Shadows of Survival (The Walking Dead)

Ghosts

"Negan!"

She froze, her blood running cold. What the hell was that? She grabbed her gun, the familiarity of the weapon grounding her as fear clawed at her mind. Shit. They're here. They found me... But then she hesitated. Wait... who's...

"Negan!" The voice called out again, closer this time, and now she could hear the desperation in it. This wasn't one of them. This was someone else.

Heart racing, she braced herself for whoever was out there.

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Footsteps on the porch make her heart race, thudding loudly in her chest. Shit! Did she even bother to lock the door? There's no time to think about that now. Instinct takes over, and she ducks behind the kitchen counter, positioning herself just right so she can see into the living room. It's dark enough that she's confident they won't spot her—unless they're looking for her.

The door creaks open slowly, and a tall, slender man steps inside. He moves with an eerie calm, glancing around before settling into a chair in the corner. He just sits there, his silhouette outlined faintly by the light of the moon filtering through the windows. What is he doing? She doesn't recognize him. Should she do something? Her hand tightens around her gun, ready to draw it, but she hesitates. The noise might attract more walkers.

Before she can decide, the door crashes open again, and another man stumbles in, quickly turning to lock it behind him. Gee, why didn't I think of that? He's clearly in a bad way, staggering around the room, knocking over anything in his path. His arm is—what the hell happened to his arm? He's a mess, bumping into furniture, breaking glass, his movements disoriented and clumsy. A flashlight rolls across the floor, its beam casting an erratic glow that only heightens the chaos. Can he even see? And why isn't the other man helping?

The question is answered when the sound of shuffling and groaning filters in from outside. Her stomach drops. Shit. The walkers must have followed them here. Her hiding spot isn't going to stay safe for long. As if on cue, the door strains under the weight of the undead pressing against it. She watches in horror as they burst through, zeroing in on the weaker man who's too slow to react. They tackle him to the ground with a ferocity that makes her stomach churn.

The tall, slender man finally moves, his calm demeanor vanishing as he springs into action. He grabs a crowbar from the corner and smashes it into the skull of the nearest walker, the sickening crunch echoing through the small space.

Her grip tightens on her knife as she watches, adrenaline pumping. With the last walker still looming over the fallen man, she decides it's time to act. Swiftly, she steps out from her hiding spot, plunging the knife into the walker's head with practiced precision. It drops instantly, its lifeless body collapsing beside the man on the floor.

Silence follows, broken only by the labored breathing of the injured man. The tension in the room is palpable as she locks eyes with the tall man—So this is Negan. They stand there, sizing each other up, both ready to strike if necessary.

"Negan?" The man on the floor calls out, his voice weak and uncertain.

Negan finally responds, still watching her. "You alright?"

"Yeah," the man gasps, struggling to push himself up on his good arm. "How did you..."

Enough of this, she thinks. This was her space first, and she's done playing games. She cocks her gun, the sound echoing in the confined space. Negan's eyes narrow as he raises his hands in a gesture of surrender.