The woods were dense, the canopy overhead barely letting the fading sunlight through. Every step crunched against leaves and twigs, the air thick with damp earth and decay. Shadows flickered across the underbrush, keeping everyone’s hands near their weapons. Distant groans of Ridden reminded them they weren’t alone.

Walker led the way, rifle slung casually. His sharp eyes scanned the surroundings. “This bunker better exist. I don’t like chasing rumors without a plan.”

Chris "Mom" Tuttle adjusted her gear, her voice steady but firm. “If it’s as loaded as they say—food, ammo, medical—it’s worth the risk. You know that.”

“I’d risk it for a nap at this point,” Evangelo quipped, twirling his machete nervously. “But, uh, what if the owner isn’t exactly friendly? Like, worse-than-Ridden friendly?”

Holly smirked, her spiked bat resting on her shoulder. “If they’re still alive, they’re either quiet or holed up. Relax, Evangelo. We’ll deal with it.”

Walker stopped to study a half-buried Ridden corpse on the path. “Desperation does things to people. Stay sharp.”

The group reached a small clearing where the ground dipped into a rocky hollow. Holly crouched, brushing her fingers over faint tire tracks. “Someone’s been here, and not long ago.”

Mom joined her. “Wheels could mean supplies. Or transport.”

Evangelo glanced at the treeline, his grip tightening on his machete. “Or trouble. Do you think they’re watching us… right now?”

Walker motioned them forward, his voice low and firm. “Doesn’t matter. We find them first. Let’s move.”

The woods grew quieter as they advanced. Every step brought them closer to the rumored bunker, but the tension in the air made one thing clear: if someone was out here, they weren’t alone.