Chapter Text
Chapter One
Seraphim
Someone’s out here. Someone alive.
I stop, one hand on the rough bark of a massive oak, steadying my breath. Still. Silent.
Sunlight filters through the canopy in scattered uneven patches, warming my back through the thin fabric of my shirt. Somewhere ahead—something moved. Not a groan. Not a shuffle. Too smooth. Too careful. Not Dead.
I wait.
Sweat drips down my spine, the heat from my discarded pack still lingering despite the cooler air. The season teeters on the edge of Autumn, ready to tip into something harsher. The fading warmth of summer made the long walk bearable.
I'm close to the lake. There's so much to do still and not much time. I should keep moving. Slip away before anyone who's moved into the area knows I'm here. I know how to vanish. How to move silently, how to hide, and if I have no other choice—how to kill.
I’ve had years of practice. Failure in this world doesn’t just cost you—it guts you.
But the knot of guilt in my stomach keeps me rooted to the spot. If it’s the Peacocks—or worse, someone they’ve taken in—then someone vulnerable might be nearby. We’re not far from the farm, not by line-of-sight miles. But we’re worlds away in every other sense. Wandering this far from safety and shelter isn’t something most people do anymore. Not alone.
I should go —avoiding people is how I've stayed alive. People are dangerous.
Especially desperate ones.
And who’s left that isn’t desperate?
There’s a voice.
How long has it been since I heard someone speak?
"Come on, that's it."
I move, slipping quietly around the trunk to get a better angle. A boy comes into view. Flannel shirt faded with age and grime, dark pants, and a too-big cowboy hat wobbling atop messy brown hair. Just looking at it makes my scalp feel hotter.
He’s walking backwards—of all the dumb things to do—and calling softly to a pair of the Dead trailing after him. He glances over his shoulder every few steps, but still keeps moving back, taunting them forward like some slow-motion game of tag with teeth.
Damnit.
There’s only one reason to lead the Dead like that. Someone else must be nearby.
Injured. Weak. Vulnerable.
He’s trying to draw them off.
I watch the boy start to round the corner of the street, still backpedaling quickly. He's nearing a privacy fence with its gate hanging open, but still intact. He turns his head. I can practically see the plan forming in his mind. I'm guessing he means to get them inside the fence; double back and close the gate trapping them. Containment over confrontation. It’s not a bad idea. The wood won’t hold long, but long enough to get away.
That's one positive for the Dead: When they get out, they won’t remember where the meal was.
Clever kid. Using the environment. Smart. He might have pulled it off. Until five more stumble out between two fence lines behind him.
Slower than the first two—older, more decayed. Long Dead vs. Newly Dead, with what I have always assumed to be slightly better vision, and muscle control. The older ones seem to have sound and not much else.
Seven Dead against one boy who’s too focused on the most obvious threat to see what’s behind him.
Shit.
I swing my bow around on instinct, slipping the wide leather strap from my shoulder. Holding one arrow between my teeth, I grab another and nock it. Stepping out from cover just enough to take aim. The first shot done before really thinking through the potential consequences of such an action.
Thrum.
The first arrow lands clean.
Just as I intended, the Dead woman in a long, tattered skirt crumples with a growl, having tripped over her now fully dead companion. Her long skirt entangles her movements, caught on her shoes and knees as she attempts to take her feet again, snarling and snapping her teeth like a rabid dog.
I’m already lining up the second shot, moving to a different angle as the remaining threat twenty feet in front of him, slowed by her tangled legs—is no longer the most pressing danger. The dead body dropping to the ground in front of him gets his attention.
He startles flinching a few steps back, which is the opposite of what I hoped for here.
I've taken down a second one—this time the staggering Dead man closest to his back—as the boy reaches for something. The thud of the third body hitting the pavement has him whirling around and pulling a weapon from his side I couldn’t see before—a handgun.
I can't tell the kind at this distance, but the thundering shot proving he has ammo echoes in my ears, seems to bounce off the houses, the trees, the very air vibrating with its intensity. I'm grateful I haven't heard one in a while.
You don't realize just how jarringly loud a gunshot is until you hear it at close range.
Too loud. Too tempting.
More of them will come.
I move left, adjusting my angle. Draw. Fire. Go for the eye. Always. The temple is a much harder shot, even with the compound bow I'm carrying set to its maximum draw weight. It might be the softest, thinnest bone in the head—but it's still bone—even if it's half rotten away.
100 yards and a moving target doesn't improve the shot.
Living humans are so much easier to take down. I muse and fire again, immediately nocking a fourth arrow still moving.
The boy has also taken aim, fired again. This shot thwarting skirt-ladies' finally successful attempt to amble to her feet. Her long skirt ripped in a jagged hem and tangled around one leg as she crashes back to the ground with a heavy final thump. Another cracking report from the gun barrel echoes off the trees as he turns again back to the remaining and only obvious dead behind him.
The sound is dangerous, potentially deadly. Though with the echo off so many surfaces, it will be hard for the dead or anyone living to distinguish the exact location.
I’m close enough now that using arrows feels like a waste. I move to take down the remaining threats. The more bullets the boy saves, the more he'll have in the future.
Bullets don’t grow on trees, and you can’t yank them out of the dead and put them back in your gun.
I let the bow fall to the cracked asphalt with one hand and draw a machete from my thigh sheath. I move past the boy in a wide arc, cutting down the last two walkers with quick, practiced swings. One, two—wet thuds. Bone parts. Heads fall.
Silence falls harder.
I wait, watching the ones he shot. Making sure they won’t get back up. Slowing my breathing. Forcing calm into my chest.
Because now?
Now the real danger starts.
I don’t look at him yet.
My blade—slick with rot—hangs out and away from my leg, deliberately angled to appear nonthreatening. I keep my posture low and open. Passive.
Not a threat.
It was a big reason I dropped my bow to the ground. Right now, only one of us still holds a ranged weapon. That imbalance is a risk I’d never take with an adult man.
But this is a child.
He hasn’t spoken.
He also hasn’t shot me—a good sign.
I crouch near the closest corpse and wipe what gore I can from the machete before sliding it back into its sheath. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him watching—motionless, silent—as I move closer to tug my arrows from the slack bodies at my feet.
He's returning his gun to his holster. Progress.
I’ll need to scrub the blades and my gear when I reach the lake. If I don’t, the stench will settle in.
I move with deliberate calm, turning away to walk the twenty feet back to my bow. I bend, pick it up, and slip the strap back over one shoulder. A gesture, small but clear: I’m not here to hurt him.
I consider leaving. Just disappearing into the trees. I’ve done more than most already—stepped into danger, exposed myself. Saved him.
But it’s not the Dead I’m worried about. Not really. The living have always been worse.
A breeze stirs the trees. Cool air brushes the sweat at the back of my neck, lifting the small hairs there. A rare relief in a stagnant, merciless world.
I sigh. If I were going to walk away, I would’ve done it already.
I finally turn to face him.
He can't be more than twelve—maybe thirteen. Still a breath shy of the gangly awkwardness that turns boys into teens overnight. He’s already a few inches taller than me.
Dark, shaggy bangs poke out from under the too-big cowboy hat slouched on his head. His cheeks are slightly hollow, pale. I can't tell if it's from sun-avoidance under that hat or from the shock of standing among bodies he should’ve been killed by.
He stares back with quiet intensity, expression curious, eyes bright and sharp. After a long silence, with neither of us making a move, he cocks his head slightly. Then speaks.
"I…I thought you were someone else." His voice is soft, but steady. He shifts his feet on the pavement meeting my gaze and not wavering.
So he’s not alone, Shit.
I should leave. Now.
“Sorry to disappoint.” My voice comes out rough, cracked around the edges. The sound feels foreign—thin and brittle. I clear my throat and swallow.
I haven’t spoken in… days? Weeks? Outside of muttering to myself or the Dead, it's been months since I needed words.
His hand rests lightly on the holster strapped to his thigh, near his weapon. Cautious—but not aiming. Which says something. Wherever this kid came from, someone’s taught him restraint. Maybe even manners. I’ve been wrong before, but it feels like… they might be good ones.
He shakes his head once. The gesture’s small, and his hair stays in his eyes under the weight of the brim. “No. Thank you. That would’ve been… hard, without you.” He lets his hand fall away from the gun.
I blink. A kid this young shouldn’t be this polite. Or this calm.
Maybe those were his last bullets. Maybe that’s why I’m still breathing. But whoever he’s with—if they’re alive—might still be armed. I keep my posture relaxed.
“Who are you with?” I ask carefully.
This area’s been quiet for a while. Too far from the last group I tracked to expect foot traffic—especially from someone this young. I don’t want to leave him if he’s truly alone, but getting involved could be suicide.
He tenses. The thin line of his mouth turns grim. Not ready to trust me, which is fair–smart. Even if I have just helped him, trust should not come easy.
Caution is a good thing. Someone has taught him well.
Something about him reminds me of Tobin so much it aches, maybe it’s the dark locks of hair, the youthful face still clinging to hope.
I clear my throat again and move to grab my bottle from my pack still hidden from him behind the tree. The tree I was resting under when I first heard the sounds. Where I probably should have stayed hidden. I pick up my water from the side netting and unscrew the cap, rinse my throat hoping it helps my voice feel less stale.
"Are they… injured?” I ask, voice steadier now. They must be with him out here, moving the dead all alone. “I've got herbs. I might be able to help."
I leave my pack and move towards him, this time holding out my bottle for him to take a drink.
It’s a peace offering of sorts. Precious resources: water, food, safety and shelter. An olive branch between strangers. A lifeline.
He hesitates for a moment then the line of his posture relaxes a little more, he takes it and drinks.
“Why?” he asks, voice quieter. He hands the bottle back, half-drained.
Why am I doing this?
Why am I helping him?
Is this what loneliness does to a person—makes them reckless for conversation? For connection?
Why.
I ask myself that too. I’ve avoided people for years. The cost of exposure is always higher than the payoff. But he deserves an answer. Both truth and trust are a rarer currency than bullets.
“Not many decent people left,” I say. “I want to be one of them.”
He nods. “Me too.” He pauses, glancing down. When he looks up there’s a steely resolve in his blue eyes years beyond his young face.
“It’s my dad. He’s… he’s pretty bad.”
His Dad. Family . This kid still has family.
I nod once and turn away, reaching for my pack again. My throat tightens unexpectedly. I blink hard with my back to him.
I swing the pack onto my shoulders, the weight settling against sweat-soaked fabric. When I face him again, I offer a small smile—awkward, uncertain. It feels rusty.
“Well,” I say, “let’s go then.”
.
.
Pretty Bad?
Try Fucking Terrible.
I have to stop and stare at what’s left of the man laid out on the floor. For a moment, I think he’s already dead—until his chest rises, wheezing.
I step closer. That sound doesn’t reassure me.
I’ve seen roadkill in better shape than this kid’s dad.
His face is a swollen mess, more bruise than skin. Dried blood crusts most of his exposed body from multiple gashes—including a deep one over his left temple. His left eye is puffed half-shut. The cuts on his cheek aren’t actively bleeding anymore, they probably won’t need stitches.
But his breathing? It’s absolute shit .
I’m not sure if he’s been shot or stabbed in addition to a beating to the brink of death, but I think it’s safe to assume from his unconscious state that his injuries are severe and continue under his clothes.
“What’s his name?” I ask, already dropping my pack near the sofa. I flip open the side pocket and dig for a penlight.
“Rick,” The boy—Carl, says quietly. The fact that his Dad won’t wake is clearly wrecking him. Understandably. The act of keeping his shit together through the crisis speaks volumes to his character.
I crouch beside Rick and gently lift one swollen eyelid. One of his eyes is bloodshot all the way through. The bruising around his throat is thick, brutal—someone tried to choke him to death, and nearly succeeded.
When I pass the light over his eyes, the pupils react. Slowly. But evenly. That’s something .
Not a coma. Not yet.
His breathing explains itself—ribs. Definitely bruised. Probably broken.
The herbs I brought won’t be enough. There’s a lot you can do with a solid knowledge of the natural world, but for something this severe—prevention and easing pain aren’t going to cut it. I need real medicines, real medical supplies. All of which I have—just not here.
If I don’t act fast, he’ll die—Possibly even if I do act fast. I’ll need to patch what I can and then get what I really need from home and return to help. I definitely can’t move him right now.
At least the house they picked to squat in has a gas stove—and propane still in the tanks I discover with a wash of relief. I light the pilot with a match from my bag when the click results in a soft hiss of fuel—but no flame.
I need to sterilize as much as I can, if the injuries themselves don’t kill him an infected wound will. I find a sizable pot, amazed that water still runs from the sink tap, though slowly after a bit of groaning protest.
I set water to boil, then I set to work on the many injuries, rinse, wash, wrap and make the poultice to pack against the worst wounds. The swelling in his face and throat has to come down or he won’t keep breathing. I can already feel the fever in his skin—not infection yet, just trauma. But that window’s closing.
If he were conscious, he’d be in agony. Delirious. His whole chest is one massive bruise. The ribs beneath are wrecked. It looks like someone enjoyed kicking the life out of him.
And it gets worse.
There’s a crude strip of cloth tied around his upper thigh, stiff with dried blood. A makeshift tourniquet. It stopped the bleeding, sure—but if it’s been on too long, it could’ve done more harm than good.
I have no idea how the Hell he even walked here like this. There’s probably a bullet still inside—because why not ? God. I’m not sure I can fix this. But Carl’s watching me with those huge, hopeful eyes.
"No offense kid, but who the Hell did your Dad piss off? Looks like he lost a fight with the Hulk."
Carl doesn’t miss a beat. “Nah. One-eyed asshole with a militia and a military tank.”
…I blink.
That, can’t be real.
But then he elaborates—and by the time he finishes, I’m honestly shocked Rick’s still breathing at all.
I let Carl talk as I work. It distracts him. Gives me something to focus on besides the awful possibility that I’m just patching up a corpse.
The bullet wound turns out to be a graze, not a puncture. Angry and red, but no digging necessary. It starts to bleed again, the tang of copper thick in the air, settling on the back of my tongue and making my stomach twist. I clean it, pack it, and sew it shut.
I know the place he’s talking about. Woodbury . I’ve crossed paths with their so-called “enforcers” before—had to detour hard to avoid them ever since. Packs of rough men roamed the woods like wolves, and the one with a goddamn sword for a hand made my skin crawl.
But none of them held a candle to their leader.
That man was a different kind of monster. Not the kind who enjoyed cruelty—the kind who needed it. Like something wired wrong. I stayed east to avoid them. And I’d assumed when the town burned to the ground, that was the end of it. Clearly, I was wrong.
Now, Carl and his Dad might be the only ones who made it out. Somehow, the worst of humanity always finds a way to survive and continue spreading misery.
My focus sharpens.
I haven’t done enough.
Rick remains unconscious while I work, and in many ways that’s a blessing. Not just for the pain. But because Carl?
Carl is young. Open. Trusting, still.
And I need to understand who they are—who he is. Because once people have survived this long in this world, they’ve all touched evil, in one form or another.
I need to know how much of that has crawled inside them.
How much of it has curled deep inside to rot—Especially if they will be near me.