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

Chapter 25: A Den of Wolves

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The loss of Christa had draped the world in a chilling layer of frost, an endless winter that seeped into the marrow of existence. For three relentless weeks, Zack and Clementine trudged northward, the flat, suffocating highways of the coast gradually surrendering to the crisp, biting air of the Appalachian Mountains. The silence that now enveloped them had transformed; it was no longer the comfortable, synchronized quiet of a well-oiled machine. Instead, it had thickened into a heavy, brittle stillness, forged from shared trauma and Zack's cold, unyielding resolve that seemed to intensify with each passing day.

He had doubled down on his harsh philosophy, a belief that painted every encounter as a potential threat. Every survivor they glimpsed became a ghost to be avoided, and every building loomed as a potential trap, adorned with hidden dangers. Zack had become a phantom, spectral and untouchable, and he was dragging Clementine into that shadow, forcing her to adopt his stoic mask. She struggled, desperately trying to match his bleak determination, but he could sense the toll it was inflicting upon her spirit. He noticed it in the way her fingers clutched the straps of her backpack, tightening with each uncertain step, and in the fleeting glances she shot him—her eyes shimmering with a heartbreaking loneliness that pierced through the silence.

One quiet evening, as they sat huddled by a small, smokeless fire that flickered feebly against the encroaching darkness, she attempted to breach the formidable wall he had erected around himself. "Do you think she... felt any pain?" Clementine's voice trembled, barely rising above the crackle of the fire.

Zack kept his gaze fixed on the blade he was sharpening, its edge glinting coldly in the dim light. "Doesn't matter. She's gone."

"But it does matter!" she insisted, a rare ember of defiance igniting her words. "She was our friend, Zack. Don't you even care?"

"Caring is a liability," he replied, his voice flat and devoid of warmth, as unyielding as the steel in his hands. "She made a choice. It was the right tactical move. That's all. Now, get some sleep. We move at first light."

In that moment, the conversation—and any lingering hope of solace—had withered away, leaving behind only the weight of unspoken grief.

As their supplies dwindled to a mere shadow of sustenance, they stumbled upon a note, tacked haphazardly to the weathered door of an abandoned ranger station. The message was simple but struck a chord within them, scrawled in charcoal: "Community up at the Moonstar Ski Lodge. Food. Shelter. Done running."

It was a fool's hope, a siren song tempting them in a world that had long since been stripped of joy. Deep down, Zack's instincts screamed to dismiss it, warning him that communities were merely larger graves waiting to swallow them whole. Yet as he looked at Clementine, her form growing frail, her face pale beneath layers of grime and exhaustion, he knew he had to take that risk. For her.

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The forest floor sprawled before them like a treacherous tapestry, woven with damp leaves and slick, moss-covered rocks that glistened with moisture. After hours of relentless climbing, the ski lodge loomed above them—a dark, brooding silhouette against the rugged mountainside, seemingly unreachable. Zack glided through the underbrush with his characteristic, silent grace, while Clem struggled to keep pace, her weary energy visibly waning.

Without warning, she set her foot down in a deceptively soft pile of leaves.

CRACK-SNAP!

The sound erupted like a gunshot, a sharp, metallic clap that shattered the stillness of the woods. A bear trap, hidden within the foliage, snapped shut with brutal ferocity, clamping down mercilessly on Clem's left ankle.