The rope burned.
Three days of this—of stumbling along backroads and cracked highways with her wrists bound behind her back, the coarse fibers digging deeper with every misstep. By the second day, the skin had split in places. By the third, blood had dried and crusted beneath the bindings, her arms dead weights dragging behind her.
Jade barely remembered the first twelve hours—only the heat, the ache, and the taste of blood in her mouth after a walker got too close and she'd headbutted it before Mickey crushed its skull with a rusty crowbar.
Every step after that bled together into a blur of agony and survival.
Her shoes—thin-soled and worn from weeks of running—offered no protection from the jagged gravel and shattered glass that littered the roads. Her toes felt bruised to the bone. Ankles swollen. Calves cramped and locked up, screaming with every uphill climb. But stopping wasn't allowed. If she slowed, a shove came hard between the shoulder blades, or a sharp, cold voice muttered: "Keep moving."
The world outside had rotted. Sun-bleached houses with sagging porches. Lawns overtaken by ivy. Skeletons melted into lawn chairs or cradled in rusting pickup trucks. Clotheslines still swayed in the breeze with tatters of old shirts like ghosts.
And the walkers. Always the walkers.
They never had to worry about them—not really. The brothers moved with eerie coordination. Mickey's laughter came first, wild and unhinged, as he slammed a pipe through a decaying chest. Ralph was silent, surgical, blades flashing in and out like breath. Don watched the flanks, always two steps ahead of a threat.
And Leo?
He was always just behind her. Just close enough to hear her stagger. Just near enough to catch her if she tripped—not that she ever let herself.
The first night, Leo had loosened the ropes while the others slept. Just enough to ease the swelling, to let blood flow back into her bruised fingers. He didn't say anything. Just knelt behind her, silent in the dark, then tightened the knots again before sunrise.
By the third night, they arrived.
She saw it rising over the hill like a wound in the landscape—layer upon layer of makeshift fencing, wrapped in barbed wire and rust. Junk cars and shopping carts welded into the barricade. Beyond that, a maze of boarded houses and steel-patched roofs. Smoke curled from makeshift chimneys. Silhouettes stood on porches, staring down like predators on the edge of territory.
And then came the entrance.
A steel hatch. Open. Gaping. Leading down into the earth.
Leo didn't need to say it, but he did anyway. Quiet. Tired.
"This is home."
She didn't answer. She didn't care.
They dragged her underground.
The descent was like falling into the belly of something ancient and hungry. The air was wet and stale, heavy with mildew and old water. The walls were slick, the flickering lanterns above casting shadows that twitched and danced along the concrete.
They passed rows of people—soldiers, maybe. Or prisoners. It was hard to tell. Everyone looked the same in the dark. Eyes dull. Faces hard. Some stared. Some looked away.
Finally, they stopped at a small, rusted door. Leo unlocked it. "In here," he said.
The room was clean. Sterile, almost. A single cot bolted to the floor. A bucket in the corner. A tray of warm food—rice and something that looked like chicken—waiting near the door.
She didn't speak. Didn't look at them. Just walked in.
The door clanged shut behind her. Three locks. One bolt.
Silence.
The hours stretched.
The cell had no windows. No vents. The air was thick with the smell of bleach and something faintly metallic. The only sound was the soft hum of electricity, and the occasional flicker of the overhead light—like it might go out any second but never did.
Jade paced. Counted cracks in the concrete. Counted the breaths between heartbeats. She talked to herself, then stopped. She listened, waited, curled on the cot, stood up, curled again. Time bent sideways. There were no clocks. No sense of night or day.
Just silence.
She screamed.
Not at anyone. Not for help. Just to feel something vibrate in her chest. Her voice bounced back at her, sharp and jagged, swallowed by the walls.
She kicked the door. Again. Again.
Her foot split. Her throat went raw.
Still, no one came.
The first escape attempt came when her mind began sharpening again—out of desperation more than calculation.
The tray had come again, as it did each cycle. Always warm. Always plain. But this time, she kept the fork.
She waited. Counted the dimming cycles. Watched the rhythm of the flickering light. At its lowest glow, she moved.
Using the fork, she scraped at the hinges. Not to open the door—she knew better—but to weaken the bolt. Anything. Something. Sweat poured into her eyes. Her fingers bled.
Hours? Minutes? She didn't know. But eventually, the lock gave. The door cracked.
She slipped into the hall.
Took five steps.
Then hands grabbed her.
No words. No threats.
Just two masked guards.
And a needle.
She woke in a different cell.
Smaller.
No light.
No tray.
No sound.
Just cold.
She didn't scream this time. Didn't speak.
There was nothing to scream to.
She curled into herself, listening to her own breathing. She whispered names like prayers. Carl. Rick. Daryl. Carol. Over and over. Her voice shook. Sometimes she cried. Sometimes she didn't know why she was crying.
When she fell asleep, she dreamed of the prison. The night sky. Her hands in Carl's hair. Daryl's voice calling her name.
She woke to silence.
Each time, it broke her a little more.
YOU ARE READING
When The World Ends
Azione"What happens when the world ends?" He asks in my arms. "We build it back up again." Jade Jacklyn Joy is a 25 year old girl who had a rough upbring. She was the Grimes babysitter for 9 years before the apocalypse happened. Spending that much time w...
