In the back of the rangerover, speeding down the forest road, Maggie and Hershel fought to stop Randall’s bleeding. Blood darkened his jeans around the two puncture wounds in his thighs and where Needle had stuck his shin. Only his ragged breathing suggested he clung to life. Hershel knelt on his right thigh, applying pressure. Blood flowed freely from his mangled fingers and the bullet graze across his temple. Maggie battled to pull her belt free of her jeans. If the gods had mercy, the boy would bleed out before they arrived at the farm. Fat chance of that. From the front passenger seat, Jon watched Maggie use her belt as a tourniquet. She tightened it around the top of the boy’s right thigh. Rick’s belt served for the left. Behind Jon, in the second row of seats, Rick gawked at their mistake over the top of his seat.

What is there to gawk at? A dying boy? Gawk out the windows, fool. At the road. At the forest. Gawk for lights. Listen for engines. They could be descending upon us even now. Our doom. Men. Any number of them. Armed with terrible power. Hungry for revenge. For our blood. Your blood. My blood.

Jon watched the forests and road behind. Lightless. He listened for engines. Only the roar of the rangerover’s engine as Glenn put pedal to floor. It rumbled the floor beneath Jon’s feet, coursing vibrations through his body. Ahead, the opening of the forest presented rolling fields and the distant silhouette of the farm doused in meager starlight.

“Almost there!” Glenn shouted.

Maggie pressed on the boy’s left high with both hands and gave no response. Her eyes spoke of the truth; the hard truth. If the others saw things the same way, hope remained for reason. Unlikely.

“Hershel, do you know how large this Culver clan is?” Jon asked above the roar of the engine.

“What?” Hershel kept his eyes glued to the dying boy.

“The Culvers, how many are there?”

Hershel’s brow wrinkled. “If they all survived, maybe ten or so. Why?”

“And how many are men and women grown?”

“I don’t know. Half?”

Jon nodded and sat back in his seat, watching the road before him. At least, one. At most, ten. He’d faced worse odds.

Upon returning to the farm, they were greeted by a crowd of gawkers. The others gathered around the rangerover, peering through the windows at the mistake harboured within. Behind them, Jon spied Shane watching from afar. For all his madness, the man’s eyes spoke of truth. Why must it be him? A cacophony of questions met Jon as he exited the car, all shouted. Rick raised his hands for silence. When he got none, he shouted above the noise.

“Beth! Jenner! Go inside and bring Hershel’s surgical equipment! We’ve got an injured in the back who needs immediate treatment!”

The shouting stopped.

“Wh-What kind of injury?” Beth asked.

“The kid fell on a fence, pierced both his legs,” Glenn said. He emerged from the car, gripping his gun tight. The starlight made him look pale as a ghost.

Jon saw the whites of Beth’s eyes as she gawked at the car.

Jenner grabbed her arm. “Come on, show me where you keep it. There’s no time to stare.”

Beth gave a quick, frightened nod then sprinted for the house, Jenner in tow. The moment they left, the shouting resumed. Lori’s voice broke above the braying.

“What happened out there?! Why are you all covered in blood?!” She rushed to Rick, half-mad with fear. She felt Rick all over for wounds.

Rick stopped her hands and made to speak but, Jon spoke first.

“We were attacked!” He boomed over the shouting. His words hung among a newfound silence.

“By people?” Dale spoke barely above a whisper, as if afraid to utter the words.

“Aye, by people.”

As Jon said that, icy fingers wriggled free of the scar above his heart, entwining themselves around him in a gentle embrace. Goose prickles washed over him as a clammy cold chilled his skin.

“Snow!” A fluttering mass of black feathers emerged from the void of the moonless night.

Bloodbeak perched upon his shoulder. His good eye met Jon’s while the scarred faced the stunned crowd.

“You kill ‘em?” Shane asked.

Rick scowled. “Yes. In self-defence.”

“And this kid?” Andrea pointed to the car. “He’s one of them?”

“He is.”

“Is that safe?” Lori asked.

“Fuck no, it’s not!” Disgust thickened Andrea’s voice. “He tried to kill you guys, probably still wants to.”

“He’s a child…” Dale said.

“So?”

“Do you even hear yourself, Andrea?” T-Dog asked.

“Oh god, don’t you two-”

“Enough!” Rick shouted. The effort made him wince. He leaned on the car’s roof for support. “We’ll have a calm, discussion about what to do now. I made a decision out there; a decision I’ve brought back. That decision impacts all of our lives. So, let’s talk about what to do now and make a decision together. Like a democracy should. All I ask if that we keep things civil.”

Dale smiled. “Exactly. Let’s not act like animals.”

Andrea huffed. “Yeah, whatever.”

The farmhouse’s front door flew open. Jenner and Beth erupted out of it, medical supplies bundled in their arms. They hurried down the porch steps and rounded the car. Beth opened the back of the rangerover. Jenner addressed Rick as he pulled on a pair of blue gloves.

“Get them out of here, we need room to-”

Beth shrieked. “Daddy?!” She dropped the supplies in her arms.

“I’m okay, sweetheart,” Hershel said.

“No you ain’t! You’re missin’ fingers!” Beth scrambled inside the rangerover.

Jenner poked his head in after her. “Jesus…”

“Jenner, get in here, take over for Dad,” Maggie said. “Beth, take Dad out and patch up his hand.”

“My hand can wait. Beth, you’ll stay and assist us.” Hershel said. “The boy’s ruptured his femoral arteries. Unless either of you know how to tie of an artery, I’m stayin’.”

“You can’t tie of an artery with one hand, I know that much,” Jenner said.

“No, but I can guide Maggie through it. Bring the kit inside.”

As Hershel began listing off all the things they’d need, any arguing stopped within the car. Beth and Jenner hurried to bring the supplies inside, like a pair of headless chickens. There was no time to argue against the foolishness, Jon had more pressing matters to attend to.

“Best we give them some space,” Jon said to Rick.

Rick nodded before addressing the group. “Alright, people let’s give ‘em room to work. We’ll discuss what happened, inside.”

Without waiting for a response, Rick limped off for the house, clutching Lori’s shoulder. Mumbling and grumbling, the others followed. In the absence where the group once stood, they left behind a white shade. Ghost padded across the gravel and nuzzled Jon’s chest. Crimson matted his jaws.

Jon scratched the direwolf behind the ears. “Come, Ghost with me.” With the direwolf at his side, his words might gain a bit more legitimacy, Jon hoped.

Ghost’s red eyes met Jon’s but, only for a moment. They wandered to his shoulder. Jon followed the direwolf’s gaze to find a small, sodden mark on his cloak. Warm and crimson, it smelt of iron. As if in a dream, Jon touched the wound. Numb, void of pain. Battle madness. A sensation not easily forgotten. A troubling thought dashed any memories of the past. The bullet pierced my mail. Jon hurried for the house, Ghost at his side, intent on making the fools see the truth of their situation.

Inside, Jon found the others gathered in the living room. As Rick told them of all that’d happened in the town, Jon lingered in the doorway, surveying his audience. Closest to the doorway, Andrea sat in a cushioned chair, listening to Rick with a scowl plastered across her face. Her eyes spoke of truth seen. An ally. Regrettably, another ally stood beside her. Leaning on the back of the chair, Shane shared Andrea’s scowl. A patchwork of mismatch stubble covered his head. Any support from him would do Jon no favours but as far as support went, Shane and Andrea were his only options, Jon knew. Glenn stood by Rick’s side, still clutching his shotgun, tight, as if relaxing even a little would cause it to drop. The man had a good nature and a sharp mind, Jon knew, but a soft heart. As did T-Dog. The burly, dark-skinned man sat on the opposite side of the room to Andrea, beside the door to where Carl slept. Under different circumstances, Jon could’ve counted on him to see reason but, a fool puppeteer his soft heart. The fool in question, Dale sat beside T-Dog, on the end of a couch. The two men shared wide-eyed, horror-struck gazes as they listened to Rick. Only one person in the room puzzled Jon. Lori. She stood beside her husband, opposite Glenn, stone-faced and impassive. Her gaze met Jon’s and she frowned at him.

“So that’s how it happened,” Rick finished. He looked around the room, grim. “I made a decision out there, in the heat of the moment and brought the consequences back to all of y’all. Now it’s on all of us to decide where to go from here.”

“He can’t stay here,” Andrea said at once.

“Well, we can’t just kick him out to die,” Dale shot back.

“He tried to kill our people.”

“He’s a child.”

“He’s-”

“It matters not,” Jon said. He stepped forward and stood before them, Ghost at his side. Every set of eyes found him, suspicious and curious. “What we do with the boy is an issue best squabbled over at a later date. Right now, we face a far greater issue. The ramifications of defending ourselves and taking this boy hostage. We killed all our attackers bar one. A man escaped, unharmed. As we speak, this lone man will be rushing back to his group. Mayhaps he is there right now. Mayhaps he arrived a while ago and his fellows are on their way, here, to seek revenge for their fallen comrades.”

To Jon’s great surprise and relief, his words darkened the expression of every face in the room. A smog of fret hung over them.

“The fuck you let him get away for?” Shane asked, glaring at Rick.

“We tried to stop him,” Glenn answered. “The shots missed.”

“So go after him!”

“Stop.” Rick raised a hand. “Playin’ the blame game gets us nowhere.”

Rick and Shane shared seething stares.

“And, we’re sure they’ll come after us? Do they even know where we are?” Dale asked, his voice small.

“Aye, they knew Hershel by sight. This is the first place they’ll seek revenge.”

“But how do we know they’ll come after us.”

“Wouldn’t you, if someone killed your family?” T-Dog asked. He held his head in his hands. Fear thinned his voice. “I know I would.”

Dale shuddered, slumped into the couch cushion and ran his hand over his face.

“So we fight, then?” Andrea asked. “I doubt they’re in a talking mood.”

“Or run,” Lori said. “We don’t have any defences, except that shitty fence. And for all we know, we’re outnumbered.”

Andrea looked about to argue but Rick raised his hand and she stopped.

“Let’s take a vote on it, right now but first, I’ll lay out the facts so y’all can make an informed decision. Hershel says that, at most, this group has ten people, most likely less, best case scenario only one. We’ve got guns and ammo for a fight, but not enough for everyone. Our only defensive options is the fence and the cars. None of y’all, except for Shane and I, are trained for a fight like this. If we fight, there’s a real chance some of y’all die.”

“And if we run, the same chance remains,” Jon said. “The farm protects us from the dead, and, given enough time to fortify, from the living. Here, we have a chance for life, a chance worth fighting for. Dying for. We’re survivors, are we not? Countless others roam dead, while we live on because you’re all brave enough to make the hard choices when it counts.”

The group exchanged glances. Andrea and Shane shared hard gazes and a nod but the looks shared between Dale, T-Dog, Lori, Glenn and Rick were mysteries. See the truth, gods be willing. Jon grit his teeth.

“Take a moment to mull it over,” Rick said. “When you’ve made your decision on whether we fight or run, raise your hand.” Rick raised his hand.

Jon raised his hand too, as did everyone else, all except Dale. Gumming his teeth, he stared at his hand, opening and closing his fingers. He closed his eyes and raised it.

“All those in favour of fighting, lower your hands,” Rick said.

As one, the group lowered their hands. A beautiful sight. Jon could not help but smile. As did Shane.

“That’s a majority, man. Even if all the others say no,” Shane said.

Rick glared at Shane and nodded. “Still, better get their votes anyway. It’s the right thing. As for Randall, the boy we took prisoner, we’ll decide what to do with him tomorrow. If we’re still here.”

“Whatever, you do that. I’m on first watch.”

“No. Dale and T-Dog have first watch tonight. You’ll help Glenn move the cars into a defensive position around the gate.”

“Yeah? Will I now?”

“I don’t give a shit what you do, Shane as long as you ain’t got a gun in your hands.” Rick grabbed Lori’s shoulder firm while locking eyes with Shane.

Shane chuckled. “Whatever you say, brother. Come on, kid. Let’s move these fucking cars then.”

As Shane and Glenn left, Andrea rose from her chair.

“What about me?” she asked.

“Tell the others outside about the decision we made and get their votes. Lori and I’ll do the same with Daryl and Carol,” Rick said.

“Right, okay.” Andrea made for the door.

As Dale and T-Dog crossed the room to follow, Jon joined Rick’s side.

“I’ll go help Shane and Glenn, I can help them form an effective barricade.”

“No, Jon. Stay here, you need treatment.”

“A minor wound. I know more about defences than any of you. They need my help.”

“And they’ll get it once that wound’s been seen to. You ain’t no use if it festers.”

“Hershel or Jenner or whoever can come collect me once they’re done with the boy.”

Lori chuckled. “Don’t think you’re winnin’ this one, Rick.”

Rick sighed. “Fine. But when they come and get you, come back here. If Randall lives, I want you to guard him. Barn’s probably the best place for him ‘till we decide what to do.”

Jon nodded. “Aye, there we agree. Best if we have two guards on him. And two shifts, same as night watch.”

“Okay, tell Andrea she has guard duty with you, then. Maggie and Glenn have second shift.”

“Aye, will do.”

With that, they went their separate ways.

***

Over the course of a few hours, Jon aided Glenn and Shane in constructing some defences. Where the scrap-metal fence flanked the gravel path into the farm, he had Glenn and Shane park the jeep and rangerover. Positioned parallel to the fence, the two vehicles served as protection from potential gunfire. Most gunfire anyway. The problem of more powerful weapons caught Jon in a bind. Shane assured him that a car’s engine could stop a, ‘high-powered round,’ as he called it but, that meant little. If attackers reigned hellfire down on their position behind the cars, it’d render almost all of their cover useless. Only one or two, could huddle behind the saftey of the engine, leaving the rest to perish.

As Jon puzzled over the conundrum, he watched Glenn move the RV. Despite, Jenner’s best efforts, Jon couldn’t make heads or tails of the system of pedals and levers used to control cars. Unnatural and untameable, like wild beasts of steel and rubber, the cars never headed the commands of his feet and hands. Horses, now those made sense. Glenn parked the RV a fair distance away from the farm’s entrance. The gravel path climbed a small, shallow hill to reach the farmhouse. Such height gave an advantage to any marksman, allowing them to peer out over the boundless fields that surrounded the farm.

“That good?” Glenn shouted, parking the RV.

“Move in line with the forward defences. That way any retreats will be as short as possible.” Jon said.

Glenn squinted at the cars then checked over his shoulder for the back of the RV. The RV’s engine purred and the behemoth trundled forward. Meanwhile, Shane lay out boxes of ammo behind the cars. His idea, and a good one. Bullets could not be stored in quiver like arrows. Setting the boxes within arms reach of the defenders seemed to be the only reasonable solution. For all his madness, Shane’s knowledge of guns proved invaluable.

“Stop there, your good,” Rick said. He stood beside Jon, watching Glenn with folded arms. “If we put someone on top of this thing, they’ll be exposed.”

“We’ll use Dale’s table. It shares a length with the RV. Lay it on it’s side and it’ll provide cover from end to end.”

“Any shots’ll pass right through it but, whoever’s behind it can move back and forth between shots, keep ‘em guessin’ where to fire.”

Bullets were troublesome things. Small and fast enough to unseen in the air, and powerful enough to blast right through any conventional shield. They made arrows out to be the toys of children. The hole in Jon’s shoulder ached. The draining of his battle fever had been heralded in by a fanfare of pain. Burning flames danced inside his shoulder, smouldering away without end. Lifting anything enraged them, flaring them like a gust of wind to an inferno. Stabbing needles pricked him where shards of glass had peppered his palms with shallow wounds. He’d ignored it all through his work, carrying guns and ammo to the defences from the house. Not once had he uttered even a grunt of complaint but, as he tried to imagine ways to defend against bullets, his wounds hounded him. His shoulder most of all. A groan escaped his lips, unbidden. If Rick had heard, he showed no sign.

“We should set up some tyre traps on the roads. Pop their tyres and they’ll have to approach on foot. Ain’t nowhere to hide out there, we’ll pick ‘em off easy as that,” Rick said.

“Best we wait ‘till night,” Jon spoke with grit teeth as he resisted the urge to clutch his shoulder. “If they or the dead, come upon us as while we’re laying the traps we’ll be on the back foot and without defence.”

“Daylight gonna change that?”

“No, but an attack from the living during the day is less likely than at night. And the dead are easier to spot in the light. Wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Glenn parked the RV again. The engine’s purring died and the front lights flickered off. He and Dale hopped out of the front, T-Dog from the back. Dale climbed onto the RV’s roof, leaving T-Dog to take the first sleep shift. Glenn jogged down the gravel path to meet Jon and Rick. When he arrived, he looked at the RV then the cars and nodded to himself.

“Looks good,” he said.

“Aye. Come, help me fetch the long table. We’ll use it for cover for our RV shooters.”

Glenn wrinkled his nose. “That won’t stop bullets.”

“It won’t, but-”

“Jon!”

Hershel appeared on the crest of the small hill beside the RV, accompanied by Beth and Maggie. White cloth bound his ruined hand, bulging around the stumps of his index and middle fingers. A square bandage covered the bullet graze across his temple. Crimson buds blossomed on the surface of both bandages. Gifts from enemy guns. The flames in Jon’s shoulder flared. Clenching his jaw, he looked to Glenn. Glenn gawked at Maggie as if seeing her for the first time.

Wordless, Maggie hurried down the hill and embraced Glenn. Glenn stiffened and then melted into her embrace.

“Were you hit?” he whispered.

“No. Were you?”

“No.” Glenn squeezed her.

Maggie squeezed back. “It’s over now…”

“For now.”

“Jon.” Rick placed a light hand on his good shoulder. “Go get seen to.”

Jon sighed. “Aye, okay. Work on some sort of extra defence against bullets. We need more protection from high-powered rounds.”

“I’ll try. No promises though.”

“You’ll think of something.”

“Remember what I said. Once they’re done with you, you’re on guard duty. I don’t want to see you down here unless we’re under attack.”

“I remember.”

Jon climbed the shallow hill. A glare from Beth greeted him at the top. Their eyes met and she avoided his at once, staring past him at their meager defences. A scowl tightened and sharpened her otherwise, soft features.

“How’s your shoulder?” Hershel asked.

“It hurts no more than it should.”

“How much, one a scale of one to ten?” Hershel squinted at the wound.

Jon shrugged. Pain shot through him, like a flash of lightning, hot and sharp yet, nothing compared to a stab through the heart. “Six, I suppose.”

“And the bleeding? Has it stopped?”

“Aye.”

“Good. Come inside, then. Let’s take a look at you.”

Hershel strode past him and made for the RV. Beth trailed after him, never once looking Jon’s way.

Inside, Jon found Hershel and Beth at the table in the RV’s booth. The pale, overhead light bathed them in murky, yellow light. Beth unpacked Hershel’s medical kid, organising needle and thread, a small set of pliers and some of this world’s bandages. Rather than cloth, they made use of a soft material with a perimeter of adhesive to stick to the skin. How they got them inside the paper packaging, Jon would never understand.

“Does the boy live?” Jon asked.

“Randall survived, yeah,” Beth said.

“And he’ll last the night?”

“Will he? Or are you gonna break open the barn and kill him too?”

“Beth, enough,” Hershel snapped. Dabbing a cotton ball in water with his left hand, Hershel frowned at Jon’s shoulder. “Randall will last the night now, sit down, son. Let’s take a look at you.”

If reason prevails he shall last one night and one night only.

Jon shrugged out his cloak and stripped of his shirt and mail. The bullet had punctured a hole through the shirt and snapped several links of his mail. Without a blacksmith, every bit of damage to his mail may as well be permanent. Jon tried not to think about it as he piled atop his shirt and cloak. Hershel and Beth stared at his chest and its scars with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“Old wounds,” Jon said as he sat. He added a small lie, to avoid tedious questions. “I was attacked in the beginning by bandits.”

“You’re lucky to be alive.”

“Aye.”

Hershel tore his eyes away from the old wounds and focused on the new. He got up from his seat and knelt before Jon, inspecting the wound up close. After a moment of head cocking and squinting, he got up and checked the back of Jon’s shoulder.

“Good, it went through.” He handed Beth the cotton ball. “Clean the dried blood off both wounds, front and back. Then, dab it gently around the damaged tissue. Change to a new swab between wounds.”

“I know, daddy. I’ve cleaned wounds before.” Beth cleared away the dried blood caked around the wound with circular scrubbing. Each scrub, sharp and stiff, shot a shock down Jon’s arm and back.

“How are the boy’s odds, do you suppose? Surely his survival, after such a grievous wound is not certain.” Jon asked.

“Beth, gentler.” Hershel shrugged. “The exact odds, I can’t say but, they’re fairly good if he’s been eatin’ proper. He lost a lot of blood but not enough to kill a healthy person.”

Jon watched Hershel’s face as he spoke. Light had returned to his eyes. The same sort of naive hopefulness that plagued Dale and T-Dog.

“He can not stay here,” Jon said. “Remove sentiment from the equation and view things with reason, and it is clear as day. He will harbour hatred for us. We killed his family and tried to kill him. His loyalties will, first and foremost, remain with the little family that remains to him. To keep him here is to ensure he sabotages us. To let him go is to create yet another enemy we must combat.”

Hershel shook his head. “There’s still a chance for peace.”

“A slim chance that we can’t rely-” Jon grunted as Beth pressed a cotton ball hard against the back of Jon’s shoulder.

“Sorry,” she muttered.

“Randall ain’t likely to thank us for what we’ve done, I know. But, if we get past this conflict, peacefully or not, he deserves a chance to earn our trust.”

“We’re on a blade’s edge, Hershel. A little shove, no matter how small, will destroy what little we have here.”

“So what would have have us do? Execute a child after we saved him because he might betray us? If we start punishin’ people based on what they might do, we lose all sense of law and order. There’s no justice in it.”

“Justice died the day the world did.”

Beth scoffed and threw down the cotton ball. “You’re sick in the head!” She marched out the RV and slammed the door behind her.

“Beth! You get back here!” Hershel shouted.

No response came.

Hershel sighed and picked up a bandage patch with his left hand. “Sorry about her. She’s just frightened, is all.” Hershel held the bandage out to Jon. “Help me open this, would you?”

Jon peeled open the strange paper packaging. Hatred played just as much a part in Beth’s outburst as fear, Jon suspected. He kept his suspicions to himself and handed Hershel the opened bandage. Better not to reopen such fresh wounds. Awkwardly, Hershel placed the bandage over the front of Jon’s shoulder with his left hand and smoothed it over.

“When did the pain start, son?”

“While I was preparing the defences.”

“You didn’t feel any pain at all before then?”

“No. Battle madness, most like. Quite normal after something like that.”

Hershel chuckled and picked up another bandage. “That’s one thing to call it, yeah.” He handed Jon the bandage.

Jon unpeeled it. “What would you call it?” He handed it back.

Hershel stood. “Shock. Pain ain’t the only thing shock numbs. It numbs fear too. Seems to me you’re effected by both.”

“Aye… I suppose.”

“When it hits you, come seek me out if you need. Least I can do after you saved my life.” Hershel applied the bandage to the back of Jon’s shoulder and smoothed it out.

“What do you know of battle madness?”

“I’m a veteran, son. Served in Vietnam as a combat medic when I was only a shy bit older than you.” Hershel sat and picked up the pair of small pliers. “Your hands.”

Jon held out his glass-riddled palms. “You went to war?”

“I did.”

Jon winced as Hershel began plucking shards of glass from his palms. A sharp stab accomanied each removed shard. “If you went to war, why do you hide from the truth about what we face?” Jon asked through grit teeth. “Surely, you of all people know what horrors the boy could bring upon us if we allow him to live.”

“I know about the horrors of war. Plenty some. I’ve seen more than enough for one lifetime.”

***

The barn towered above Jon larger than life, cast in starlight. Where a chain once secured the doors, crates full of gravel took up the duty. Piled high where the doors met, they served well enough, Jon supposed, for a temporary solution.

“Is the back secure?” He asked, approaching the doors.

Stood beside the doors, knife in hand, Andrea nodded. “Yeah, Maggie nailed it shut. If the kid tries to break out that way, we’ll hear him.” Andrea eyed the bandages wrapped around Jon’s palms. “You get shot in the hands as well as the shoulder?”

“Glass shards. The boy’s companions practically blew down the front of the tavern with their machine gun, as you call it.”

Andrea smirked. “Yeah, that’s what it’s called.” As quick as the smirk came, a scowl replaced it. “Can’t believe Rick saved the kid, after he tried to kill you guys.”

“Aye, he should die.”

“Die!” Bloodbeak cried, perched upon the barn’s roof, invisible in the dark.

“Well… before, yeah but, now we’ve gone and spent all those medical supplies saving him. Kinda gotta keep him alive, now.”

“It’d be a waste. But a worthwhile one. The boys will never be our friend, not after we killed his family. He’ll turn traitor first chance he gets.”

Andrea rolled her knife back and forth between her fingers. Her brow furrowed.

“Has he awoken?”

“Nah, Hershel says he’ll sleep for a while, probably.”

“Good.”

For a while, they said nothing else. Stood either side of the barn’s doors, they gazed off into the distance, at the fields and roads, stiff as boards. Jon watched for lights or moving shadows. He listened for roaring engines or the shouts of Dale and T-Dog. He saw nothing but darkness and heard only the boy’s ragged breathing within the barn. Sharp fluttered wheezes. Perpetual, never ending noise.

Andrea sat with a groan, pressing her back against the barn.

“You shouldn’t sit,” Jon said.

“I’m tired.”

“If he breaks out, you’ll waste time getting onto your feet that aught to be spent catching him.”

Andrea sighed and stood. “You owe me a story.”

“A story?”

“Yeah, if I have to fight tonight, I’d like my last moments of peace to not be boring.”

“What kind of story do you want?”

“How’d you get the scars on your face?”

“The left, an eagle. The right, a blade.” Jon kept his eyes on the fields.

“An eagle? Now there’s a story.”

“Aye but, will you believe it?”

“I don’t know what I believe nowadays.”

Jon smiled. “Okay, you have your story, then.”

“Awesome.” Andrea settled her back against the barn and looked at Jon, expectant.

“On an expedition into The Lands of Always Winter, I was forced the kill a freefolk man named Orell. As a sentry of sorts, he and his party risked giving away our position to the enemy. Our commander ordered me and another to ambush them. They’d made camp in the overhang of a cliff, you see. So, to reach them, we climbed a sheer cliff of ice and stone without any ropes or climbing axes. When we arrived, we found them sleeping and took the advantage. The man with me, Stonesnake his name was, killed one while I killed another. That man was Orell, a skinchanger, a warg. Someone who can slip into the skin of a bonded animal, or two or three, even five. He’d paired with an eagle and when he died, their spirits became one. Now armed with wings and talons and beak, he sought me out one day. As revenge he tried to gouge my eye out but… a companion of mine stopped him.”

“So… Orell could control the eagle?”

“Aye.”

“And when he died, his consciousness ended up in the eagle and he tried to take your eye out?”

“Aye.”

Jon expected some crude remark, a jest, a smirk, outright laughter. Instead, Andrea scowled.

“Bastard didn’t know when to quit, huh?”

“Well, I did kill him.”

“But you didn’t want to, right? How old were you, anyway?”

“Fifteen.”

“Fifteen.” Andrea scoffed. “You were just doing what you had to. You didn’t hate the guy or anything. It was either you or him. What gives him the right to hate you? He’d do the same in your position.”

“Aye…” Jon gave a careful nod. Andrea sounded far too angry about a man she never met and a story Jon suspected she didn’t truly believe. “Me or him.”

“Him!” Bloodbeak quorked.

***

Jon lay awake, staring at the underside of his tent’s peak. Insects buzzed. The wind whistled. Shadows played on the tent’s blue plastic, toying with him. He should sleep. Should an attack come, even an hour of sleep could mean the difference between life and death. He wanted to sleep. His eyelids weighed heavy. A thick smog lingered over his mind. Yet, every time his eyes closed he’d hear a shout, a snapping twig or a gunshot and lurch for Longclaw only to discover the trick his mind had played on him. Ghost lay awake also, staring at him. When he lurched, Ghost stayed where he lay, staring, unblinking. Those two, unwavering red discs provided him with solace, breathing warm calm over his racing heart.

Jon sat up slowly. “Come, boy. Let’s stop this folly.”

Ghost blinked. He rose, stretched his front legs then back, and padded out of tent. Jon secured Longclaw and Needle to his belt, and followed after him. The great scar of Georgia’s night sky provided meager light. His eyes had adjusted all the same so, Jon scanned the woods, the fence and fields. A motionless void stared back at him. Glenn and Maggie stood guard outside the barn. T-dog watched the fields, atop the RV. Without the moon and only strange stars, judging the time of night proved fruitless. Jon assumed midnight had passed but, fear often exaggerated time’s passage. It was fear he felt, he saw no sense in denying it. Only boys thought themselves fearless. Fear sharpens the senses when channelled properly. For all the good it did him. The weapons of this world could end a life in an instant from a distance beyond the sight of men, or the hearing of wolves – bolts of lighting made steel. Jon hurried across the field for the house.

Jon took care to not allow the door to creak as he entered the house. Golden lamplight spilled beneath the door to Carl’s room, painting golden streaks across Ghost’s white fur. Whispers drifted from within, across the living room and to Jon’s ears, unbidden.

“How can you be sure?” Lori whispered.

“My gut, that’s how,” Rick answered.

“But… the things he did- I mean, you saw the way he looked.”

“He’s only a kid.”

“A dangerous kid. You know that. You do. Don’t act like you don’t.”

“Stop…”

“No, he-”

“I mean it,” Rick snapped. “I don’t wanna hear it.”

An edged silence lingered. Jon allowed himself a smile. Of all the people he expected support from, he’d never imagined Lori. To place truth and reason over loyalty spoke of a rare, invaluable strength. Jon left the couple to their edged silence and made his way upstairs. A little twinge of hope lightened his steps, if only a fraction. The door to Sophia’s room waited for him at the end of the hall, containing his burden. His actions had lost Sophia her life, he’d sentenced her to death. The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword and look into the eyes of the condemned, see their tears, hear their last words. He could not pass the sentence himself, illness would claim that right. He could not see Sophia’s tears for she had none left to weep. He could not hear Sophia’s final words for she had none left to speak. But, he could look into her eyes. He could try and offer comfort to Carol, futile as it be. Jon took a deep breath and placed a hand on Ghost’s head, centring himself. He approached the door, ready to knock.

“Who is it?” Carol asked before he could knock, barely above a whisper.

“Jon. May I enter?”

“Yes.”

Jon opened the door. Ghost squeezed through it as it opened. Inside, Jon found him sat on his haunches at the foot of the bed, staring at Sophia with a red, unblinking gaze. Daryl slept in a chair beside Carol, clutching a make-shift bolt. His sharp snores mixed with Sophia’s soft wheezes.

Carol frowned at Jon. A knife sat on the bedside table, within reach, beside Sophia’s pink bear. “Are we under attack?” she asked.

“Oh, no. I just… may I watch over her with you?”

Carol’s frown softened to a smile. “You can but, I’m afraid you’ll have to sit on the floor. All the seats are taken. And don’t mind the open window, the night it… before all this… it always gave me comfort. I liked to believe that when the sky was at its darkest, God’s eyes were at their sharpest and his angles at their most vigilant. It gave me… comfort and… strength.”

“That’s fine.” Jon gestured to Sophia. “May I?”

“Go ahead.”

Jon stood over Sophia and drank in her face. If hair be straw, straw pooled around her head. If skin be leather, leather clung to her skull. If eyes be stones, two pale stones stared through him. Her pale gaze etched itself upon his mind, like a chisel to a tablet. Jon knelt, removed his gloves and took her tiny hand into his. Her icy touch chilled him to the bone. He offered no apology, no prayers, no tears. Instead, he stared for as long as it took so her image would never fade from his memory. Carol watched him all the while, never interrupting, only speaking once he’d finished.

“She’s going to die.” Carol spoke with a steady voice. “You know it too, don’t you?”

“I do. Soon, I think. A day. Two if she’s fortunate.”

“No… if she’d been fortunate she’d have died sooner. She’s lingered for too long.”

“Do you believe something awaits her after death?”

“I’d like to. Maybe, in a different time, I would.”

“Then isn’t every second of extra life worth lingering for?”

“That’s no life, Jon. She’s just waiting, is all. Not suffering, just waiting. It’s us that’re doing the suffering.” She sighed and glanced at Daryl. “He still blames you, you know, deep down? That damn, male ego. It don’t let you see things as they are.”

“He should blame me, it was my fault.”

“Is that why you came here, to atone?”

“No. I came to be present. If tonight we persevere, I intend to visit everyday for as many days remain for her. So that I may be by her side on her final day.”

Carol sighed. “You’re more man than boy, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“Well, for tonight, I need you to be a boy. See things clearly, Jon.”

“I…” Carol’s words made no sense. “I do see things clearly.”

“Good. Then please, don’t make a scene. Everyone’s on edge as it is.”

Before Jon had a moment to process her words, Carol plucked her knife off of the bedside table and eased the blade through Sophia’s temple.

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Next chapter, Personalities and morals clash as the group decides the fate of Randall.