Walker? or Zombies? (Walking Dead Game x Strong OC)

Chapter 12: Whispers on the Wire

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The train car was thick with a silence that felt heavier than the rumble of the wheels on the track. Omid lay on the floor, gasping, the phantom sensation of his fall still clinging to him like a shroud. Christa was at his side instantly, her hands checking him for injuries, her eyes darting nervously toward the boy who had just defied gravity to save him. The others—Lee, Kenny, Carley—stood in a state of weary shock, the adrenaline from the bridge incident slowly draining away, leaving an empty, hollow feeling behind.

Zack landed back in the cab next to Kenny, his movements unnervingly silent. He ignored the stunned gazes, his focus already elsewhere. He was a force that had exerted itself, and now the world needed to settle around him once more.

"You... you just..." Omid stammered, pushing himself up with Christa's help. He pointed a trembling finger at Zack. "You caught me. In mid-air."

Zack glanced at him, his expression one of profound indifference. "You were falling," he stated, as if explaining the simplest concept in the world. "I stopped you. Don't make it a habit." He turned away, moving through the train car to find a spot by himself, effectively dismissing the miracle he had just performed.

Kenny shook his head, a grim, disbelieving smile touching his lips. He looked at Omid, who was still pale. "Like I told you. You get used to it. Or you don't. Either way, he does what he does."

Zack settled onto a crate in the corner, pulling his stealth blade from its holster. The ritual of cleaning it was a familiar comfort, a way to center himself after the chaos. He could feel their eyes on him—the raw fear from Christa, the awestruck disbelief from Omid, the complex mixture of gratitude and unease from Lee and Kenny. He didn't care. Their weakness was a grinding stone against his patience. Their gasps and stammers were the noises of prey animals, and he had spent a lifetime learning to tune them out. His only solace was the rhythmic clatter of the train, a promise of distance from the last disaster.

The fragile peace held for a time. The train sped through the decaying countryside, a metal serpent in a dead world. Carley, ever the observer, ever the one to poke the beast, saw her chance. She approached Zack as he sat alone, staring out the window. He looked for all the world like a lost child, if not for the lethal grace in his posture and the bloodstains that would never quite wash out of his jacket.

"Zack?" she began softly, her voice a careful intrusion.

He didn't turn. "What." It wasn't a question. It was a wall.

She took a breath, refusing to be intimidated. "Before... before we found the train, you asked me a question. You asked me if I thought you were nice."

For the first time since the bridge, Zack's posture changed. A tension entered his shoulders, a coiling of muscle. He slowly turned his head, his ocean-blue eyes fixing on her, cold and analytical. "And?"

"And I said yes," Carley continued, her voice gentle but firm. "And I meant it. What you just did for Omid... that was nice. Leaving Ben and Travis behind at the motel would have been easy. You didn't. You keep Clem safe, you teach her, you worry about her. You act like you're this... monster, this killer from a past you never talk about. But your actions, Zack... they tell a different story. You're a good person, trapped in a nightmare."

Zack stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. A dozen emotions seemed to war behind his eyes—annoyance, confusion, a flicker of something raw and vulnerable. He scoffed, a short, harsh sound, and turned away to look back out the window.

"Kindness is a luxury," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "It's a currency we can't afford. In my old life, kindness was a weakness. A flaw in the system. It's what gets your client killed. It's what gets you killed. Don't confuse necessity with being nice. I keep them alive because they're useful bodies. I keep Clem alive because..." He trailed off, the words catching in his throat, unable or unwilling to give voice to the one truth that governed his new existence.