Chapter 27 - Ella & Daryl

Morning found us tangled in warmth.

The first rays of sunlight stretched across the bedroom, golden and soft, catching on the folds of the sheet kicked low at our feet. The house was quiet. Ruby hadn't stirred, and Ian—miracle of miracles—was still asleep.

For once, the world was holding its breath for us.

Daryl was wrapped around me, one arm heavy across my waist, his chest pressed to my back, skin warm against mine. His breath was slow, steady, ghosting against the nape of my neck in a rhythm that made my toes curl even now.

I didn't want to move.

Not ever.

I could've stayed right there—forever, with his heartbeat against my spine and his fingers splayed across my hip like he couldn't let go.

"You're awake," he muttered, voice rough with sleep.

"So are you," I whispered, smiling.

He nuzzled against my shoulder, stubble rasping against my skin in a way that made me shiver. "Could feel you thinkin'."

"Mm. Dangerous habit of mine."

He chuckled low, the sound vibrating through me. His hand slid slowly along my stomach, his palm wide, fingers calloused and familiar. "We really get to keep this?"

"This?"

"This," he whispered. "Us. Home. The kids. All of it."

I turned in his arms until I was facing him, brushing my nose against his. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, but there was something else behind them too. Something soft and sure and mine.

"We already did," I said, cupping his jaw. "This is ours. No one's taking it."

He kissed me then—slow and lingering, like he was memorizing the shape of morning on my lips. His hand slid up my back, pulling me close until our legs tangled again beneath the sheets.

I could feel him—all of him. Still warm, still wanting.

I sighed into his mouth. "Don't start something we don't have time to finish."

"Who says we don't?" he murmured against my throat, lips brushing lower. "Kids are still asleep. Could be the stars smilin' on us."

I laughed, breath hitching when he nipped at the curve of my neck. "You're shameless."

He grinned, pressing a kiss just beneath my collarbone. "Only with you, darlin'."

My hands slid through his hair as he shifted over me, the sheets rustling softly around us. Heat bloomed again, slow and certain, as our bodies moved closer. Familiar. Right.

And just when it was getting really good—

Bang bang bang.

Tiny fists on the bedroom door.

"MOM! DAD! I saw a raccoon in the backyard!"

I froze.

Daryl groaned, forehead thudding against my shoulder. "Your kid."

I bit my lip to keep from laughing. "He is your kid too, you know."

"Not right now, he ain't," he muttered into my skin.

"Guys!" Ian banged again. "It was HUGE! I think it tried to steal the tomatoes!"

I tilted Daryl's face toward mine and kissed him slow and sweet. "Rain check, handsome?"

He sighed, but there was a smile tugging at his lips. "You bet your ass."

I slipped out of bed and grabbed the nearest shirt—his, naturally—and padded barefoot to the door.

The day was starting.

But us?

We were still right in the middle of everything we'd fought for.

And I wouldn't trade a single second of it.

The house was alive now.

Ian was in the kitchen narrating a dramatic reenactment of his raccoon sighting, complete with sound effects. Ruby was cooing in her high chair, fists full of applesauce from a jar that had definitely seen better days. Daryl was leaning by the fridge, half-listening, half-plotting how to sneak more toast before anyone noticed.

I watched him from the doorway—barefoot, shirt rumpled, that stupidly perfect curve of his shoulders stretching the back of his henley—and something in me snapped in the best way.

I didn't say a word.

I just walked up behind him, grabbed his hand, and yanked him down the hallway.

He blinked but followed without hesitation, letting me pull him toward the quiet space between the kitchen and the bedrooms—just out of sight, just out of earshot.

And then I spun on him.

Pressed him back against the wall.

Hard.

His eyebrows shot up, amused and surprised. "Well hey there."

I rose onto my toes, grabbed his shirt in both fists, and kissed him like I meant trouble. Deep, hungry, a little desperate—like the night before wasn't enough and the morning had only made it worse.

He made a low sound in his throat, one hand settling on my hip, the other bracing against the wall beside his head.

When I pulled back, breathless, I pinned him with a smirk. "Just needed a minute. To remind you who you belong to."

Daryl blinked once.

Then laughed.

That quiet, rough laugh that always made my knees weak.

"I've been yours since you threw yourself at me on that highway, tellin' me to 'do stuff' with you."

I grinned, proud. "Maybe I was just waiting for you to make a move Dixon."

"Wish I would've," Daryl said, still chuckling as he leaned down and kissed me again, this time slower. "You always this frisky before breakfast?"

"Only when I'm in love."

He shook his head, eyes bright with that soft fire he always saved just for me. "You ain't scary, y'know."

"I could be," I threatened, though my voice was already turning warm again.

He leaned in close, his nose brushing mine. "You're adorable."

"I pinned you."

He smirked. "I let you."

I shoved him, laughing, and he caught me around the waist before I could dart off. Another kiss, this one quick and sweet, stolen between shared breath and quiet chaos.

Then Ian yelled from the kitchen, "DAD! The raccoon came BACK, I swear!"

Daryl groaned against my temple. "You're dealin' with that."

I kissed his jaw. "Only if you finish making breakfast."

"Fine," he muttered, already heading back down the hall.

I watched him go, heart full, lips tingling.

Yep.

He was mine.

And I wasn't ever letting go.

The kitchen looked like a war zone by the time I walked in.

Ian had pulled out every wooden spoon we owned and was currently using them to duel a suspiciously empty jar of peanut butter. "It stole my sword!" he yelled, stabbing it with dramatic flair.

Ruby was in her high chair, watching him with the most unimpressed look I'd ever seen on a baby—like she was already filing away all the ways in which her older brother was unhinged. Applesauce clung to her cheek like war paint.

And Daryl?

Daryl was standing at the stove, trying to fry two eggs while holding a mug of lukewarm coffee and dodging spoon swings like he was back in a firefight.

"Do not hit your dad with a spoon, Ian!" I called as I ducked into the fridge.

"He's a troll!" Ian shouted back, leaping off his chair with a battle cry. "He tried to eat my princess!"

Daryl looked over his shoulder, deadpan. "He's callin' you the princess."

"Aw, baby," I said sweetly. "You are my princess."

He flipped the eggs with way too much force. "You're lucky I like you."

I smirked and moved to Ruby, wiping the applesauce from her face while she blinked up at me like I was her favorite person in the universe.

"Good girl," I cooed. "Unlike your brother, who is currently jousting the peanut butter jar."

Ian jumped back into the chair and slammed his spoon down like he'd won a duel. "It surrendered."

"Good," I muttered, grabbing the rescued spoon. "Now surrender yourself to breakfast before I turn you into a sandwich."

Ruby let out a happy squeal, like she supported the decision.

Daryl passed me a plate with toast and the eggs—slightly overcooked, but still hot. "There," he said. "Food. Mostly edible."

I kissed his cheek. "My hero."

We sat down together, plates spread across the table, Ian still half in play-mode but willing to shovel food into his mouth between monologues about raccoons, trolls, and his upcoming marriage to a rock he found in the backyard.

Ruby banged her cup on the tray for attention.

"I think she wants to rule," I said, feeding her a spoonful of applesauce.

"She already does," Daryl muttered. "She just lets you think you're in charge."

I smiled across the table, heart full to bursting.

It was loud. Messy. Pure chaos.

And it was perfect.

This was our kingdom.

And every second of it was ours.

The sun had settled high and bright over the backyard, casting soft light over the porch and garden, the hum of safety humming through the fences.

Out by the shed, Daryl was crouched beside his bike, grease smudged across his fingers and forehead, sleeves rolled up. Ian sat cross-legged next to him, holding a wrench like it was Excalibur and taking his helper role very seriously.

"Not that one," Daryl said gruffly, nudging Ian's hand. "The other wrench. The smaller one."

"This is the smaller one," Ian insisted, proudly holding up the wrong one again.

Daryl squinted at it. "Boy, that's a screwdriver."

"Oh."

I leaned against the porch railing, watching them with a lazy smile, arms folded loosely across my chest. It was good to see Daryl with his bike again—his bike. He hadn't stopped touching it since we got back, like he still didn't quite believe it was real.

Every now and then, he'd glance up at Ian, or shift the boy's little fingers into place, or hand him something to tighten that absolutely didn't need tightening—just to keep him busy.

It was the happiest I'd seen him in days.

The low creak of the front gate caught my attention. I turned.

Carol.

She walked up the path slowly, cigarette between two fingers, smoke curling beside her cheek. She was dressed simply—gray sweater, jeans—but her shoulders looked too tight beneath the fabric. Her lips barely moved around the cigarette, and her eyes were... distant.

Not gone. But not here, either.

She nodded at me as she stepped onto the porch, pausing just a moment to meet my eyes. I gave her a soft smile and stepped aside to let her pass.

Daryl looked up from the bike just as she reached the top step.

"Well," he said, straightening a little. "Ain't you a sight."

Carol blew out a long stream of smoke. "That a compliment, Dixon, or a threat?"

Daryl smirked, pushed to his feet, and reached out to casually pluck the cigarette from her fingers.

I narrowed my eyes. "Don't even think about it."

He froze, mid-swipe, and glanced sideways at me like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "What?"

I pointed. "Hand. Down. Now."

Carol grinned faintly, just enough for her lips to curve. "You really let her boss you around like that?"

Daryl grumbled and turned back toward the bike. "I let her think she's in charge."

"Uh-huh," I said sweetly. "Keep telling yourself that."

He gave me a look and sat back down beside Ian, nudging the boy's elbow. "Tell her I'm scary."

Ian squinted up at me. "You're not scary. You're squishy."

Carol actually let out a soft chuckle at that, shaking her head as she took another drag. But her posture didn't change. Her shoulders were still up around her ears. Her fingers trembled just a little when she held the cigarette to her lips again.

And her eyes... they didn't quite settle anywhere.

She wasn't okay.

Not really.

I eased down onto the porch steps beside her, watching the boys work.

"You wanna sit?" I asked gently.

She nodded once, slow, then lowered herself to the step beside me.

For a long moment, we didn't speak.

Just the quiet clatter of tools, Ian's chatter, and Daryl's low replies carrying on in the yard.

But I kept sneaking glances at her.

At the way she kept her eyes on the smoke instead of the sky.

At the way her mouth was pressed too tight.

At the way she was trying so hard not to fall apart.

And I knew we'd have to talk.

Not now.

But soon.

Because whatever she'd left behind in that compound... she'd brought something back with her, too.

And it was weighing her down.

Carol sat beside me on the porch, cigarette burning slow between her fingers, gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the fence.

I didn't say anything at first. Just let the quiet sit between us, let it be safe.

Daryl and Ian were still by the bike—Daryl hunched over the engine with a wrench, Ian perched on an overturned bucket, offering "help" in the form of nonstop commentary.

"Are you sure that part goes there?" Ian asked, peering into the open frame like he was an expert.

"Positive," Daryl muttered.

"Because it kinda looks like a potato."

Daryl grunted and held out a hand. "Wrench."

Ian handed him a screwdriver.

Daryl blinked at it. "Try again, bud."

Ian rummaged around in the toolbox, triumphant. "This one!"

"Still not a wrench," Daryl muttered under his breath, taking it anyway.

I smothered a laugh and glanced sideways at Carol. "They're ridiculous."

Carol smiled faintly, lips curving just enough. "He's good with him. Daryl."

"He really is," I said. "He always has been. Since the start."

She nodded, looking down at her hands. "Kids like him."

"Because he's a softie in flannel."

That earned me a tiny huff of amusement.

We sat in silence again, the kind that wasn't awkward, but thick. I watched her from the corner of my eye—her jaw too tight, her eyes flicking toward the boys, then back to the smoke curling from her cigarette.

"He's not fixing anything," Carol said suddenly, nodding at Ian.

"Nope," I agreed, smiling. "Not a single thing."

"But he's trying."

"Always does."

Carol's eyes softened, but just for a moment. "And Daryl just lets him."

"Wouldn't dream of stopping him," I said. "Even if it takes twice as long and none of it's helpful."

Carol took one last drag, let the smoke trail out of her mouth, then stubbed the cigarette out against the step. "It's cute."

"It is," I said softly.

But I was still watching her.

The way she kept her hands too still. The way her shoulders didn't really relax, not even when she smiled. The way her gaze drifted, not with peace, but distance.

She wasn't okay.

And she didn't want me to say it out loud.

A faint, familiar cry broke the quiet through the baby monitor beside me.

Ruby.

My heart tightened in that immediate, instinctual way, and I stood. "I'll go get her."

Carol nodded once, barely.

I slipped inside the house, heart already softening at the sound of Ruby's cries growing louder. I scooped her up from the crib, held her against my chest, rocking gently as she burrowed in, thumb sliding toward her mouth.

"I'm here, baby girl," I whispered. "Mama's got you."

She settled fast, like she always did.

I kissed her soft curls, breathed her in, and walked back toward the porch.

But when I stepped outside—

Carol was gone.

The step where she'd been sitting was empty, her cigarette crushed neatly beside it.

I looked out over the yard. Daryl hadn't noticed. Ian was talking his ear off about rocket-powered motorcycles now, and Daryl was nodding along, covered in grease and patience.

But my eyes drifted to the gate.

And I knew where she'd gone.

She wasn't running.

Not yet.

But she was pulling away.

Just like she always did when the weight got too heavy.

And this time?

I wasn't going to let her drift too far.

I was still standing there on the porch with Ruby tucked against my hip, watching the empty space where Carol had been, when I heard the gate creak open again.

Not Carol this time.

It was Denise, her walk brisk, her expression tight with purpose. Rosita trailed behind her, arms crossed, jaw set in that way that meant she was already annoyed.

Daryl looked up from the bike as they approached, rising slowly, wiping his hands on a rag. Ian immediately began explaining something about motorcycles and dragons, but stopped when he realized all the adults were suddenly serious.

Denise looked at me, then Daryl, then Rosita—like she'd been rehearsing this.

"There's an apothecary," she said, without preamble. "Near DC. I passed it when I was out with Tara. It looked untouched."

Rosita exhaled hard. "Denise—"

"It's an actual apothecary," Denise cut in. "Not a pharmacy. Old-school. Herbal remedies, poultices, supplies we haven't been able to find anywhere else. I didn't get a good look at it then, but it's been in the back of my head since we got back. I think it might still be intact."

Daryl narrowed his eyes. "You wanna go check it out?"

"Yes," she said. "With you and Rosita. Today."

Rosita threw up her hands. "Denise, no."

Daryl shook his head. "Ain't a good idea. That far out? You ain't ready for that."

"I am," Denise insisted. "I've been training, I've been learning. You've both seen it. I know what I'm doing."

"It's not about knowin'," Daryl said. "It's about bein' ready when shit goes sideways. You freeze up for even a second—"

"I won't," she snapped, then softened her voice. "I can't. We're running low on antibiotics, on anti-inflammatories, on everything. What happens the next time someone gets shot? Or sliced open? Or has a tooth rotting out of their head?"

Rosita stepped forward. "You can tell us where it is. We'll go."

"I don't know exactly," Denise said. "It's not marked. I only saw it because I was looking for it. You wouldn't know it was there unless you were me."

Daryl frowned. "Still ain't takin' you."

Denise looked between them, her jaw trembling slightly—but her eyes stayed steady.

"Then I'll go alone."

Silence dropped like a stone.

Rosita blinked. "What?"

"I said I'll go alone," Denise repeated, more evenly this time. "If you won't help me, I'll find someone who will. Or I'll do it myself."

"Hell no," Daryl growled. "Ain't happenin'."

"Then let me come with you."

Rosita opened her mouth, but Daryl spoke first.

"Fine," he muttered. "But you stay close. And you listen to everything we say. No hero crap. No wandering off."

Denise nodded, fast. "Yes. Absolutely."

He turned to Rosita, who just shook her head and muttered, "She's gonna get herself killed."

"Not with us she won't," Daryl said, grabbing his crossbow and slinging it over his shoulder.

I stayed quiet, still rocking Ruby, watching the tension ripple through the air. Denise looked grateful—relieved, even—but her hands were shaking a little.

She wanted to help.

But this world didn't always reward good intentions.

Daryl stepped past me, gave my waist a quick squeeze, and kissed Ruby's forehead. "We won't be long."

"Be careful," I said quietly.

His eyes met mine, and something in them flickered—like he wanted to say more but didn't have the words.

Then he was gone.

Rosita trailing beside him, Denise close behind, her eyes focused forward like she'd already decided this was going to matter.

And me?

I stood on the porch, heart tight.

Some part of me knew—

Something was about to change.

~Daryl POV~

The truck coughed as I shifted into third.

The gears let out an ugly grind—loud enough to make Denise flinch beside me. I kept my eyes on the road, jaw tight. The stick jerked in my hand like it had a mind of its own. Felt like it was made of scrap metal and bad attitude.

"You, uh... you're riding the clutch," Denise said gently, voice a little higher than usual.

"I'm drivin' it just fine," I muttered.

Another grind as I shoved it into fourth. Denise winced.

"Right," she said. "Totally fine."

Rosita, riding shotgun with her arms crossed and boots up on the dash, let out a dramatic sigh. Like she was already over this whole thing and we weren't even out of Alexandria yet.

I tightened my grip on the wheel. The road ahead was narrow, the pavement cracked, trees pressed in close on either side. Something in the bed of the truck was rattling every time we hit a bump.

"Okay," Denise tried again. "It's just—when you shift, you want to let the RPMs drop first. Otherwise it keeps—"

Crunch.

She stopped talking.

Rosita covered her mouth like she was choking back a laugh.

"I know how to drive," I said through my teeth.

"No one's saying you don't," Denise said quickly. "It's just—"

"I got it."

The cab went quiet.

Except for the truck, which groaned again in protest. Something under the hood didn't sound great. Probably wasn't.

Rosita turned her head toward me. "You sure you don't want me to drive?"

"No."

"Because I could just—"

"I said I got it."

More silence.

Then Denise, soft and careful: "You're definitely going to burn the clutch."

I gave her a sideways look. "I heard that."

Rosita looked out the window like she was praying for the end.

I adjusted my grip and tried again. The gear shift fought me the whole way, another hard grind making the dashboard rattle.

"Perfect," I muttered. "Runs like a dream."

"A dream where everything's on fire," Rosita said under her breath.

"And the clutch is melting," Denise added.

"And the driver's too stubborn to admit it," Rosita finished.

I rolled my eyes and kept driving. Not gonna give them the satisfaction. The truck was still moving. That was all that mattered.

Next time, I was picking the damn car.

I killed the engine as soon as I saw it.

Tree was down across the road, big bastard, thick trunk torn up at the roots like the ground just gave up on holding it. No way around without driving straight through the woods, and that wasn't gonna happen in this piece-of-shit truck.

Rosita was already out, boots crunching on the gravel. Denise climbed out after her, shielding her eyes like she thought she could blink the damn thing away.

"Well that's not going anywhere," Rosita muttered.

I got out slow, stretching my back as I walked around the front of the truck. Took one look at the mess and felt that familiar pulse behind my eyes. Not frustration. Not yet. Just that quiet, creeping kind of pressure that always came before a choice.

"We passed a track back there," Denise said, pointing with her chin. "Rail line. Looked clear. Might hook around close to the spot."

Rosita nodded. "Could cut our time down."

"No."

Both their heads turned toward me.

I met their eyes, firm. "We're not takin' the tracks."

Rosita raised a brow. "Why not?"

I didn't answer right away.

Just looked at the tree, then off into the woods. The undergrowth was thick. We'd be slower. Less visibility. But it still felt better than that stretch of exposed steel behind us.

I could still hear it. The rails under my boots. The clank of chains, the grind of metal on metal.

Terminus.

That name lived somewhere deep in my chest, like a bruise that never healed right.

I didn't talk about what happened there. Not to anyone.

Not about being hauled in with Rick, Glenn, and Bob—cut off from Ella and Ian. Not about staring down the line at a butcher's trough, waiting for the first swing. Not about wondering, is this how it ends? Is this the last thing I'll see before they gut me open and throw my body in a fire?

Didn't talk about thinking I'd never see my son again.

Never kiss Ella's lips again. Never hold Ruby, never even know her.

Just me and the sound of the rails, leading me straight into hell.

"We'll take the woods," I said. Voice came out flat. Cold. "No tracks."

Rosita didn't argue, but she didn't like it. Could see it in the way her jaw shifted, like she was chewing on words she didn't want to spit out.

Denise glanced between us and said nothing. Smart.

I adjusted the strap on my crossbow, nodded toward the tree line, and stepped off the road.

The brush was thick, but I'd take shadows and thorns over metal and memory any day.

I didn't explain.

Didn't need to.

Sometimes the ghosts were better left behind me—right where the tracks were.

Denise was behind me, boots crunching soft on the leaves, but I didn't say much.

Rosita had gone ahead—took the damn tracks even after I said no. I wasn't gonna fight her about it. Let her walk that stretch of steel if she wanted. I wasn't setting foot on it.

Not again.

Denise tried to start conversation a couple times. Nervous little comments about the trees, the weather, some half-joke about how quiet I was. I didn't answer. Just kept moving, eyes forward, rifle slung across my chest instead of my crossbow. Felt wrong. Like I was missing a part of myself.

And all the while, my brain wouldn't shut up.

I kept thinking—seeing—that train car.

Ian's face in the dark train car. His tiny hands slapping the metal, calling for me. And me, helpless, being dragged away.

Back at Terminus, I hadn't even known if they'd made it out. Rick, Glenn, Bob and I—we were bound, gagged, lined up like cattle. I could still hear the sound of that bat hitting skull. Could still hear the screams.

What if Carol had been late? What if she hadn't blown that place to hell? What if they'd slit my damn throat like they'd planned?

Who would've taken care of Ian?

Who would've raised him?

Would Ella have been strong enough to do it alone?

No.

No, she would've been forced to be.

Like she always had been.

Like this world made her be.

And what about Ruby? She had only been a few weeks old. My baby girl would've never known me. Just a ghost in someone else's story.

I shook my head and pushed forward, like I could walk the thoughts out of my skull if I just moved hard enough.

We broke out of the trees and into a quiet neighborhood. Houses lined the street like forgotten bones—weathered paint, broken windows, the kind of stillness that always put my nerves on edge. A few more miles to the apothecary, if Denise's memory was right.

We caught up with Rosita where the road cut across the tracks.

She stood there with her arms crossed and that look on her face—like she knew she'd gotten there faster and wanted me to say something about it. That smug little tilt to her mouth.

I rolled my eyes.

Didn't say a word. Just kept walking.

She and Denise fell in behind me, chatting about the map, the supplies, what they hoped to find. I let them talk. I had other things in my head.

My boots hit the pavement with the steady rhythm I needed to stay grounded. Breathe in. Step. Breathe out. Step.

It felt wrong not to have my crossbow. The rifle was heavier, colder. Not mine. I missed the weight of the crossbow on my back like a phantom limb.

Still—I kept walking.

We'd be home in a few hours.

And home meant Ella. Ruby. Ian.

The thought of them settled something inside me.

I could picture Ian waiting by the porch with those big brown eyes, bouncing on the balls of his feet, already rambling about the project he wanted to do with me. Probably smackin' the side of the bike with a wrench like it was gonna fix itself. Probably handin' me a pair of pliers when I asked for a socket. And I'd take it. I always did.

The kid had endless energy, endless questions, endless noise.

And I loved every damn second of it.

My boy was weird. Wonderful. Loud. Wild. One of a kind. He filled a room like he owned it, and it made me proud every time.

Ruby, though... she was different.

Quiet. Watchful. Serious in a way that made her feel older than seven months. Girl barely cried, just stared at people like she was judging their every move. Like she knew something we didn't. Still, every now and then—when she babbled, or smiled, or laughed that soft little laugh—I felt like the whole damn world cracked open.

She was coming out of her shell more every day. And I couldn't wait to know the person she was gonna become.

Made me think about Ella. About what she had been like as a kid.

I bet she was trouble.

I could see it—little wild thing with messy hair and scraped knees, always trying to climb something too tall, talking back to adults twice her size. Probably stubborn as hell, sweet when she wanted to be, but always burning for something more.

That fire never left her.

I wondered what her brother was like, growing up with her. She didn't talk about him much. Didn't talk about her parents either. Never said a bad word, but the silence around them said enough.

They'd left her to raise a baby on her own. Twenty-two years old. Alone. Pregnant.

I could never understand that.

If Ruby ever came home scared, or broken, or lost—I'd move heaven and earth to make it right. Wouldn't matter what she did. Wouldn't matter how bad she screwed up. She'd still be mine.

I'd love her anyway.

Always.

Because that's what parents were supposed to do.

But not hers.

No. Ella's parents gave her silence.

And I? I gave her everything I had.

We finally came up on the apothecary—tucked in the middle of a busted strip mall, just sittin' there like it hadn't been touched in years. Storefront windows were thick with grime, brown from dust and time. Blood, too. Handprints smeared along the glass, like someone tried to claw their way in—or out.

Typical.

I stepped up first, rapped my knuckles on the glass a few times. Hard. Loud. Waited.

Sometimes the dead needed a little nudge.

Rosita and Denise stood just behind me, machetes out, shoulders tense. We gave it a minute. Nothing came at the door, no groans or slaps or glass shaking.

Still didn't mean it was clear.

I slid my rifle off my shoulder and set the backpack down. Reached inside for the crowbar and wedged it between the door and the frame, teeth gritted. Old wood groaned, glass creaked, but I got it loose.

Before I cracked it open, I looked back at Denise.

"Me and her," I jerked my chin toward Rosita, "are goin' in. You hang back. Got it?"

She nodded fast, hands white-knuckling the machete.

Smart girl.

I pushed the door open and slid my bag back on, rifle slung and ready. Rosita slipped inside first, blade high. I followed, kept Denise behind me.

First thing that hit me?

The smell.

Dust. Damp wood. Mold. And underneath it, decay.

The kind that gets in your mouth when you breathe too deep.

Behind me, Denise gagged.

"We gonna find out what you had for breakfast?" I muttered, low and dry.

"Oatmeal," she whispered, trying to sound tough. "Just so you know."

"Didn't want to," I replied.

Inside was dark, air thick. Shelves leaned half-collapsed, glass display cases cloudy and cracked. Rosita flicked on her flashlight, beam slicing through the gloom. Denise clicked hers on too, already fixated on one of the locked glass counters like it held the Holy Grail.

Rosita found the pharmacy door in the back corner. I helped get the metal grate up, grunting as the rusted rollers fought me. I finally shoved it up far enough to squeeze through, then vaulted the counter.

"If you hand me the meds, I can tell you which—"

"Nah," I cut her off, digging through the shelves. "We're takin' it all."

"You sure?" she asked, voice small.

Rosita didn't even look up. "We found it first. Don't know what we'll need next week."

Denise nodded, stayed behind the counter. Her flashlight beam bounced around as I started clearing the shelves. Bottles clacked together, soft and sharp in the silence. Every pill felt like a win. Never enough of this stuff these days.

I was halfway through loading one of the bags when a sound thumped hard against the wall behind the pharmacy.

All three of us froze.

Denise sucked in a breath. Rosita stilled.

The thump came again—dull, rhythmic. Not panicked. Just... there.

"Just one," Rosita shrugged, casual like she was bored already. She went back to grabbing bottles.

"Sounds stuck," I muttered, and kept loading.

But I still watched the back wall.

Didn't trust that sound.

Didn't trust this place.

Didn't trust that it was just one.

Rosita and I were still stuffing meds into our packs when Denise crashed into one of the glass cases behind us. The sound cracked loud through the quiet, bottles rattling, glass skittering across the floor.

I jerked my head up—but she didn't look at either of us.

She just turned and bolted, boots stomping past the shelves, out through the door without a word.

"The hell's her problem?" I muttered, standing straight.

Rosita didn't even pause. "Dunno. She's green."

I figured she'd seen a walker she didn't like. Or tripped over a rat. She'd been wound tight since we got here. Maybe the smell finally got to her.

Didn't matter.

Shelves were picked clean. I slung my bag over my shoulder and hopped back over the counter, landing with a quiet grunt. The thumping against the wall was still going, slow and steady.

Persistent.

One walker.

I rolled my eyes and walked to the storage closet at the back, reaching for the handle. I figured I'd put it down and move on.

The second I cracked the door open, the stench hit me like a wall.

Rot and mildew, piss and old blood. The kind of smell that sinks into your teeth and stays.

I clicked on my flashlight.

And wished I hadn't.

The closet was small—tight walls, no window. But the light cut through just enough to show everything I didn't want to see.

The walker was in the corner, staggering in a small circle. Over half its face was gone—jawbone exposed, teeth visible through a gaping hole in its cheek. Its eyes had that cloudy white film, but it saw me. Reached for me. Snarled with what was left of its mouth.

There was a cast on its leg. Bright pink, peeling. Sharpie doodles smeared down the side. Get well soon.

It wasn't just a storage closet.

It'd been a hideout.

A last-ditch shelter.

Against one wall, a filthy old pack-and-play sat slumped beneath a hanging sheet. The mesh sides were stained dark. Inside were diapers. Rotten, leaking. Flies circled lazy over the mess like they'd set up permanent camp.

I grimaced, stepping carefully around the edge of the sink. My boots crunched over something soft—maybe fruit, maybe worse. Couldn't tell. Wouldn't look.

That's when I saw the wall.

HUSH HUSH HUSH HUSH

Over and over. Written in blood. Big, wild letters, dragged by shaking hands. Overlapping. Desperate.

Like someone had tried to force silence into the air.

My light dropped to the sink.

Water sat thick in the basin—murky and black. Unmoving. Floating in it were chunks of... something. Flesh, maybe. Meat. Could've been anything.

But in the corner, half-submerged—

A baby shoe.

Tiny. Pink. Still laced.

My stomach turned so fast I nearly staggered.

I backed out before I knew I was moving.

Didn't speak. Didn't breathe.

I just left.

Because that? That was too much. Even for me.

I've seen a lot of shit. Been through hell more than once. But that room hit different.

Because I'm a dad now.

Because I knew what it meant.

Someone tried to protect their baby. Tried to hide. Tried to hush.

And when it all went to shit... they lost it. Lost themselves. Snapped. Drowned the last thing they loved in a sink of filth and silence.

I couldn't even imagine Ella having to do that. I didn't want to. Just the thought made my skin crawl.

Outside, the sunlight felt too bright. Too normal.

Denise was sitting on the ground in front of the building, facing away, her shoulders hunched. Still. Quiet.

Rosita and I walked up beside her. She didn't look at us.

"We tried to tell you," Rosita said, her voice lower than usual. Less bite. "We knew you weren't ready for this."

Denise didn't say anything at first.

Then—quiet, broken:

"I know."

Authors Note: 

Hello my lovelies!! Firstly, thank you all for being so patient with me and waiting for this new chapter. I've had a lot going on in my life and haven't been able to write as much as I like to. Second, I had an issue with my account to where I couldn't publish, but now we're back in business!