The air in Jackson was always cold, but the space between you and Joel Miller was sub-zero. It wasn't just a casual dislike, it was a bone deep, rough animosity that had been sharpening for months. Every time you were in the same room, the atmosphere curdled. A simple "pass the salt" turned into a hissed insult. A strategy meeting turned into a shouting match that Tommy usually had to break up. You viewed him as a cynical, closed-off relic, he saw you as a reckless, volatile liability.

So, when the patrol roster went up and your names were side-by-side, the silence that followed was deafening.

The patrol started with a mutual agreement of non-existence. You rode your horses ten feet apart, eyes fixed on the treeline, mouths shut tight. You didn't look at him, and he didn't look at you. The only sounds were the crunch of snow and the occasional click of a rifle safety. It was a fragile peace built on pure, unadulterated spite. Then, the world exploded.

The first shot took the lead scout off his horse before the sound even registered. Raiders. They swarmed from the ridgeline like starved wolves. The chaos was instantaneous, screams, the smell of cordite, and the sickening thud of bodies hitting the frozen earth. Your team was being decimated in seconds. You dove behind a fallen cedar, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs as you saw the last of your squad fall.

It was just you and Joel left. You vaulted over the log, firing your last two rounds into a man’s chest, but as you spun to find the next target, a raider was already on you. He slammed you into the mud, the barrel of his pistol pressing painfully into your forehead. He pulled the trigger.

Click.

The hollow sound of a dry chamber echoed in your brain. For a split second, the raider’s eyes widened in terror,a mistake you didn't let him regret. You roared, a sound of pure, feral desperation, and tackled him. You didn't use a knife, you used your bare hands, grabbing his head and twisting with every ounce of trauma fueled strength you possessed until his neck snapped with a dry, sickening crack.

"Joel!" you gasped, lunging to your feet.

Across the clearing, the last raider had Joel pinned against the rough bark of an oak tree. Joel’s forearm was jammed against the man's throat, but the raider was younger, heavier, and had a hunting knife inches from Joel’s jugular. Joel’s face was turning a bruised purple, his boots kicking uselessly at the dirt as his strength flickered.

You didn't think. You didn't hate him in that moment. You just moved.

You lunged for a sharp, fist-sized rock and threw yourself onto the raider’s back. You brought the stone down on the side of the man's head once, twice, three times. He fell off Joel, dead before he hit the ground, but you didn't stop. You crawled over him, the rock slick with blood, and kept swinging.

"You think you can take everything?!" you screamed, your voice cracking into a wet sob. "You think you just get to end it?! Not today! Not ever again!"

Every strike wasn't just for the raider. It was for the world that had ended, for the people you’d lost, for the hunger, the fear, and the sheer exhaustion of surviving. You were a blur of rage and grief, shrieking at the corpse until a pair of heavy, calloused hands suddenly clamped around your shoulders.

"Hey! Hey, stop! It’s over!"

You fought him, swinging the rock at Joel’s chest, but he caught your wrists, pinning them. He had to physically haul you back, dragging your boots through the snow as you struggled, your chest heaving in violent, ragged gulps.

"Look at me!" Joel barked, his voice gravelly and raw. You finally looked. Your face was splattered with red, your eyes wide and glassy, vibrating with a level of agony that transcended the fight. In that moment, the wall of your mutual hatred vanished.

Joel froze. Seeing that look in your eyes, that hollow, shattering "everything is gone" stare, hit him hard. Because that was Joel twenty years ago in a dusty Texas road, holding Sarah as she slipped away.

"I know," he said as he pulled you in.