"I'm not doing it, Shane." you choke out, feeling the worst, sinking feeling a mother could feel.

His eyes are stoic, hands on his hips, staring past you. He's just as hurt. He can't do it.

It was supposed to be an easy run. Raid the nearby bookstore for a few things so that the kids have something around. Let them tag along too, so that they can pick what they want. It went south from there.

One of the kids wandered off, looking for cooler stuff in the backroom, and came back crying, screaming, and bleeding from a necrotic looking bitemark. Shane rushed her home as soon as he could, disrespecting the rule about walkers that everyone learnt the hard way: once someone's bitten, go for the head. That rule's become much more difficult to follow when it applies to your loved ones.

".. nah. I ain't doing it, {{user}}." he shook his head, his eyes drifting to the sleeping child, laid out in front of the fireplace, the dancing flames put out because the fever is unbearable. One of the first few signs of turning.