The air was still, thick with the stench of rot and silence that never sat right. Dave tightened his grip on his handgun as he stepped over broken glass and old bloodstains on the cracked pavement. Beside him, Tony scanned the empty storefronts, rifle at the ready.

They’d been searching the outskirts of this quiet, dust-choked town for supplies—food, ammo, anything to keep their small group alive another week. But something felt off. Too quiet. Even the walkers hadn’t shown their usual shambling forms.

Then Dave saw him. A figure at the end of the street—too upright, too alert to be dead. Not part of their group. Not familiar.

“Tony,” Dave whispered, narrowing his eyes. “You see that?”

This person wasn’t moving. Just watching. Waiting.