They moved through the alleys behind buildings, skirting broken dumpsters, cracked pavement, and the occasional toppled streetlight. Grant led, eyes scanning every corner. Jack flanked the rear, quiet as fog. Rick, however—still adjusting to the rhythm of stealth—made his presence known with every step.
Scuff. Crunch. Thud.
The sound of Rick's boots echoed lightly off the narrow brick walls. Jack's eye twitched. Grant shot him a quick look, a silent nudge.
Jack sighed, rolled his shoulders, and closed the gap between himself and Rick.
"You sound like a busted trash can rolling down a fire escape," Jack muttered low, eyes never leaving the alley ahead.
Rick slowed, embarrassed.
"Sorry. I—this kind of thing's new to me. I mean, I've been in the force, but not this…" he motioned around vaguely.
Jack gave a half-nod. Not judgmental—just a statement of fact. Then, in his usual blunt tone:
"You've got heavy feet. You're putting your whole heel down first. Every step's a warning shot. Out here, that gets you killed."
He knelt briefly and tapped the pavement with two fingers.
"The key's in your toes. Land light. Roll the foot. No full weight until you're sure the surface won't betray you. Broken glass, wet gravel, bones—anything that snaps or crunches draws them in like moths to flame."
He rose and gestured for Rick to watch him.
Jack stepped forward, each movement a quiet whisper on the asphalt. His feet barely kissed the surface before shifting to the next. His weight flowed, not stomped. Controlled, measured, and balanced.
"Walk like you're stalking something," Jack said. "Because you are. Except what you're stalking might be stalking you back."
Rick nodded and mimicked the motion. Slower, more deliberate. Heel slightly raised. Soft landing. No excess weight.
"Better," Jack murmured.
They moved on.
Now, Rick's steps fell in rhythm with the others, the silence only broken by the distant hum of a ruined city and the occasional groan carried on the wind.
As they wound deeper through the maze of back alleys, they came across shadows that moved with rotten instinct. Walkers. Isolated. Wandering. Barely aware.
One lumbered near a dented fire escape, its neck twisted at an unnatural angle. Jack approached first, calm and surgical. He stepped behind it and with one smooth thrust, drove his KA-BAR blade into the skull.
Grant followed. He dragged a shambling corpse into the shadows and ended it with a silent, efficient jab of his karambit knife.
Rick hesitated on the third until the walker lunged toward him with a low moan. Rick sidestepped and plunged his boot knife into its temple, exhaling sharply as the body collapsed. His hands shook slightly. He steadied them.
As they regrouped, something strange reached their ears—a low thumping, almost like a heartbeat in the sky.
"Helicopter," Jack said immediately, eyes scanning upward.
The sound grew louder—rhythmic, heavy, mechanical. It wasn't a dream. A chopper was flying low over Atlanta. The downdraft swept loose debris across the rooftops. As it passed overhead, Rick ran into the open street.
"Hey! Down here! We're down here!" he shouted, waving his arms.
Grant surged forward and grabbed Rick's shoulder.
"Rick! Stop!"
"It's the military—maybe they're still out there!" Rick said.
Grant's voice dropped into hard certainty.
"The military's gone, Rick. That's not them. I don't know who the hell that is. Whoever's flying that bird isn't the military."
Jack stepped up beside them, squinting as the helicopter disappeared over the rooftops.
"Doesn't matter who they are now," he said grimly. "We've got a bigger problem incoming."
He pointed down the avenue.
From the west, a horde of walkers—hundreds strong—spilled between buildings, drawn to the skyward thunder of the chopper. A wave of limbs and jaws, flesh in motion, indistinct but massive. A tidal surge of the dead.
"Shit," Grant growled. "Inside. Now."
They sprinted for the nearest building. Jack shoved the rusted service door open with his shoulder. Rick ducked in, followed by Grant.
They found themselves in what looked like an abandoned office complex. The lights were long dead, the walls tagged with graffiti and black with mildew. Cubicles were overturned. Paper and dried blood littered the floor.
They entered cautiously and found someone already there.
A young Asian man, early 20s, stood frozen near the back wall. He was dressed in a hoodie several sizes too big, a baseball cap turned backwards, and a backpack slung over one shoulder.
His hands shot up, visibly trembling as he looked at the three strangers with suppressed rifles strapped across their chests, grim expressions, and the blood of walkers on their gloves.
His voice wavered, but he managed a nervous smile.
"Uhmm. Hey… guys."
He tried to steady his hands but they still trembled.
Jack's instincts kicked in like a switch flipping. In an instant, his rifle was up, sights locked on the young man's chest.
"Who are you?" Jack barked, eyes cold, stance solid as stone.
Rick's rifle came up a beat later—less certain, less practiced. His aim was shaky, his finger hesitant on the trigger. The man across from them was young. Barely a man at all. No threat at least not at first glance.
Grant didn't move. His arms stayed at his sides, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips, as though amused by the standoff.
Glenn raised his hands higher, eyes wide, sweat forming at his temples despite the chill in the building.
"My name's Glenn! I—I mean no harm! I swear!"
Jack's gaze narrowed.
"Are you alone? Or are there others?"
Glenn hesitated. His eyes darted left, then right. The question wasn't just dangerous, it was complicated. Tell the truth? Lie? His group's safety might depend on the answer. But three men stood in front of him that were armed to the teeth, and one of them had a badge on his chest.
Grant took a casual step forward. His rifle stayed lowered. His voice was calm.
"Easy, Jack."
He stepped beside Glenn and gently patted the kid's shoulder. Glenn flinched but the touch wasn't rough.
"We're not here to hurt you, kid," Grant said with a calm assurance that felt earned. "Jack's just being cautious. You'd be surprised how many people wear a friendly face until they don't."
Rick lowered his rifle, exhaling. Jack followed suit after a beat, though his eyes never left Glenn.
"I'm Grant," the man said, gesturing. "That one in the sheriff uniform is Rick. The man who nearly shot you is Jack."
Glenn relaxed, slightly. Still wary, still watching, but the fear was no longer wrapped around his throat.
"I'm… Glenn Rhee. Just Glenn," he said finally. His voice had a quick, conversational rhythm even under stress. "Sorry if I scared the hell outta you—but, I mean… look at me."
He gestured to his own gangly frame, then half-smirked.
"I didn't expect three commandos to bust through the door either. Scared me more than the walkers ever did."
Grant chuckled, and even Jack let his shoulders loosen a notch.
Rick, however, stepped forward with urgency burning in his voice.
"Are you from a survivor camp? Outside Atlanta?"
Glenn blinked.
"Yeah. Yeah, I am."
Rick was on him in two strides. His hands grabbed Glenn's shoulders—not aggressively, but firmly, desperately.
"Do you know a woman named Lori? And a boy named Carl?"
Glenn's eyes widened in recognition.
"Lori and Carl? Yeah—yeah, I know them. They're in the camp. They're… they're safe."
Rick's breath hitched. His hands dropped from Glenn's shoulders, and he stepped back, as if the weight of the world had suddenly lifted off him.
He looked up at the ceiling for a moment, exhaling hard.
Jack patted his back, a quiet gesture of support. Grant smiled faintly—relief softening his usually reserved face.
"Thank you," Rick said, voice raw. "You don't know what that means to me."
Glenn glanced between them, still piecing it together.
"Wait… what's your connection to them?"
"I'm Lori's husband," Rick said plainly.
Glenn's brow furrowed.
"But… they told us you died."
Rick shook his head, his face somewhere between a smile and a grimace.
"I didn't. I was in a coma when all this started. Woke up in the hospital. Walkers everywhere. Would've been dead if it wasn't for Grant."
Grant just nodded once, as if it were nothing.
Glenn gave a slow, astonished nod of his own.
"Well damn… Lori and Carl are gonna lose their minds when they see you. Especially Carl—he talks about you a lot."
Then Grant stepped forward.
"Where's the rest of your group?"
Glenn blinked.
"Wait—how'd you know there were others?"
Grant raised a brow, amused.
"You hesitated when we asked if you were alone."
Glenn gave a sheepish grin and scratched the back of his neck.
"Fair enough. Yeah, they're on the rooftop. Scouting for stores to loot. We only hit what we know's safe."
"Take us to them," Grant said. "Now."
Glenn nodded and turned toward the stairwell door.
"Alright. But let's keep it down—some of these floors aren't as empty as they look."
The four of them—Rick, Grant, Jack, and Glenn—began climbing the stairwell, step by careful step, toward the rooftop.
x
The stairwell ended at a battered metal door with peeling paint and faded stenciling. Glenn paused at the top, raising his hand to stop the others.
He keyed his radio.
"Hey. Heads up. I'm bringing people up. They're friendly."
A moment of static passed before a sharp, skeptical voice answered.
"What do you mean people?"
Glenn gave a crooked smile, more sheepish than reassuring.
"You'll see."
He turned to Rick, Jack, and Grant.
"Let me go out first," he said, eyes glancing at their rifles. "You guys look like a damn Delta Force reunion. Don't want to spook anybody."
Jack smirked faintly.
"Fair."
Glenn opened the door and stepped into the sunlight. The rooftop was a flat expanse of gravel and tar patches, with the city skyline stretching behind it—tall, half-burned buildings and plumes of smoke curling in the distance.
A woman's voice called out from behind a stack of HVAC units.
"Guys, it's Glenn!"
Then a man's voice followed, casual, curious.
"Where's the people you—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Jack stepped out first, eyes scanning the rooftop like it was enemy territory. Grant followed, calm but alert. Rick came next, heart thudding, unsure of what he'd find here—but determined.
The group of survivors fell quiet.
They were a mix of wary eyes and tense shoulders. Most had weapons—makeshift or scavenged. All had the look of people who hadn't slept through the night in weeks.
Glenn raised his hands again—not for fear this time, but to settle his own group.
"They're friendlies," he said quickly. "That guy there—" he pointed to Rick, "—is Lori's husband."
A short silence followed.
Andrea, a blonde woman in her mid-30s holding a compact pistol in both hands, stepped forward. Her stance was firm. She didn't lower her weapon.
"That's impossible," she said, suspicious but not hostile. "Lori told us her husband died. Gunshot wound."
Rick stepped closer, serious but not defensive.
"That's not what happened. I was shot, yeah. But I was in a coma when everything went to hell. I just woke up not long ago." He gestured toward Grant. "He pulled me out before the walkers got me."
Andrea stared at him, brows furrowed.
"Holy shit… Are you serious?"
Rick nodded.
"I am."
From behind Andrea, a man in riot gear leaned on a dented aluminum baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire. His stance was relaxed, his voice casual but observant.
"Well damn. That's gonna be one hell of a surprise for Lori and the kid."
Andrea gave a short nod.
"Yeah… they're not gonna believe this."
Glenn jumped in to keep the momentum moving.
"Alright, let's get the intros done. This is Rick, that's Grant, and the guy who looks like he's already planned five different ways to kill you is Jack."
Jack gave a slight nod—no warmth, just acknowledgment.
Glenn turned to the others.
"This here is Andrea," he said, pointing. "And that's Morales—" he motioned to the man in riot gear with the bat.
Morales gave a small wave, stepping forward with calm confidence.
"Weird day just got weirder, huh? Welcome to the circus."
Glenn looked around.
"Where's the rest?"
Andrea tilted her chin toward the far edge of the roof.
"Over there."
A man in full riot gear leaned over the ledge, scanning the streets with a pair of binoculars. Glenn recognized him.
"That's T-Dog," he said.
Then Andrea gestured to another figure nearby, lying prone behind a scoped rifle, eye glued to the glass.
"And that's Merle," she said, with a clear tone of don't ask me how I feel about it.
Glenn added, without enthusiasm,
"Yeah. Merle's… around."
Another woman stood beside them—black, late 20s, alert and steady.
"That's Jacqui," Andrea said. "She's the smart one."
As if on cue, T-Dog suddenly stood up, face tense. He turned and strode toward the group.
"Yo, bad news!" he called out. "We got ourselves a situation."
Everyone's heads turned.
"Horde's coming in hot, streets are packed with 'em. Something must've stirred 'em up."
Then T-Dog's eyes landed on Rick, Jack, and Grant—and widened.
"Who the hell are these dudes?" He paused. "Damn. That's some serious hardware you're walkin' around with."
Glenn raised both hands again, as if managing two sides of a negotiation.
"They're with me, man. Chill. Long story. But they're solid."
T-Dog exhaled, stepping back.
"Hope so. 'Cause if that horde comes knocking, we'll need more than batons and small talk to keep the door shut."
Andrea looked out toward the edge of the rooftop, concern knitting her brow.
"How big is it?"
T-Dog shrugged.
"Big enough that we either get outta here soon… or get real cozy with the roof ledge."
Grant's voice cut through the tension.
"Then let's not waste time. You said Lori and Carl are at a camp outside the city, right?"
Andrea nodded.
"Yeah. About ten miles out. We're camped at a quarry site."
Rick looked at Glenn, eyes fierce with renewed purpose.
"Then we get there. Whatever it takes."