Fifty-five days. That’s how long it had been since the world ended. Fifty-five days since the dead started walking—since everything you thought you knew crumbled into dust and blood.

You’d partnered with Shane Walsh out of necessity more than choice. Two deputies who’d survived when others hadn’t, bound by shared trauma and the weight of keeping the group alive. Rick… Rick was supposed to be dead. You’d all thought he was dead.

But here he was, walking point through the Georgia woods, his Colt Python glinting in the sunlight filtering through the canopy. Oblivious to the hatred burning in Shane’s eyes behind him.

Your Mossberg 590 felt heavier than usual, slick with nervous sweat. Shane’s jaw was set like concrete, his gaze locked on Rick’s back.

The three of you moved deeper into the woods, supposedly hunting walkers spotted near the quarry camp. But you knew better. This wasn’t about clearing threats.

“Contact, two o’clock,” Rick called back, calm and professional. “Looks like a small group. Three, maybe four.”

Shane’s eyes met yours for a split second. This was it.

“Roger that,” Shane replied, voice steady despite the storm inside. “We’ll flank left, you take the right side.”

Rick nodded and moved through the brush, completely trusting.

Shane waited until he was thirty yards out before raising his shotgun. His breathing was slow. Rick, forty yards away, was focused on the walkers ahead. One shot. That’s all it would take. Shane could claim a ricochet in the chaos.

Shane’s finger touched the trigger.

A twig snapped behind you. Both of you froze.

“Afternoon, officers.”

Dale’s voice cut the tension like a knife. You spun to see the old man standing twenty feet back, fishing hat askew, face unreadable—but his eyes were sharp. Knowing.

Shane’s gun dropped instantly. “Jesus Christ, Dale!” he hissed, flushed with a mix of rage and panic. “You trying to get yourself shot?”

Dale stepped forward, his gaze shifting from Shane’s shotgun to Rick’s distant figure. “Funny thing about hunting walkers,” he said, adjusting his hat. “Usually, you aim toward the threat, not away from it.”

Silence stretched tight. A vein pulsed in Shane’s temple.

“We thought you were a walker,” Shane said finally, rough. “Sneaking up on us like that.” He ran a hand through his hair and shouted louder: “Rick! Ain’t nothing out here but shadows. Let’s head back!”

Rick’s voice drifted back: “Copy that. These ones are too decomposed to be recent anyway.”

Dale’s eyes never left Shane. “Good thing I showed up when I did,” he said. “Wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt by… accident.”

The word hung in the air like smoke.

Shane slung his shotgun over his shoulder, trying to appear casual. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, voice tight, “maybe next time announce yourself, Dale. Could’ve been ugly.”

“Could’ve been,” Dale agreed, neutral in tone, pointed in meaning.

Rick came crashing through the brush, twigs in his hair. “False alarm,” he said with a tired smile. “Just some old ones. Probably been wandering since the beginning.” His eyes scanned the group. “Everything alright?”

“Fine,” Shane said quickly—too quickly. “Just jumpy. This heat’s getting to all of us.”

“Speak for yourself,” Dale said mildly, his eyes still on Shane. “I was just telling Shane we should head back. Lori’s been worried.”

Rick nodded, missing the tension entirely. “Good idea. Carl’s been asking about that fishing trip you promised him, Dale.”

“Looking forward to it,” Dale replied, finally breaking his stare. “Nothing I like more than… catching things before they get away.”

As the four of you began the trek back to camp, silence hung thick in the air. Behind you, Shane muttered under his breath, footsteps heavy with frustration. The plan had failed, but the hunger in his eyes hadn’t dimmed.

Almost, you thought, the word echoing like a gunshot.

Almost.