𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎. wake to weep

THOMAS SAT IN THE DIM, QUIET house, the faint light of dawn barely filtering through the boarded-up windows. The air inside was stale, tinged with the musty smell of unwashed clothes and the faintest scent of rot from the outside world. Dust motes floated lazily in the shafts of light, the only movement in the stillness. He hadn't heard the sound of another human voice in weeks. The isolation weighed on him, pressing down on his chest like a heavy stone, making it hard to breathe.

His stomach growled, a sharp reminder that he had only enough food for one more day. The last can of beans sat on the counter, dented and dusty, waiting for him to decide when to crack it open. He could stretch it out, make it last if he rationed it right. But after that? After that, there would be nothing.

He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the knots. It was hard to remember a time when things were different when the biggest worry was getting to work on time or remembering to buy eggs on the way home.

Now, his world had shrunk down to this house, this small, suffocating space where time seemed to stand still.

He closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair, letting his thoughts drift. The memories came unbidden, sharp and painful, like glass shards lodged in his mind. The last two months had been a blur of terror, confusion, and disbelief.

At first, he had clung to the hope that Lori and Shane would return, that they would find shelter and bring him back there. But as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, that hope had dwindled, shriveling into something small and bitter. Now, it was hard to believe they had ever meant to come back at all.

He had watched from the window as the world outside changed. The streets that had once been filled with the sounds of life — cars driving by, children playing, neighbors chatting — had fallen silent.

The only movement now came from the shambling figures that wandered aimlessly, their dead eyes searching for something, anything, to consume. He had learned to stay quiet, to move carefully, not wanting to draw their attention.

He had spent those first few days in a state of shock, unable to comprehend what was happening. The house had become his prison, the walls closing in on him as the world outside fell apart. He had raided the kitchen, counting cans and boxes, trying to figure out how long he could make the supplies last. He had found an old baseball bat in the closet and kept it by the door, just in case. But the thought of actually using it made him sick to his stomach.

He had tried to stay sane, to keep his mind occupied. He had read the few books that were left in the house, their pages worn and familiar, offering a brief escape from the nightmare outside. He had tried to keep a routine, waking up at the same time each day, forcing himself to eat, to move, to stay alive. But it was hard, so hard, when every day felt the same, a never-ending cycle of fear and loneliness.

And then there were the nights.

The nights were the worst.

When the darkness closed in, and the silence became oppressive, his thoughts would turn inward, spiraling into a black hole of despair. He would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, his mind replaying the last time he had seen them — Lori, Shane, and Carl, their faces grim as he walked in his car to find his parents. He wondered if they were safe, if they were even still alive.

And if they weren't, what chance did he have?

He had thought about leaving, about trying to find them, or anyone, out there in the wasteland that had once been their neighborhood. But the thought of stepping outside, of facing the reality of what the world had become, filled him with a paralyzing fear.

It was easier to stay here, in the relative safety of the house, where he could pretend, if only for a moment, that things might still be okay.

But deep down, he knew the truth. He couldn't stay here forever. The food would run out, and when it did, he would have to make a choice — stay and starve, or leave and face the horrors outside. The thought made his stomach twist with dread, but there was no escaping it.

But as the light outside grew brighter, casting long shadows across the room, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was running out of time. The world had moved on, leaving him behind in this empty house, a ghost of the life he had once known.

He was on the verge of opening the can of beans, finally giving in to the gnawing in his stomach, when he heard it — the faint sound of movement outside the front door. It was different this time, not the sluggish drag of a biter's feet across the pavement, but something more deliberate, more alive. The sound of metal against wood, a faint creak, as if someone were trying to open the door.

Thomas froze, his heart leaping into his throat. His first instinct was to ignore it, to let it pass, like so many other moments of false hope or imagined threats.

But the sound at the door was persistent, not the erratic, desperate clawing of a biter, but something steadier, more deliberate. Thomas's heart hammered in his chest, each beat echoing in the hollow silence of the house.

Slowly, he rose from the couch, the old springs groaning beneath him, his legs stiff from disuse. The can of beans slipped from his hand and rolled across the floor, forgotten.

His mind raced, his thoughts tangled in fear and confusion. Who could it be? Everyone he knew was gone, either dead or disappeared into the chaos that had consumed the world. The logical part of him knew it wasn't a biter at the door — those things didn't have the coordination, the intent. But logic was drowned out by the overwhelming surge of panic that rose in his throat, threatening to choke him.

His eyes flicked to the baseball bat leaning against the wall. It was worn, the wood splintered from the countless times he'd gripped it too tightly, but it was still solid. He grabbed it with shaking hands, feeling the familiar weight of it, the coldness of the metal where the paint had chipped away. He had never used it, not really. It was a talisman more than a weapon, something to hold on to when the fear became too much. He kept it by his side when he slept, and during the long hours of daylight, it was never out of reach.

Thomas edged closer to the door, every creak of the floorboards under his feet sending a jolt of anxiety through him. His breathing was shallow, his pulse pounding in his ears, drowning out the faint sounds from outside. He could feel the sweat trickling down his back, cold and uncomfortable.

He had boarded up the windows when Lori and Shane left, a hasty barrier of nails and wood that had held up well enough. It had kept the biters out, at least. But now, as the door rattled slightly against the barricade, he wondered if it had kept him in, too.

He stopped just short of the door, close enough to hear the steady, rhythmic movement on the other side. His hand trembled as he reached out, pressing his eye to the peephole he'd fashioned in the planks.

What he saw on the other side wasn't a biter. It was a man, alive and breathing, dressed in a hospital gown, of all things. The sight was so incongruous that Thomas's mind almost refused to accept it. The man was trying to open the door, his hands fumbling against the boards, his expression a mix of determination and exhaustion.

This was someone real, someone who wasn't a mindless, ravenous creature, but a human being.

But Thomas didn't move. He just stood there, frozen in place, the baseball bat clutched in his hands like a lifeline. His mind was a storm of thoughts, none of them making any sense. He should do something, anything — but what? His instincts screamed at him to stay silent, to let this stranger move on, to avoid the risk. But the longer he stood there, the more the tension built inside him, like a coiled spring ready to snap.

He knew deep down that he wouldn't use the bat, that he wasn't capable of the violence that the world now demanded. He had watched the biters through the windows, seen them shuffle past with their hollow eyes and hungry mouths, but he had never been able to bring himself to do more than hide. Even when one had stumbled against the door, groaning and clawing, he had only watched, heart in his throat, until it lost interest and wandered away.

The man outside paused, his head turning as if listening for something, and in that moment, Thomas could see the desperation in his figure, the exhaustion etched into it. He wasn't just passing by; he was looking for something, maybe even hoping for a refuge, just as Thomas had once hoped that Lori and Shane would return.

But all Thomas could do was stare, his thoughts a jumbled mess of fear and indecision. The bat in his hands felt heavy, useless. He knew he should open the door, or at least try to communicate, but the words stuck in his throat, the weight of his isolation pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket. He was paralyzed, caught between the terror of the unknown and the safety of the walls he had built around himself.

The man outside knocked again, harder this time, the sound sharp and urgent in the stillness of the house. Thomas flinched, the noise shattering the fragile calm that had settled over him. He could feel his heart pounding, each beat a painful reminder of the reality he had been avoiding for so long.

But he couldn't move. He was trapped by his own fear, his own hesitation. The world outside had changed, become something dark and dangerous, and he wasn't sure he was ready to face it. The thought of opening that door, of letting the outside in, filled him with a dread so deep it made his stomach churn.

And so he stayed there, behind the door, clutching his bat with white-knuckled hands, his breath coming in shallow gasps as the man outside continued to knock. Each tap was a reminder of how far he had fallen, how much he had lost. How much he feared to lose. The door rattled again, but this time it was quieter, less insistent, as if the stranger was losing hope, just as Thomas had done so many days ago.

Through the peephole, Thomas saw the man drop to his knees, his hands shaking as he lifted the frayed welcome mat. The gesture was so familiar, so heartbreaking, that Thomas couldn't look away.

It was like watching a memory play out, an echo of a time when things made sense — when the biggest worry was losing your keys or locking yourself out of your own home. But this was different. There was no key hidden under the mat, just dust and debris from months of neglect. Still, the man's hands fumbled, scraping the ground as if sheer will could make the key appear.

Thomas's breath hitched, a painful lump forming in his throat. The man was crying, soft, broken sounds that seemed to come from somewhere deep within, a place of raw and overwhelming despair. The hospital gown hung loosely on his frame, stained with sweat, dirt, and something darker — blood, maybe, though Thomas couldn't tell if it was his own. Bandages peeked out from under the gown, yellowed and grimy, clinging to wounds that looked far from healed.

This man — this stranger — was no threat. He was just another lost soul, another survivor teetering on the edge of despair. But that realization didn't bring Thomas any comfort.

The man's hands shook as he pressed them against the door, his forehead resting on the wood as if he could will it to open. He was muttering something now, his voice low and cracked, the words barely audible through the thick barrier Thomas had constructed between himself and the world. Thomas strained to hear, drawn in by the sheer weight of the man's despair.

"Please... please..." The words were a hoarse whisper, a plea to anyone who might listen. "I just need... let me in... I just need to see my family..."

The voice, that raw, desperate voice, sliced through Thomas's fear, cutting straight to something buried deep inside him. He knew that voice. It was older now, rougher, layered with pain and desperation, but there was no mistaking it. It was Rick Grimes, the sheriff who lived in this very house, the man who had once brought a sense of calm and safety to the community. But now, he was unrecognizable, reduced to a shadow of the man he had been.

Thomas's mind reeled, trying to reconcile the image of Rick — the strong, capable man he had known — with the broken figure slumped against the door, begging for a way inside. Rick had always been a symbol of order, of law, someone who could handle whatever was thrown his way. But now, that symbol was shattered, replaced by a man who was as lost and scared as everyone else.

He had been so sure, so certain that staying behind the door was the safest option, the only option. But hearing Rick's voice, hearing the raw, unfiltered need in it, shook him to his core. This wasn't just a stranger; this was Rick — Rick, who had helped people, who had kept them safe, who had always seemed like he had all the answers. Rick who was his uncle.

But now, Rick had no answers. He was just as lost as Thomas, just as desperate, and that realization hit Thomas like a punch to the gut. He felt his fear morphing into something else, something darker — guilt. Guilt for not recognizing Rick sooner, guilt for not doing something, anything, to help.

Rick's voice wavered, breaking into sobs that were barely contained. "Lori... Carl... please..." His words were a jumble now, names mixed with pleas, the kind of incoherent babbling that came from sheer, unfiltered panic. It was as if Rick had been holding it together for so long, and now, in this moment of utter hopelessness, he couldn't anymore.

With a shaking hand, Thomas reached out, his fingers brushing the cold, splintered wood of the barricade. He could feel the weight of the decision pressing down on him, the enormity of what he was about to do. But he knew, deep down, that he couldn't stay behind that door forever. He couldn't keep hiding from the world, from the people who needed him.

And so, with a deep, shuddering breath, Thomas began to unfasten the barricade, the wood creaking as it shifted. It wasn't easy; each nail he pried loose felt like a small betrayal of the fear that had kept him alive. But he kept going, his hands moving almost of their own accord, driven by something stronger than fear — hope.

Hope that maybe, just maybe, opening this door would be the first step toward reclaiming something of the life they had all lost.

Thomas's breath hitched as he pressed his eye to the door's peephole, his vision narrowing into a small, distorted circle that framed the figure hunched on the porch. The tears running down Rick's face caught the dim light, his sobs muffled but heart-wrenching, each one a gut punch that ricocheted through Thomas's mind. This was Rick, without a doubt.

But then, something else caught Thomas's eye, a movement in the background that made his blood run cold. At first, it was just a shadow, something shifting in the periphery, slow and deliberate.

Thomas's heart skipped a beat, his hands growing clammy as the shadow took form, solidifying into the unmistakable figure of a biter. Its gait was uneven, almost as if it was testing the ground beneath its feet, but then it picked up speed, drawn by the sound of Rick's sobs.

Panic gripped Thomas's chest, squeezing his lungs until he could barely breathe. He yanked back from the peephole, his mind racing, the walls of the house seeming to close in on him. Rick didn't know. Rick couldn't see it. The biter was getting closer, its movements becoming more purposeful, more deadly with each step. And Rick was still there, oblivious, lost in his own world of grief and desperation.

Thomas's heart pounded in his ears, his pulse a frantic drumbeat that matched the rising panic in his chest. His hands shook as he fumbled with the boards, his fingers slick with sweat and trembling so badly that he could barely grip the nails. He cursed under his breath, a strangled sound that barely escaped his lips as he tried to force his hands to steady, to move faster. But the more he tried, the more they betrayed him, slipping and sliding on the rough wood, his nails digging into the splinters in his haste.

The biter was closer now, close enough that Thomas could hear the sickening shuffle of its feet against the pavement, the low, guttural moan that escaped its rotting throat. The sound sent a shiver down his spine, cold and sharp, like ice water being poured over his nerves.

He knew that sound all too well; it was the sound that haunted his nightmares, the sound that kept him awake at night, staring at the barricaded door, waiting for it to stop.

But this wasn't a nightmare. This was real, and Rick was out there, defenseless, about to become just another victim, just another corpse for the walkers to feed on.

Thomas's breath came in short, ragged gasps as he yanked at the last board, his fingers numb and raw from the effort. It felt like hours had passed, but he knew it had only been seconds — seconds that could mean the difference between life and death.

Finally, with one last, desperate tug, the board came free, the nails squealing in protest as they were ripped from the wood. Thomas threw the board aside, not caring where it landed, and reached for the door handle. His hand hovered there for a moment, paralyzed by a flash of uncertainty. He had never opened this door to anyone since the outbreak started, never let anyone inside. But now, there was no time for hesitation.

He wrenched the door open, the hinges creaking loudly in the silence of the neighborhood. Rick was still on his knees, his face buried in his hands, completely unaware of the danger that was mere feet away. Thomas didn't think; he just acted. He grabbed Rick by the arm, the movement swift and forceful, yanking him inside with a strength he didn't know he had. The momentum sent them both stumbling backward, Rick's body collapsing onto the floor with a thud, but Thomas didn't stop. He slammed the door shut with a loud bang, the force of it vibrating through his bones.

The biter was there, right there, its decaying fingers brushing against the door just as Thomas threw the deadbolt into place. The impact rattled the wood, the sound echoing in the small entryway as the biter began to pound on the door, its groans growing louder, more frantic as it tried to force its way inside.

Thomas leaned against the door, his heart still racing, his breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps.

He looked down at Rick, who lay on the floor, his face twisted in pain, his body curled up as if trying to protect itself from some unseen threat. Rick had no idea how close he had come to death, how thin the line had been between life and becoming one of those things. He had no idea that Thomas had saved him, that he had pulled him back from the brink.

And Thomas, standing there, his hands still shaking, felt a strange mix of relief and terror wash over him.

Rick lay on the floor, his body curled in on itself, every breath a ragged gasp that seemed to scrape against his lungs. The grab from Thomas had been rougher than he expected, a desperate yank that sent searing pain through his already battered body. His wounds, still raw and barely healing, throbbed with a relentless intensity, each pulse of pain reminding him of just how fragile he had become. The floor beneath him felt cold and unyielding, a stark contrast to the feverish heat radiating from his injured side.

For a moment, Rick was lost in the haze of his pain, his mind struggling to process what had just happened.

The memory of the hospital was still fresh, the cold, sterile walls, the eerie silence broken only by the distant groans of the dead. He had woken up to a nightmare, alone and disoriented, with nothing but the fading echoes of his life before. And now, here he was, on the floor of a house he barely recognized, a house that felt like a distant memory, its familiarity tainted by the new reality outside its walls.

Thomas stood over him, his eyes wide, his breath coming in short, shallow bursts. His hands were still trembling, the adrenaline from the moment refusing to leave his body. He glanced down at his fingers, still shaking, as if trying to reconcile the violence of what had just happened with the reality of the man lying at his feet.

The boards, the barricade, the weeks of isolation — everything had been designed to keep the world out, to keep him safe, to keep him from having to face what was out there. And yet, in a moment of panic, he had torn it all down.

For Rick.

The realization hit Thomas with the force of a sledgehammer. Rick was alive. Alive and lying on the floor, gasping for breath, searching for something — no, someone. "Lori... Carl..." The names slipped from Rick's lips, barely more than a whisper, a prayer sent into the void. His voice cracked, thick with desperation and fear, the fear of a man who had lost everything and was now clinging to the hope that maybe, just maybe, something had survived.

Thomas froze. The words hung in the air between them, heavy and suffocating. Lori and Carl. The names echoed in his mind, the weight of them pressing down on his chest until it felt like he couldn't breathe. He knew those names, knew them as well as his own. Lori, with her warm smile and calm demeanor, always looking out for the neighborhood kids, always so sure of herself. Carl, the kid with the big eyes and the even bigger dreams, always trailing after his father, always looking up to him with that fierce, unwavering admiration.

But they were gone. They had left, disappeared into the chaos of the outbreak, and Thomas had been left behind. Alone.

And now, Rick was here, looking for them, calling their names, the hope in his voice like a knife twisting in Thomas's gut. Thomas wanted to say something, to offer some kind of comfort, some kind of explanation, but the words wouldn't come. His throat felt tight, his mouth dry, as if the truth was something solid, something he couldn't swallow. He could still hear the pounding on the door, the biter outside, relentless and unforgiving, a constant reminder of the world they were now living in.

Rick didn't know. He didn't know what had happened, how much had changed, how much he had lost. And Thomas — Thomas just didn't have the heart to tell him. How could he? How could he look this man in the eyes, a man who had already suffered so much, and tell him that his wife and son were gone? That they had left without him, left him behind in that hospital bed, left him to wake up alone in a world that was no longer the one he knew?

Rick finally mustered the strength to push himself off the floor, the pain in his side flaring up with each movement. His legs wobbled beneath him, weak from the long days of disuse, but his determination outweighed the physical toll.

As he steadied himself, his gaze locked onto Thomas, and for a moment, it was as though everything else fell away. The pain, the confusion, the horror — none of it mattered when he saw his nephew standing there, alive.

Rick's breath caught in his throat, his eyes wide as he took in the sight of Thomas, who looked just as shell-shocked as he felt. It was as if all the emotions he'd been holding back since he woke up in that hospital came rushing to the surface in one explosive wave. The desperation of his search, the fear that he was the last man alive, the relentless hope that kept him moving — it all found its release in that single moment of recognition.

"Thomas!" Rick's voice cracked as he said his nephew's name, a mix of disbelief and overwhelming relief. The hysterical cries he'd been uttering just moments before took on a new intensity, rising in pitch and volume as he closed the distance between them. Without thinking, without even considering the pain it would cause, Rick threw his arms around Thomas, pulling him into a fierce, almost crushing embrace.

He held on tight, his body shaking with sobs that were now a mixture of grief, relief, and gratitude. The feel of another human being in his arms, someone familiar, someone who was family, was almost too much to bear. It was like a dam had broken inside him, and all the emotions he'd been suppressing since the world fell apart came flooding out. He clung to Thomas as if his very life depended on it, the sobs tearing through him with a ferocity he hadn't known he was capable of.

Rick's cries were awkward, strangled sounds that didn't quite fit the man he had been before all of this. He was supposed to be strong, the protector, the one who kept it together for everyone else. But here, in this moment, with Thomas in his arms, all of that fell away.

He was just a man who had lost everything, who had been thrust into a nightmare and was desperately trying to find his way out. The weight of it all was crushing, and for the first time since he woke up in that hospital bed, he allowed himself to feel it, to let the grief and fear and relief wash over him.

Thomas stood stiffly at first, caught off guard by the intensity of Rick's embrace. The force of it, the raw emotion that poured out of his uncle, was overwhelming. But as Rick's sobs continued, as he felt the desperation in Rick's grip, something inside him softened. He had been holding himself together for so long, trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy in a world that had become anything but. But here, in Rick's arms, it was like he finally had permission to let go.

Slowly, tentatively, Thomas wrapped his arms around Rick, returning the embrace. His own body began to shake, not from fear this time, but from the release of emotions he'd been suppressing for weeks. The tears came then, silent at first, slipping down his cheeks in a steady stream.

He hadn't cried since the outbreak began, hadn't allowed himself to truly process everything that had happened. But now, with Rick's sobs echoing in his ears, he couldn't hold them back any longer.

They stood like that for what felt like an eternity, the two of them holding on to each other as if they were the only things anchoring each other to this world. The weight of their shared grief, the mutual understanding of what they'd lost, hung heavy in the air between them. And in that moment, there was a kind of comfort, a sense of solidarity that neither of them had felt in a long time.

Eventually, Rick's sobs began to subside, the intensity of the moment slowly ebbing away. He pulled back slightly, just enough to look Thomas in the eyes, his own red and swollen from the tears. There was a glimmer of something in them, a spark of hope that had been ignited by the sight of his nephew.

But beneath that hope, there was also fear, the fear of what might have happened to the rest of his family.

Rick took a shaky breath, his voice barely more than a whisper as he finally asked the question that had been burning in his mind since he'd woken up. "Thomas... Carl and Lori... where are they?" His voice trembled as he spoke their names, as if saying them out loud might somehow bring them back, might somehow make everything okay again.

Thomas stared at Rick, the words hovering on the edge of his lips, a truth so heavy it seemed impossible to voice. He looked at his uncle, the man who had always been a symbol of unwavering strength, now reduced to a shell of his former self. The weight of the silence between them was unbearable, a chasm filled with unspoken fears and the raw edge of reality.

Finally, Thomas forced himself to speak. His voice was quiet, almost a whisper, as if speaking louder would shatter the fragile moment. "I don't know where they went," he said, his words halting, each one weighted with a thousand emotions. "When everything happened, when the world started to fall apart... Lori and Carl, they... they left."

Rick's eyes, already hollow with exhaustion, now filled with a deep, uncomprehending confusion. His mind was a tangled mess of memories, all jumbled together in a haze of pain and disorientation. He shook his head slightly, as if trying to clear away the fog, to make sense of what Thomas was telling him. "Left?" he repeated, his voice thick with disbelief. "They left?"

Thomas nodded slowly, the movement feeling like it took every ounce of strength he had left. The memory of that day was still vivid in his mind, a sharp contrast to the blur of days that had followed.

"They didn't have a choice," Thomas continued, his voice trembling slightly. "It wasn't safe to stay here anymore. They thought it would be safer to keep moving, to try to find somewhere more secure."

Rick stared at Thomas, his expression one of utter disbelief as Thomas explained to him what the world was now.

The words didn't make sense, didn't fit with anything he knew to be true. Dead people didn't just get up and start walking around. That wasn't how the world worked. But the look in Thomas's eyes, the haunted, terrified look of someone who had seen too much, who had lost too much, told him that this was no joke, no hallucination brought on by fever or pain.

"You're saying..." Rick's voice trailed off as the enormity of what Thomas was telling him began to sink in. "You're saying Lori and Carl... they're out there... in that?"

Thomas nodded, his heart aching with the need to comfort his uncle, to reassure him that everything would be okay. But he couldn't lie. Not about this. "Yes," he said quietly. "They're out there. But I don't know where. I don't even know if they're... if they're still..." He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence, the words too horrible to speak aloud.

Rick's face crumpled, his eyes filling with tears once again as the full weight of what Thomas had said hit him. His wife and son were out there, somewhere, in a world gone mad, and he had no idea how to find them, no idea if they were even still alive. The thought was too much to bear, the fear and grief too overwhelming to process all at once.

Thomas watched his uncle, his own heart breaking as he saw the pain etched so deeply into Rick's face. He wanted to reach out, to offer some kind of comfort, but he didn't know how. What could he say that would make any of this better? What could he do to ease the agony that was tearing Rick apart from the inside out?

Finally, Rick spoke, his voice small and broken, like that of a man who had lost everything. "We have to find them," he said, his eyes pleading with Thomas to understand, to agree. "We have to... we have to bring them back."

Thomas nodded, even though he didn't know how they could possibly do that. The world outside was a dangerous, chaotic mess, and the thought of venturing out into it, of leaving the relative safety of the house, filled him with dread. But he knew he couldn't say no. Not to Rick. Not now.

"We'll find them," Thomas said, his voice trembling slightly. "We'll find them." Even as he said the words, he knew they were empty. The world was too big, too broken, and they were just two men, battered and weary, trying to hold on to what little hope they had left. But it was all they had, and for Rick's sake, for his own sake, Thomas clung to it with everything he had.

Thomas stared at Rick's wounds, his eyes tracing the haphazard bandages wrapped around his uncle's torso. They were a mess of off-white, brown, and yellow, a testament to months of neglect. The gauze clung stubbornly to the sticky residue of sweat and dried blood, the edges peeling like the weathered pages of an old book.

The sight made Thomas shiver, not just from the obvious pain Rick must have been in, but from the creeping awareness of his own inadequacy.

There was nothing here to help him — no antiseptics, no painkillers, not even a proper roll of fresh bandages. The house had been stripped bare of anything useful long before Rick stumbled back into it. Thomas could only assume Lori had taken everything when she left, a thought that unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

Even the photos and picture frames were gone, their absence creating ghostly voids on the walls and shelves, a stark reminder of what had been and what no longer was.

The off-white bandage around Rick's torso caught Thomas's eye again, and without thinking, his face twisted into an expression of disgust, one he didn't try to hide — or perhaps couldn't. It was a trait that had plagued him all his life, this inability to mask his emotions. Everything he felt, everything he thought, played out across his face like a silent film for anyone to see.

"You look like a science project gone wrong," he muttered, the words slipping out before he could stop them. It wasn't malice, not really, but a defense mechanism. The kind of humor that bubbled up when he didn't know what else to say or do. Rick didn't respond, didn't even flinch. His head lolled slightly to one side, his eyes half-closed, as if the weight of the world — or maybe just the weight of his injuries — was too much to bear.

Thomas sighed, running a hand through his hair. He was disgusted with himself as much as he was with the situation. For all his snark and sarcasm, he felt utterly useless. Rick needed help and all Thomas could offer was leftover beans, half a bottle of water, and a bottle of Pepto-Bismol he'd found in the back of a cabinet.

Medicine had been looted long ago, and if Lori had taken anything with her, she'd made sure to leave nothing behind.

A quiet, nagging voice that he couldn't ignore. If he didn't do something — if he didn't try — Rick would die. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon. The infection, whatever it was, would take him. Or hunger. Or dehydration. Or worse, the biters would find a way in, and Rick wouldn't have the strength to fight them off.

Thomas moved to the front door, his footsteps heavy, each one feeling like a deliberate act of defiance against his own fear. His heart pounded as he leaned in to peer through the peephole. The biter that had been banging on the door earlier was gone.

For a moment, Thomas hesitated, his hand hovering over the handle. He glanced back at Rick, who hadn't moved, his breathing still shallow and uneven. Thomas didn't know what had gotten into him, why he suddenly felt the need to act, but the compulsion was there, undeniable and urgent.

Sweat dripped down his forehead, stinging his eyes, but his determination outweighing his fear.

Thomas took a deep breath, his chest tight with a mix of anticipation and dread, and unlatched the door. It creaked as it swung open, the sound grating and metallic, like something out of a horror movie. The world beyond the threshold was eerily quiet, the street bathed in the pale, unforgiving light of an overcast day. The air smelled of decay, a pungent mix of rot and mildew that made Thomas gag, but he stepped outside anyway, his grip on the bat tightening.

The neighborhood was unrecognizable, the once-pristine lawns overgrown with weeds, the houses dark and lifeless. Cars were abandoned in the middle of the street, their windows smashed, their tires flattened. Thomas moved cautiously, his eyes darting from side to side, scanning for any movement. His breathing was shallow, his heart pounding so loudly he was sure it would give him away.

The faint rustle of wind in the overgrown grass, the occasional caw of a crow, and the distant metallic clatter of something falling echoed faintly in the background, but it all seemed muffled, like sound traveling through water.

Thomas moved forward, each step agonizingly slow, the baseball bat trembling in his hands. His eyes darted around the street, scanning for any movement, any sign of danger, his pulse pounding in his ears.

He focused on the house directly across from Rick's. It was familiar, once a picture-perfect home with neatly trimmed hedges and a welcome mat that proclaimed "Home Sweet Home." Now, it was in disarray, though not as bad as some of the others. The windows weren't shattered, and the roof seemed intact, but the front door hung ajar, its edges splintered as if someone had forced it open. The sight made his stomach churn, but he decided to press on. Maybe the neighbor's house would have something — medicine, bandages, anything to help Rick.

Thomas hesitated at the edge of the porch, his feet teetering on the warped wood. He could feel the gravel of the driveway beneath his shoes when he finally stepped down, the tiny rocks shifting and crunching softly with each slow movement. The sound seemed deafening in the quiet, and he winced with every step, his breath shallow and rapid. He clutched the bat tighter, the tremor in his hands making the weapon wobble slightly. His gaze was erratic, jumping from one point to another — the overgrown hedges, the cracked pavement, the darkened windows of the nearby houses.

He felt exposed, like a mouse scurrying across open ground, every shadow a hawk ready to swoop down.

Then he heard it: a low, guttural sound that made his blood run cold. It was subtle at first, barely distinguishable from the ambient noise, but it grew louder, more distinct — a deep, animalistic growl that sent a shiver down his spine.

He froze, his breath catching in his throat as he slowly turned his head to the left. His movements were deliberate, almost mechanical, as if any sudden motion might provoke whatever was making that noise.

The biter stood about twenty feet away, partially obscured by the skeletal remains of what had once been a neatly trimmed shrub.

It wore a suit, or what was left of one, the fabric torn and filthy, the once-crisp white shirt now a mottled yellow-brown, stiff with dried blood. The tie hung limply around its neck, a sad, frayed remnant of a life that no longer existed. Its face was grotesque, the skin pallid and stretched taut over its skull, patches of flesh missing to reveal raw, glistening muscle and bone beneath. Its eyes were milky and unfocused, yet somehow still searching, as if guided by some unholy instinct. Its jaw hung slack, a string of viscous saliva dripping from its cracked lips as it swayed slightly, its movements slow and uncoordinated but purposeful.

Thomas couldn't move. His legs felt like lead, his muscles locking in place as the icy grip of fear took hold. He stared at the biter, his mind screaming at him to run, to do something — anything — but his body refused to obey.

The bat felt useless in his hands, a child's toy against the monster before him. His breathing quickened, each shallow gasp sounding louder and louder in his ears, and he was sure the biter would hear it, would turn its head and fix those horrible, lifeless eyes on him.

The biter took a step forward, its foot dragging slightly against the gravel, the sound sending a jolt of terror through Thomas. It moved slowly, its limbs jerking unnaturally, like a marionette controlled by an unskilled puppeteer. But it was moving closer. Each agonizing second stretched into an eternity as Thomas stood rooted to the spot, his mind racing through a thousand scenarios, none of them ending well.

The biter's head tilted slightly, its neck making a sickening crack as it turned in his direction. Thomas's breath hitched, his heart hammering in his chest. He felt the sweat trickle down his temples, the sting of it in his eyes, but he didn't dare move to wipe it away.

The biter groaned again, the sound guttural and wet, like air being forced through waterlogged pipes. It shuffled another step closer, its suit snagging on the edge of the shrub, the fabric tearing with a faint rip that seemed to echo in the stillness. Thomas's eyes darted around, searching desperately for an escape route, for anything that might save him, but his surroundings felt alien and unrecognizable, every shadow and corner a potential threat.

Thomas's world narrowed to the grotesque face of the biter closing in on him, its jaw slack, tendons pulling like an ill-tuned marionette. His grip on the bat faltered, his arms trembling so violently he thought he might drop it altogether. Then, with a sharp, wet thud, the biter's head jerked violently to the side, the sickening crunch of bone snapping echoing in the stillness.

For a moment, Thomas froze, his eyes wide and his mind blank, before he registered the gleaming metal of a shovel now embedded in the biter's skull. The creature slumped forward, folding grotesquely to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Thomas blinked, his breath caught in his throat, and turned his head toward the source of the blow.

A boy stood a few feet away, his chest heaving with exertion. He couldn't have been much older than Carl — maybe ten or eleven at most. His brown skin was streaked with sweat and grime, his wiry frame wrapped in a too-large jacket cinched tightly at the waist. The sleeves hung awkwardly, the cuffs fraying, and his jeans were cuffed at the ankles, revealing a pair of worn sneakers that looked ready to fall apart. His eyes, dark and wide with determination, flickered toward Thomas, and without a word, the boy reached out and grabbed Thomas by the arm.

"C'mon," the boy muttered, his voice sharp but steady as he yanked Thomas away from the biter's still-twitching form. Thomas stumbled after him, too stunned to resist, his heart still hammering in his chest.

"Dad!" the boy called out, his voice carrying down the eerily quiet street. Thomas barely had time to process what was happening before a man appeared seemingly out of nowhere. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and imposing, with deep-set eyes and a gun gripped firmly in his hands. His face was stern, his expression unreadable save for the faint crease of worry etched into his brow. Without hesitation, the man leveled the gun and fired, the deafening blast ringing out as the biter's skull exploded in a gruesome spray of bone and gore.

Thomas flinched, his ears ringing from the shot. He barely noticed the boy let go of his arm until the man turned the barrel of the gun toward him. Instinctively, Thomas raised his hands, the baseball bat clattering to the ground as he stepped back, his palms open and empty. His heart raced, pounding so loudly in his ears that he almost didn't hear the man's voice when it came, low and commanding.

"Step back," the man said, his tone brooking no argument. He gestured for the boy to move behind him, and the child obeyed without hesitation, his small form retreating to the safety of his father's shadow.

Thomas swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper. "I —" he started, but the words caught in his throat, his voice weak and trembling. His hands remained in the air, his fingers spread wide, a pitiful display of surrender. He tried again. "I just — thank you. I — thank you for helping me."

The man's expression didn't soften. If anything, his grip on the shotgun seemed to tighten. "Who are you? What are you doing out here?"

Thomas stammered, his mind racing to piece together an explanation. "I — uh, my name's Thomas. I — I live just — just over there," he said, jerking his head back toward Rick's house. "I wasn't — I didn't mean to —"

"Why are you out here?" the man interrupted, his voice sharp and impatient. He took a step closer, the shotgun still trained on Thomas. "You don't look like you're out scavenging."

Thomas's breath hitched, and he stumbled over his words. "My uncle. He's — he's hurt. I was — I was trying to find —"

The man's eyes narrowed. "Hurt how?"

Thomas hesitated, his hands trembling as he tried to form a coherent sentence. "He's — uh, he's wounded. It's bad. I — I think it's infected —"

The man's patience snapped. "What kind of wound?" he barked, his voice booming. "I don't have time for this. Spit it out!"

"A gunshot wound!" Thomas blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush. His cheeks burned with shame at his own panic, but he forced himself to continue. "He was shot. I don't know when or how, but it's bad, and — and I don't have anything to help him. No bandages, no medicine. I — please. I need help."

The man didn't lower the gun. He studied Thomas for a long, tense moment, his dark eyes scanning him from head to toe. "A gunshot wound," he repeated, his tone laced with skepticism. "And you expect me to believe you're out here alone, looking for supplies for someone else?"

Thomas nodded frantically, his voice rising in desperation. "Yes! I swear, I'm not — I'm not lying. He's inside, at the house. He's my uncle. Please, you have to believe me."

The man's expression remained unreadable, his grip on the shotgun unwavering. "And what's stopping me from believing this is some kind of trap? That you've got others waiting to jump us the second we let our guard down?"

Thomas's stomach dropped. "No, no, it's not —" he stammered, shaking his head vehemently. "It's just me. Just us. I don't — I don't even know anyone else. Please, he's — he's dying."

The boy stepped forward, his gaze fixed on his father. "Dad," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "What if he's telling the truth?"

The man didn't respond immediately, his eyes never leaving Thomas. The silence stretched on, heavy and suffocating, until finally, he lowered the shotgun, though only slightly. "Show me," he said gruffly. "But if this is a trap —"

"It's not," Thomas interrupted, his voice trembling. "I swear. Just — please. Follow me."

AUTHORS NOTE

this wasn't nearly as long as i wanted it to be but i didn't think it was necessary to add in morgan helping rick

and also im just rushing to start s2

LOL

much love,