trees that bordered the camp. The air was thick, not just with the heat but with the unspoken anxieties that seemed to weave through the group like threads in a fraying net. Thomas felt it most acutely in the silence between words, in the way people glanced toward the tree line as if expecting something to emerge.

Thomas had started the morning as he usually did, a quiet observer hovering at the edges of other people's routines. The women of the camp had quickly claimed him as one of their own, an unexpected ally in the endless grind of survival. Not for protection — he wasn't built for that — but for the kind of work that made their lives marginally easier.

Today was no different. He found himself by the water's edge again, his hands slick with soap as he worked beside Carol. The woman had a quiet, focused demeanor. She handed him another t-shirt, and he set to work.

"Dale says there might be rain," She said, breaking the silence.

Thomas glanced up. "Does he, now?"

She nodded. "Said his knees were acting up. I guess that's how he tells the weather."

Thomas smirked faintly, his focus still on the fish. "Sounds like something my grandmother used to say. Her wrists, though, not her knees."

Carol chuckled softly, and for a moment, the tension in the air seemed to dissipate. But it was only a moment. Beyond the water, the forest loomed like a dark promise, its quiet depths a reminder that peace was as fragile as a soap bubble.

When they returned to camp, Morales had already stoked the fire. The smell of woodsmoke mingled with the earthy scent of the clearing, a combination that Thomas found both comforting and oppressive.

As Amy and Andrea handed off the fish to him, Thomas lingered near the edge of the camp. He could see Shane across the clearing, his broad frame unmistakable as he hammered together another makeshift barricade. The man exuded authority, his movements precise and deliberate, but there was something else in the set of his jaw, a tension that made Thomas wary. Shane didn't trust him, that much was clear, and Thomas wasn't sure he blamed him.

He turned away, his attention drifting to the RV where Dale stood watch. The old man had become something of a fixture in Thomas's days, a steady presence who seemed content to let others come to him rather than inserting himself into their lives.

Thomas liked that about him.

He made his way over, unsure why but knowing he needed to move, to do something other than stand idle under Shane's critical gaze.

Dale greeted him with a nod, his binoculars trained on the horizon. "Quiet day so far," he said, his voice low.

Thomas nodded, leaning against the RV. "Too quiet," he said before he could stop himself.

Dale lowered the binoculars and looked at him, his expression thoughtful. "You feel it too, huh?"

Thomas hesitated, then nodded again. "Yeah. Something feels... off."

Dale sighed, the kind of sigh that carried the weight of years and losses. "Been feeling that way since we saw Jim digging. Could be nothing. Could be everything."

Thomas didn't know how to respond, so he stayed quiet, his eyes scanning the tree line as if it might offer answers.

"You're handy, right?" Dale asked, gesturing to the toolbox.

Thomas hesitated. "I guess so. Why?"

Dale gestured toward the RV. "Got a leaky pipe under the sink. Been meaning to patch it up, but my knees aren't what they used to be. Could use a younger back to crawl under there."

Thomas shrugged, grateful for the excuse to do something, anything. "Sure."

Dale's face lit up, and he led Thomas to the RV. It was parked at the far edge of the clearing, its white paint flecked with dirt and rust, but it stood as a symbol of relative safety.

Inside, the air was warm and smelled faintly of mildew and gasoline. Dale crouched by the sink, rummaging through a box of tools. "It's not a big leak," he said, pulling out a wrench and a roll of duct tape. "But it's enough to make a mess if we don't deal with it. Crawl under here and take a look."

Thomas knelt and peered under the sink. The pipe in question glistened with water, a steady drip collecting in a small puddle on the floor.

"See that?" Dale said, leaning over him. "It's coming from the coupling there. What we'll do is tighten it up, then slap some tape on it for good measure. Not exactly professional, but it'll hold."

Thomas nodded, though the mechanics of it were only vaguely familiar. He reached for the wrench, his fingers brushing against the cold metal. As he began to work, Dale crouched beside him, narrating every step.

"Now, you want to get a good grip on the pipe — there, like that. Keep it steady while you tighten the coupling. Don't force it, though, or you'll strip the threads."

Dale's voice was steady, almost soothing, as he talked. But his instructions were interspersed with tangents, small detours into the workings of the RV's engine, the maintenance of its generator, the fuel efficiency of older models compared to newer ones.

"See, this RV's a '79 Winnebago," he said. "Not the fanciest thing, but it's got heart. Takes a bit of coaxing to keep her running, but she's reliable. You ever work on engines, kid?"

Thomas shook his head, keeping his eyes on the pipe.

"Shame," Dale said, his tone wistful. "It's a good skill to have. My dad taught me when I was about your age. Used to spend hours in the garage, just the two of us. He'd explain how everything worked, down to the smallest bolt. Drove my mom crazy, but I loved it. Not that I always listened, mind you. Thought I knew better, like most kids do."

The words struck a chord in Thomas, stirring a memory he hadn't visited in a long time. He thought of his own father, hunched over the hood of their old car, his hands slick with grease as he tried to explain the basics of automotive repair. Thomas had been twelve, maybe thirteen, and utterly uninterested. He'd nodded along, pretending to listen, but his mind had been elsewhere, fixated on video games or lacrosse practice or whatever trivial thing seemed more important at the time.

Now, kneeling in the cramped space of the RV, Thomas wished he'd paid attention. He could almost hear his father's voice, patient but firm, echoing Dale's instructions. The weight of regret settled in his chest, heavy and unyielding.

"You okay under there?" Dale asked, his voice cutting through the haze of memory.

Thomas cleared his throat. "Yeah. Just — just trying to get the coupling tight enough."

"Take your time," Dale said. "It's not a race."

Thomas focused on the task, twisting the wrench carefully until the coupling felt secure. He stepped back, letting Dale inspect his work.

"Not bad," Dale said, nodding appreciatively. "Now, let's wrap it up with some tape, just to be safe."

Thomas handed him the duct tape, watching as Dale expertly secured the pipe. "There," Dale said, straightening up with a groan. "That should do it. Good job, kid."

Thomas managed a small smile, though his mind was still caught on the memory of his father. He glanced at Dale, noting the streaks of gray in his hair, the lines etched deep into his face. He wondered if Dale had kids, if he'd taught them the same things his father had tried to teach him.

"You remind me of him," Thomas said suddenly, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Dale looked at him, surprised. "Your dad?"

Thomas nodded, fiddling with the wrench in his hands. "He used to talk like you. Always explaining stuff, even when I didn't want to hear it. I didn't listen half the time." He paused, his voice growing softer. "I wish I had."

Dale's expression softened, and for a moment, there was only the quiet hum of the camp in the background. "We all have our regrets," he said finally. "But you're here now. And from what I've seen, you're a good kid. Your dad would be proud of you."

Thomas swallowed hard, the words catching in his throat. He didn't feel like a good kid. He felt like a ghost, drifting through the camp, trying to find a place that felt solid.

As they packed up the tools, Dale launched into another story, this one about a cross-country road trip he'd taken with his wife years ago. Thomas listened, letting the sound of Dale's voice fill the empty spaces in his mind.

THE NIGHT HAD SETTLED OVER THE camp like a soft, oppressive weight. Stars scattered across the clear Georgia sky, their light pale and fragile against the vastness of the dark. A slight chill had crept in, threading its way through the thin fabric of jackets and worn blankets. The campfire crackled in defiance, its warmth drawing the group into its flickering circle. Shadows danced on the faces around it, their features softened by the glow.

Thomas sat cross-legged near the edge of the firelight, a piece of fish in his hand and Carl pressed close against his side. The boy was intent on navigating the slippery morsels without catching one of the tiny, razor-sharp spines that hid beneath the surface. Thomas helped him with quiet precision, his fingers deftly picking through the meat, separating it from the bone.

The conversations around the fire swirled like smoke, overlapping and meandering, their tone lighter than the world they found themselves in. For a moment, it was almost easy to forget what lay beyond the camp — the woods with its unseen predators, the gnawing hunger that was always one bad hunt away, the constant vigilance required to keep death at bay.

Morales leaned back against a log, his fish mostly forgotten in his hand, his gaze fixed on the fire. His voice broke through the low hum of chatter. "I've got to ask you, man. It's been driving me crazy."

Dale, seated in his usual spot on the RV's steps, raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"That watch." Morales gestured toward Dale's wrist, where the old timepiece glinted in the firelight.

Dale glanced at the watch as if he'd forgotten it was there. "What's wrong with my watch?"

Morales leaned forward, his voice taking on a teasing lilt. "I see you every day, the same time, winding that thing like a village priest saying mass."

Jacqui laughed softly, her voice warm and teasing. "I've wondered this myself."

Dale frowned, clearly missing the joke. "I'm missing the point."

Jacqui leaned toward him, her tone conspiratorial. "Unless I've misread the signs, the world seems to have come to an end. At least hit a speed bump for a good long while."

Morales nodded in agreement, his grin widening. "But there's you every day winding that stupid watch."

The fire popped loudly, sending a spray of sparks into the air. Dale leaned forward, cradling the watch in his hand as if it were a fragile bird. His expression was thoughtful, tinged with a hint of melancholy.

"Time," he began, his voice soft but steady, "it's important to keep track, isn't it? The days at least. Don't you think, Andrea?" He looked to Andrea, who sat across from him, her arms wrapped around her knees. Dale offered her a small, approving smile. "I like what a father once said to his son when he gave him a watch that had been handed down through generations." He paused, his eyes distant, as if he could see the words etched in the air before him.

"He said, 'I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire, which will fit your individual needs no better than it did mine or my father's before me; I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you may forget it for a moment now and then and not spend all of your breath trying to conquer it.'"

The camp fell silent for a moment, the weight of the words settling over them like ash.

Amy broke the silence, her voice light and teasing. "You are so weird," she said, shaking her head with a smile.

Laughter rippled through the group, soft but genuine, a rare balm for the tension that lingered just beneath the surface.

Thomas, who had been quiet through the exchange, glanced down at Carl. The boy had managed to eat most of his fish, his small hands now slick with oil. Thomas offered him a napkin, his movements automatic, his mind caught on Dale's words.

The mausoleum of all hope and desire.

It felt too close to home, too raw. Time had become an abstraction, something that existed only in the rise and fall of the sun, in the slow decay of the world around them. Yet, at the same time, it was an anchor, a way to measure the days since everything had changed, since they had lost what little normalcy they had left.

Thomas looked around the fire, his gaze lingering on the faces illuminated by its light. Each of them carried their own burdens, their own mausoleums of hope and desire.

Thomas smiled faintly, ruffling Carl's hair before leaning back and letting the warmth of the fire seep into his bones. He could still feel Shane's gaze on him, the quiet judgment that never seemed to waver.

Amy had excused herself to go to the bathroom and a moment of quiet settled in her absence, the kind that often came when someone departed, leaving a small void in the circle.

It was Sophia who filled the space, her small voice cutting through the quiet with a thread of excitement. "Mom! Look what I made!"

All heads turned to the girl, who held up a delicate creation in her tiny hands. It was a crown of sorts, though it was more a rough assemblage of weeds, big floppy leaves, and a single limp flower that drooped in the center like it was too tired to keep up. The crown was smaller than usual, more the size of a bracelet than something that would fit atop her head, but Sophia's face glowed with pride.

Carol smiled warmly, her eyes soft as she leaned forward to take a closer look. "Oh, honey, it's beautiful," she said, her voice laced with genuine admiration.

Sophia, encouraged, turned her creation this way and that, showing off every angle. "Tommy taught me how to make it!" she announced brightly, her voice carrying a hint of triumph as if she were sharing a particularly well-kept secret.

At that, all eyes shifted to Thomas, who sat quietly near the edge of the group, his posture relaxed but his expression wary under the sudden attention. Carol's gaze landed on him, her eyes wide with something between curiosity and astonishment. For a moment, she didn't speak, only looked at him like she was trying to reconcile the image of this quiet, unassuming young man with the revelation that he had taken the time to teach her daughter something so small and sweet.

Andrea broke the silence, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. "A flower crown? That's... adorable. You leave some girl pining for you back home or something?" she teased, her voice light but edged with a mischievous undertone.

The campfire's glow flickered across Thomas's face as he looked up, his expression neutral but his shoulders stiffening slightly. "No," he said simply, his tone flat, but then he hesitated, his gaze dropping to the fire as if weighing whether to continue.

He exhaled softly, shaking his head. "My mom was just... really crafty," he said at last, his voice quieter but steady. He didn't look up, but the weight of his words hung in the air, drawing everyone's attention back to him. "She liked making things — knitting, crocheting, stuff like that. She'd make wreaths for the holidays, little flower crowns for my cousins on her side when they were kids. I guess I just... picked it up from her."

The group stilled at his admission, the firelight reflecting in their eyes as they absorbed his words.

It was the first time Thomas had mentioned his life before, let alone his family. For the time he'd been there, he had been a quiet presence among them, an enigma they had come to accept without question.

He was Rick's nephew — that much they knew. But beyond that, he was a blank slate, his past a mystery.

Jacqui glanced at Lori, as if expecting her to elaborate, to fill in the gaps in the story, but Lori only watched Thomas in silence, her expression unreadable.

Andrea, for all her usual sharpness, softened slightly, her teasing smirk fading as she looked at Thomas. "Huh," she said finally, her voice quieter now. "Didn't know you were the artsy type."

Thomas shrugged, a small, self-deprecating smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I wouldn't call it that," he said, his tone lighter now, almost teasing. "It's not like I'm Picasso. Just... helps to keep my hands busy sometimes."

Sophia, seemingly oblivious to the weight of the conversation, beamed at him, her little crown still held aloft. "I think it's pretty," she said firmly, her voice filled with the simple, unshakable confidence of a child.

Carol reached out, taking the crown from her daughter's hands and inspecting it with a small, fond smile. "It is pretty," she agreed, looking at Thomas with a warmth that hadn't been there before.

He found himself staring into the fire, the orange light dancing across his features, lost in thought.

"Pretty handy for flower crowns," Shane's voice cut through the haze, sharp and edged with disdain, his words biting into the quiet like broken glass. "Shame that kind of craftiness doesn't exactly translate when it comes to handling real problems."

The words hung in the air, heavy and deliberate, drawing a sharp line in the fragile peace that had settled over the group. Thomas's head snapped up, his jaw tightening as he looked at Shane.

"What the hell is your problem with me?" Thomas asked, his voice calm but laced with a dangerous undertone, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Shane shrugged, leaning back with the kind of smug nonchalance that only made the tension worse. "Just calling it how I see it. Some of us pull our weight. Others..." He gestured vaguely toward Thomas, his meaning clear.

It was the culmination of a thousand small slights, every dismissive glance, every muttered comment, every way Shane had made it clear that he saw Thomas as dead weight. And tonight, something inside Thomas snapped.

"Pull my weight?" Thomas repeated, his voice rising slightly, the disbelief and anger boiling to the surface. He sat forward, his hands gripping his knees as he glared at Shane. "You don't know a damn thing."

Shane laughed, a short, humorless sound. "Oh, I've seen it. Standing around, playing babysitter for Carl, helping the women with laundry —"

"Helping them," Thomas cut in, his voice sharp. "Because someone has to. Because not everything out here is about puffing up your chest and pretending to be the big man. You think swinging a gun around and barking orders makes you useful?"

The campfire, which had been a place of warmth and quiet camaraderie moments before, now became the stage for their confrontation. Heads turned, the quiet murmur of conversation dying out as the others watched the argument unfold.

Shane's smirk faded, replaced by a darker, more dangerous expression. "You wanna talk about useful? I don't freeze up every time I see a walker. You think anyone here is gonna trust you to have their back when you're too scared to even hold a gun?"

"Maybe if you'd ever stopped to ask why, you'd know why I don't," Thomas shot back, his voice trembling with the weight of anger and something deeper, something raw. "But no, you don't ask. You don't care. You've already made up your mind about me, haven't you? I'm just some weak little kid to you. Someone who's in the way."

Shane leaned forward now, his expression hardening. "If the shoe fits —"

"Don't," Thomas interrupted, his voice rising. "Okay? You don't get to sit there and judge me like you've got it all figured out. You left me, Shane. You left me."

The accusation hung in the air, freezing the group in place. Shane's eyes narrowed, a flicker of confusion crossing his face before it was swallowed by defensiveness. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Thomas' hands clenched into fists at his sides, his voice shaking with the force of everything he'd held back until now. "I drove like a maniac to get Carl home, to get him safe. And when I got to Lori's house, there you were. You and her, standing outside, telling me to go get my parents. And I did. I did what you told me to do. I left."

He took a shaky breath, his chest rising and falling as he fought to keep his emotions in check. "But when I came back — when I came back, after watching my parents die in front of me — do you know what I found? Nothing. The house was empty. You were gone. Lori was gone. Carl was gone. And I had no idea where you were or if you were even alive. All I knew was that you left without me."

Shane's jaw tightened, his fists clenching as he stood, the space between them charged with tension. "I did what I had to do to keep them safe."

"You're not listening!" Thomas spat, his voice cracking with the weight of his emotions. "You don't get to use that as an excuse. You could've waited. You could've given me more time. But you didn't, did you? You just decided that I wasn't worth it."

Shane stepped closer now, his voice low and dangerous. "You think this is easy? You think I haven't had to make hard choices? You don't know the first thing about what it takes to survive out here."

Thomas didn't back down, his voice rising again. "And you don't know the first thing about me! You think you're the only one who's lost people? You think you're the only one carrying around regrets? I lost everything that day. My parents, my home, any chance I had of feeling safe again."

The campfire flickered between them, casting their faces in sharp relief. The others watched in stunned silence, unsure whether to intervene or let the argument play out.

Shane's voice dropped, cold and cutting. "You're still here, aren't you? Guess that means I made the right call."

Thomas flinched at the words, but he didn't back down. Instead, he stepped closer, his voice steady and filled with a quiet, simmering rage. "You're right. I'm still here. But not because of you. Not because of anything you did. I'm here because of Rick. And if you think for one second that gives you the right to judge me, then you're even more of an arrogant asshole than I thought."

For a moment, the only sound was the crackle of the fire, the tension so thick it felt like it might suffocate them all.

Shane didn't respond, his jaw tight and his eyes dark with barely contained anger.

Thomas sat there for a moment, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath, the adrenaline still coursing through him. Slowly, he turned back to the fire, his gaze meeting the stunned faces of the others.

No one said a word, and for once, Thomas didn't feel the need to fill the silence. His hands still trembling slightly as he stared into the fire, the heat of his anger fading but leaving behind something colder, heavier.

The moment Amy stepped out of the RV, the night changed.

She emerged with a lighthearted question, her voice cutting through the quiet aftermath of the heated argument. But even as the words left her lips, the shadow moved behind her. A grotesque figure, its gait unsteady yet unrelenting, stepped out of the dark. The campfire's dim glow illuminated its hollowed eyes and the decayed ruin of its mouth, stretched wide in hunger. It was upon her before anyone could react.

Amy's scream tore through the night. The sound was sharp, jagged, and unrelenting — a harbinger of chaos. Her arm was caught in the walker's grip, its rotting teeth sinking into her flesh as blood spilled, dark and glistening, against her pale skin. She tried to pull away, but the creature held fast, its head jerking back to tear at her flesh.

Andrea's scream followed, a desperate, primal sound that shattered whatever fragile calm remained in the group. The firelight trembled with the motion of bodies scrambling to react, casting frantic shadows across the scene.

Thomas froze.

The chaos swirled around him, a cacophony of screams, shouts, and the guttural moans of walkers. His vision narrowed, the world around him shrinking until all he could see was Amy's writhing form and the blood pooling on the ground.

The adrenaline that had fueled his earlier argument with Shane was gone, replaced by an icy paralysis that rooted him to the spot.

His breath came shallow and fast, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. For a moment, he couldn't move. Couldn't think. The air seemed to press in on him, heavy and suffocating, as if the very night had conspired to crush him.

Then Carl screamed.

It was a high-pitched, terrified sound that pierced through Thomas's haze like a blade.

He turned his head sharply, his gaze snapping to the boy, who was clinging to Lori, his face contorted with fear. Something inside Thomas shifted, snapping into place like a long-forgotten instinct.

The paralysis shattered, replaced by a surge of adrenaline so fierce it burned through his veins.

He moved without thinking, his body propelled by a raw, desperate need to act.

Lori was struggling to pull Carl toward the RV, her hands trembling as she tried to shield him from the chaos. Walkers were closing in, their grotesque forms lurching out of the shadows, their hungry moans growing louder. Sophia clung to Carol, her small frame shaking with fear as her mother tried to lead her to safety.

Thomas reached them in a few long strides, his hand closing around Carl's arm to help steady him. "Go!" he shouted, though the words felt distant, barely his own. He pushed Lori forward, his grip firm as he guided her and Carl toward the RV.

The walkers were closer now, their foul stench filling the air, a sickly combination of rot and decay that turned his stomach. He grabbed a fallen branch from the ground, its end jagged and splintered, and swung it with all his strength at the nearest walker. The force of the blow sent the creature staggering back, its head snapping to the side with a sickening crunch.

"Get inside!" he yelled, his voice hoarse. Lori and Carl scrambled up the steps of the RV, their movements frantic. He turned to Carol and Sophia, who were frozen in place, their wide eyes locked on the approaching walkers.

"Move!" he barked, shoving Carol toward the RV as Sophia clung to her side. Carol stumbled but caught herself, her arms wrapping protectively around her daughter as they climbed into the vehicle.

Another walker lunged toward Thomas, its bony hands reaching for him. He swung the branch again, the jagged end driving into its chest. The creature let out a grotesque gurgle, its momentum faltering as it fell to the ground.

The adrenaline was a double-edged sword, sharpening his senses but also leaving him hyper-aware of every detail — the slick feel of blood on his hands, the guttural sounds of the walkers, the terrified cries of the group. It was chaos incarnate, and he was in the center of it.

Rick, T-Dog, Daryl, and Glenn arrived like a storm, their weapons cutting through the walkers with brutal efficiency. Gunshots rang out, sharp and deafening, each one punctuated by the sickening thud of a walker hitting the ground. Rick's rifle was a blur, the muzzle flash illuminating his determined expression as he fired again and again.

Daryl moved with a savage grace, his crossbow slung across his back as he used the butt of his rifle to smash a walker's head. Another came at him, and he pivoted, driving the rifle's stock into its jaw with a force that sent bone fragments flying.

Glenn and T-Dog worked in tandem, their movements efficient and practiced. Glenn's pistol barked twice, each shot finding its mark, while T-Dog swung a heavy wrench, its metal surface stained with gore.

Thomas barely registered their presence, his focus locked on the RV. He backed toward it, his weapon still clutched in his hands, ready to strike at anything that came too close.

When the last walker fell, silence descended over the camp like a heavy shroud. The only sounds were the ragged breathing of the survivors and the faint crackle of the dying fire.

Carl bolted from the RV, running straight into Rick's arms. The boy's sobs were muffled against his father's chest as Rick held him tightly, his rifle still in hand.

Andrea knelt beside Amy, her hands trembling as she cradled her sister's bloodied form. The younger woman's breaths were shallow, her face pale and slick with sweat. Andrea whispered to her, her voice a mix of desperation and heartbreak, but Amy's eyes were already distant, her gaze unfocused.

Thomas leaned against the RV, his chest heaving as the adrenaline began to fade, leaving him shaky and drained. His hands were stained with blood and his grip on the branch had left splinters embedded in his palms.

He watched as Andrea stayed by Amy's side, her sobs breaking the fragile silence. Sophia and Carl stood nearby, their small faces pale and tear-streaked, clinging to their mothers.

Jim stood apart from the group, his face pale as he stared at the bodies strewn across the camp. His voice was barely a whisper, but the words carried in the stillness. "I remember my dream now," he said, his eyes haunted. "Why I dug the holes."

Thomas turned away, his stomach twisting at the sight of the carnage. The camp was a mess of blood and broken bodies, the ground littered with the remains of the walkers.

And as the sobs of the living filled the void left by the dead, Thomas found himself wondering if the peace they sought would ever truly come.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

THOMAS CLOCKING SHANE ?????

we love to see it!!

the women loving thomas so much awe <3 <3 <3

especially carol and jacqui

and a very small, blink and you'll miss it, moment with daryl hahahhah

also idc that carl heard everything lets pretend he wasn't even listening bc then he'd see shane and lori differently idk

or maybe he was listening and chose to ignore it until the future

yes i do have plans

wendy next ch bc i know i left her story on a cliffhanger hehe

btw i semi implied it but the title is reference to wendy and thomas seeing the same stars, so the last ch and this one happened simultaneously. only the rain never hit thomas and them!

im no weatherman don't ask me. the clouds just didn't want to hit them okay

thought it was kinda cute though idk maybe that's just me LOL!!

much love,