Morning sunlight filtered through the canopy in pale, broken shafts, casting long shadows across the road below. Luna shifted on her branch and studied the tree line. Most of the walkers had drifted away during the night, pulled by whatever dim instinct guided the dead. At least that was one piece of good news.
She glanced at the others scattered through the trees nearby. Hardly anyone had slept. Eyes were red and hollow, cheeks tracked with dried tears or simply blank, the particular emptiness that came after grief had burned itself out and left nothing behind.
Too many of the people they knew were lying on the road below.
The hardest part had been putting them down before they could turn.
Out of twenty-five, only nineteen remained, and several of those were wounded badly enough to slow the group.
"Stop crying over dead people."
Amy's voice carried cleanly through the silence not loud, but precise, like a blade finding a seam. She was perched in a tree thirty feet away, one leg dangling, her expression unreadable in the early light.
"They were soldiers," she continued. "They died in battle. Respect their sacrifice and move on."
The quiet murmuring among the branches died immediately.
Luna lowered her eyes to the bark beneath her hands.
She understood the logic of what Amy was saying. Everyone here understood it. Death was a constant in this world not an exception, not a tragedy to be processed, just a condition of survival. You learned to hold it lightly or you didn't last long enough to matter.
But knowing that never made the weight of it easier to carry.
What Luna couldn't make sense of was Amy herself.
She had been with her for nearly a year now, had watched her lead, negotiate, punish, and protect. She still couldn't find the shape of the woman underneath all of it. Amy spoke about death the way other people spoke about weather.
"Luna." Amy's voice again, flat and direct. "Kill the jammer for ten minutes. I need to reach the central command."
"On my way, Madam."
Luna climbed down carefully, her boots finding each foothold from memory. Combat was not her strength she knew that, had accepted it long ago but radios were another matter. Her father had been a military signals operator before the world fell apart. He had taught her how to build them, break them, and listen through the noise. It was the only inheritance that still mattered.
She found the equipment beneath its camouflage tarp and killed the jammer.
Static crackled from several radios at once as signals flooded back in.
Across the clearing, Amy was already speaking happily into a handheld transmitter, her back to the group. Luna caught fragments — Woodbury, the ambush, what we're owed — before Amy's voice dropped below hearing.
Three weeks ago, one of their caravans had been hit.
Weapons, Food and Medicine. Everything they had spent months gathering taken from them the same way they had taken it from others. Along with eight of their people, none of whom had come back.
Amy listened to the response on the other end for a long moment, her expression giving nothing away. Then she lowered the radio and stood.
"Pack your things," she said. "We're moving."
The group moved without hesitation. People descended from the trees and gathered their weapons and packs in the particular quiet of people too exhausted to speak. Luna reactivated the jammer and was checking the connections when she heard footsteps stop behind her.
She turned.
Two of the most seriously wounded survivors stood a few feet away. Their bandages were dark and their faces had the gray, distant quality she had learned to recognize not quite fear, not quite peace. Something in between.
"We want to be sacrificed."
The words fell into the clearing like a stone dropped into still water.
Several people stopped moving. Heads bowed. Someone turned away entirely.
Luna felt the air go out of her chest.
"No," she said, the word out before she'd thought it through. "You don't have to do that. There has to be another—"
"Enough."
Amy's voice was quiet, almost gentle. That was the worst version of it.
She crossed the clearing unhurried, pulling a small notebook from her jacket. She looked at the two survivors the way you might look at a problem that had solved itself.
"Put them in the van," she said.
She opened the notebook and began writing down their names with her scratched-up pencil, pressing hard enough that the dull tip nearly tore the paper.
No one spoke. A few members of the group stepped forward without being asked and helped the two injured survivors toward the vehicle, moving carefully, treating them with a tenderness, on the way few of them give a thanks that made Luna's chest ache even more than the alternative would have.
She stood and watched them go.
She understood the system. She had understood it since the first time it had been explained to her, laid out in the kind of flat, practical language that made terrible things sound almost reasonable. Volunteers bought security for the people they left behind — more food, more protection, a better place within the group.
That was how they made death useful.
Luna watched the van doors close and felt the familiar cold weight settle somewhere behind her ribs the one that had been living there for months now and never fully left, no matter how many times she told herself this was just the world, this was just survival, this was how things had to be.
Because no matter how calmly everyone explained it, no matter how carefully the logic was laid out
It still felt like something that should not be allowed to feel normal.
---
Dee looked down at her daughter, who was still sleeping soundly beside her, one small leg draped across Dee's waist.
Across the room, Andrea was already awake and quietly preparing to head outside. Jerry, meanwhile, remained dead asleep, snoring softly into the bundled jacket he'd been using as a pillow.
Careful not to wake her daughter, Dee slowly lifted the child's leg and eased herself free from the mattress.
Before she could leave, though, she had to get past Chicken.
Even now, she still had no idea how the man had ended up with a name like that. It sounded ridiculous for someone who carried himself the way he did.
But weird nickname or not, Chicken was the leader here.
Dee quietly moved toward the front entrance, already trying to think of a believable excuse.
Chicken sat near the doorway with a rifle resting across his lap, half-asleep in his chair.
The moment Dee stepped closer, his eyes snapped open.
Sharp.
Alert.
Like he had never really been sleeping at all.
"I need to use the bathroom," Dee said.
It was the simplest excuse she could think of.
And probably the safest.
The houses they were staying in no longer had running water, so everyone had been forced to use the communal bathrooms set up farther down the street.
Chicken studied her silently for a moment.
Then he nodded once.
"You've got thirty minutes," he said. "We leave at seven. Don't be late."
Dee nodded quickly and slipped past him into the cold morning air.
Outside, the settlement was already awake.
People moved constantly through the narrow streets carrying buckets of water, chopping wood, repairing fences, and hauling supplies from one building to another. Everyone looked busy. Everyone looked tired.
Dee walked carefully through the activity, keeping her expression calm while quietly observing everything around her.
Near the open communal kitchen, Curtis was crouched beside a cooking pot suspended over a fire pit.
Or at least what was supposed to be a fire pit.
"Damn it," Curtis muttered, throwing another dead match aside. "Why won't this thing light?"
Smoke curled weakly from the damp wood before fading again.
"Need some help?" Dee asked with a friendly smile.
Curtis looked up with obvious frustration. "Go ahead. Nothing's working for me anyway."
He handed Dee the matches.
Dee crouched beside the pit and quickly rearranged the wood, pulling several damp pieces aside before stuffing dry paper and thin kindling beneath the center.
Then she struck a match.
The fire caught almost immediately.
Curtis blinked in surprise. "How the hell did you do that?"
"Yesterday's rain soaked the outer wood," Dee explained casually. "You need dry kindling underneath first."
Curtis let out a small laugh. "Wish I knew that ten minutes ago."
As Curtis focused on feeding the growing flames, Dee quietly slipped three unused matches into her pocket.
Useful.
"Thanks," Curtis said warmly.
Dee smiled back before walking away.
Her pace slowed as she approached the Governor's apartment building.
A few armed guards stood outside the entrance.
Dee kept walking casually while studying the area from the corner of her eye.
Too exposed.
She glanced toward the lower windows, but every single one was too small for her to get inside.
Then movement caught her attention.
Andrea emerged from the building alongside the Governor, both deep in conversation.
Dee immediately stepped behind a nearby wall and waited silently for them to pass.
Only after they disappeared down the street did she risk looking again.
One guard still remained near the entrance.
Dee scanned the area quickly.
Think.
Her eyes settled on a large pile of chopped wood stacked beside one of the nearby buildings.
A few seconds later, she moved.
Using the stolen matches and scraps of loose paper nearby, Dee ignited the edge of the woodpile.
The dry kindling caught fast.
Flames climbed quickly through the stacked wood.
"Fire!" someone shouted.
The reaction was immediate.
People rushed toward the smoke carrying buckets and blankets. Even the guard near the apartment abandoned his position to help contain the flames before they spread.
Dee didn't hesitate.
The moment the entrance cleared, she slipped quietly into the Governor's apartment amid the chaos outside.
Dee moved quickly through the apartment, checking each room before the chaos outside died down.
The Governor's place was larger than she expected clean, organized, almost comfortable. It didn't feel like the home of a man surviving the apocalypse. It felt like the home of someone desperately trying to pretend the old world still existed.
She moved through the rooms with practiced speed, opening drawers, scanning shelves, and memorizing layouts.
Then she stopped inside what looked like an office.
Maps and files covered the desk.
Dee immediately stepped closer.
Most of the documents detailed nearby settlements, supply routes, and raids. Some locations were circled in red ink, while others had notes written beside them:
Food low.
Weak defenses.
Possible recruits.
Her expression hardened slightly as she flipped through the pages.
So this is how he chooses targets.
Nearby sat a framed family photograph.
The Governor stood smiling beside a woman and a little girl, all of them frozen in some ordinary moment from before the world collapsed.
For a second, Dee stared at it quietly.
Then she carefully placed it back exactly where she found it and continued searching.
Another file caught her attention.
The prison.
Her eyes narrowed immediately.
She opened it and began scanning the pages more carefully.
A noise interrupted her.
Thunk.
Dee froze.
The sound came again from somewhere nearby.
Slow.
Rhythmic.
Like something hitting metal.
Without hesitation, she slipped beneath the desk and held her breath.
The noise continued.
Not footsteps.
Something else.
After nearly a minute, Dee slowly crawled out from beneath the desk, knife already in her hand.
Carefully, she followed the sound until she reached a closed door.
Thunk.
Right behind it.
Dee steadied herself and slowly pushed the door open.
The smell hit first.
Rotting flesh mixed with stagnant water.
Inside the room, dim aquarium lights cast pale blue reflections across the walls.
Heads.
Rows of them.
Walker heads floating inside massive fish tanks.
Their dead eyes drifted toward her the moment she entered, jaws twitching weakly beneath the water.
Dee stared at them in silence.
A trophy room.
The realization settled coldly in her chest.
Thunk.
Her eyes shifted toward the back of the room.
A metal cage sat in the corner.
Inside was a little girl wearing a faded red dress, her face partially covered by a slack piece of cloth.
At first glance, Dee thought she was alive.
Then she noticed the gray skin.
The rotten flesh.
The clouded eyes staring lifelessly through the bars.
The walker child slammed weakly against the cage again.
Thunk.
Dee instinctively covered her nose against the smell.
For several long seconds, she simply stared.
Then she slowly stepped backward out of the room and quietly shut the door as if nothing inside had happened at all.
The moment she turned away.
Footsteps loud was coming close.
Coming toward the office.
Dee's eyes widened.
She reacted instantly, diving beneath the nearest table just as the footsteps entered the apartment hallway.
"What's wrong? Why are we here in such a hurry?" Andrea asked, struggling to keep up with him.
"I'm sorry to cut our time short," the Governor replied quickly as he opened the door, "but there's something important in my office I need to protect in case the fire spreads."
He stepped inside almost immediately, moving with unusual urgency.
"But the fire's already under control," Andrea said with a small smile, clearly thinking he was overreacting. "There's no way it's going to spread this far."
The Governor didn't smile back.
"I'd rather be safe than sorry. Just wait here for a moment," he said firmly. "I'll go check."
Before Andrea could answer, he disappeared deeper into the apartment, leaving her standing alone in the hallway.
"What a funny guy," Andrea muttered to herself with a small shake of her head. "Worrying this much over paperwork."
Left alone in the hallway, she glanced around the apartment curiously. Her eyes drifted toward the shelves and furniture surrounding her, studying the Governor's belongings with quiet interest.
Then suddenly.
An arm wrapped around her from behind.
A hand clamped tightly over her mouth.
Andrea jerked violently, instinctively trying to fight free.
"It's me," a voice whispered urgently.
Andrea froze.
She turned sharply and found herself staring at Dee crouched beside her.
Her eyes widened instantly.
"What are you doing here?" Andrea hissed. "Don't tell me you snuck in here."
"Just listen to me and keep your voice down," Dee whispered back.
But Andrea was already furious.
She shoved Dee backward slightly and pointed a finger at her.
"No, you listen to me," Andrea snapped in a harsh whisper. "Why are you here? Do you have any idea what you're doing right now?"
Dee opened her mouth to answer, but Andrea kept going.
"You are ruining everything I've been trying to build with this community." Her voice trembled with anger and panic. "Do you even realize what happens if the Governor catches you here?"
"Andrea—"
"Get out. Now," Andrea ordered sharply. "We'll talk later."
For a split second, Dee looked like she wanted to argue.
Footsteps.
Coming back down the hallway.
Both of them froze.
Dee reacted instantly, diving beneath the nearby table just as the Governor's footsteps reached the doorway.
Andrea barely had time to compose herself before he returned.