Unbreakable threads

Chapter Seven: The Journey to the Station

The morning air was cool, the faint light casting long shadows as Alyssa, Rick, Morgan, and Duane stepped cautiously out of the house. The world felt unnervingly quiet, each crack of a branch or rustle of leaves putting them on edge. Alyssa gripped a knife Rick had found for her in the kitchen drawer, the cold steel a reminder of just how close danger lurked. Ahead of her, Rick held a metal pipe he'd scavenged, Morgan carried a crowbar, and Duane clutched his baseball bat, his knuckles white as he stuck close to his father's side.

The police station was only a few blocks away, but every step felt fraught with unseen threats, each corner they turned a potential ambush. The streets were littered with abandoned cars, overturned trash cans, and signs of panic from when people had tried to escape the sudden apocalypse.

As they neared the end of the first block, a low, guttural moan sent a shiver up Alyssa's spine. She tightened her grip on the knife, following Rick's gaze as he scanned the area, his expression tense.

"There," he murmured, nodding toward a small group of walkers stumbling out from behind a car. Their skin was pale, sagging, their eyes clouded over, movements jerky and sluggish. But even from a distance, Alyssa could see the hunger in their gaze, a feral, relentless need.

Rick took a step forward, his jaw clenched. "Stay close," he whispered to Alyssa, his voice steady but tense. "Keep your guard up."

Morgan and Duane moved beside them, their faces set with determination. They had no choice but to go forward; there was no turning back now.

The first walker lunged, reaching out with decayed hands, its fingers clawing at the air. Rick swung his pipe, the metal connecting with the walker's skull with a sickening crack. It dropped to the ground, but two more shuffled forward, undeterred.

Alyssa took a shaky breath, stepping forward to meet the next walker, the one closest to her. It reached for her, its fingers just grazing her arm before she drove the knife into its temple, the impact jarring up her arm. She stumbled back as it collapsed, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps.

Morgan took on another walker, swinging his crowbar with a brutal efficiency, his face set in grim concentration. Duane stayed close, watching his father with wide eyes, his small frame poised and ready, though Alyssa could see the fear in his expression.

They fought their way down the street, dispatching walkers as they came, each encounter a reminder of how relentless and unforgiving this new world had become. Every swing, every stab, was a fight not just for survival but for hope—a hope that somewhere out there, they'd find safety, even a small chance at rebuilding.

Finally, after what felt like hours, they reached the edge of the police station's parking lot. The building loomed ahead, its windows shattered, the doors slightly ajar, as if beckoning them in with a dark invitation. Rick glanced at Alyssa, then at Morgan and Duane, his expression hardened with a fierce determination.

"We're here," he said quietly, his voice steady. "Let's get what we came for, and let's be quick about it."

Alyssa took a breath, steadying herself as they approached the station. The fight to get here had shown her how fragile life had become, but it had also shown her the strength they had together. They'd come this far, and no matter what they faced inside, they would face it as one.

The group stepped cautiously through the front doors of the police station, the faint smell of stale air and decay hanging in the halls. The building was eerily silent, its once-bustling rooms and corridors now hollowed out, deserted. Rick led the way, his pipe still in hand, his eyes scanning every shadow, every corner, as he moved forward with purpose.

"Stay close," Rick whispered, his voice barely more than a murmur. He nodded toward a hallway to their left. "The armory's this way."

Alyssa followed just behind him, her knife at the ready, glancing back to make sure Morgan and Duane were keeping pace. She could see the tension in Duane's face, the way his small hands gripped his bat, but he stayed close to his father, mirroring Morgan's calm determination.