Jon patrolled the wall walk, hands clasped behind his back. The planks wobbled where his boots applied pressure, and sagged between the posts. Unacceptable under normal circumstances, but passable for a battle against the dead. Refinement would have to wait.

Below, the wall team stood in two orderly rows of four. Dale and T-Dog stood side by side like good soldiers, with tall backs and eyes pointed straight ahead. Julie and Chris stood tall too even if their eyes wandered. Sam scratched his ear, and Beth fidgeted behind him. May and Randall didn’t even have the decency to whisper as they chatted.

Jon planted his feet beside the final of four ladders propped up against the middle section of the wall. “CLIMB!”

The first row flinched.

Julie and Randall were caught unawares, while Dale and T-Dog made a dash for the ladders. There were four, spaced evenly across the centre three segments of the wall. Rifles, pistols, shotguns, and an AR-15 rested beside crates of ammo in between buckets full of gasoline. Julie took off after Dale and T-Dog. Randall hobbled towards the ladder beside Jon on his bad leg.

May shoved past Randall. With a spasm and a cry, Randall fell face-first onto the grass as May scrambled up the ladder, hauled herself onto the wall walk, loaded a handgun, and fired a round into the forest. While the other three loaded their guns, and the second row began their climb, Jon calmly approached May. He held out his hand, and with a grin, May handed over her handgun.

“You’re meant to let Randall go first, in case he falls.”

“He’s too slow. Not my fault he’s a cripple, now is it?”

Jon cleared the pistol’s chamber. “If he falls while the horde is at your heels, he’ll die.”

“You catch him then, if you’re so fucking worried about him.”

“You will also refrain from firing your weapon during drills. The magazines are here to practice loading, not shooting.”

“I ain’t never fired from this height before. Only makes sense I get a feel for it before the night.”

Jon lay the pistol on the battlements. “Do as I say, or I’ll transfer you to the medical team.”

May spat on the wall walk. “Whatever. Fine. Fuck off.”

“Retake your position.”

Jon left May to climb down the ladder, and Randall to practice loading his rifle, as he checked on the others.

Sam and Dale suffered no trouble loading. Dale loaded the magazine, cocked the level, uncocked the lever, and unloaded the magazine with motions so streamlined they appeared to be a single action. The way a knight can draw his blade in a single, smooth motion. Sam’s motions, while not as smooth, never hesitated or stuttered. Jon granted each a compliment, then told Sam to keep his hands idle during line up, and Dale to work on his transition from ladder to wall walk.

Sam looked at his hands. “Right…”

“Will do, Jon!” Dale said, beaming.

As they descended the ladder, the walkie on Jon’s belt crackled. “Come in, Jon,” Rick’s voice said.

Jon raised it to his mouth, as he made his way over to T-Dog and Beth. “I hear you. How go your drills? Over.”

“A little rough around the edges, but nothin’ that can’t be buffed out. How about things your way? Over.”

“The same is true here. We’ll be ready in time. Over.”

“Good. That’s good to hear. We’re headin’ back now, so finish up whatever you’re doin’ and start gettin’ them ready for supper. Over.”

“Aye, I’ll see to it. Over.”

“Alright, over and out.” Jon clipped the walkie to his belt.

T-Dog looked up from his pistol. “That the last one then?”

“No. We’ll do one more.”

“Do we gotta? It’s not like this is complicated. Climb the ladder and shoot. Easy.”

Jon glanced backward at May. “We’ll do another. Show me your reload.”

T-Dog let the magazine fall out of the pistol’s grip into his hand, lined up its lips with the hole, slammed it inside, and charged the slide. He gave Jon a hopeful grin.

While the mechanics of a gun made little sense to Jon, and he couldn’t yet claim to be an expert with one, the flaws in the others’ reloads jumped out at him. The motions were simple, which made mistakes as obvious as the way a bad meal attacks your tongue – even if you know nothing about cooking.

“You hesitated the insertion. And you don’t need to use that much force. Be efficient, not forceful.”

“Right. Yeah, okay my bad. Damn, I really thought I had it this time.”

“See if you can improve on this last drill.”

T-Dog brightened up. “Yeah, okay man, I will.”

Jon patted T-Dog on the shoulder and turned his attention towards Beth. Despite claiming to be, ‘awful with these things’, she reloaded her pistol with calm, smooth motions.

“Can you go any faster?” Jon asked.

“Um, not without makin’ mistakes. I can try though.”

“No, better to be efficient than fast.”

Beth nodded, but didn’t meet his eyes. She pointedly focused on her pistol. Only when he left her for Julie and Chris did Jon – with a glance over his shoulder – catch her eyes. Jon was no fool nor a green boy; he knew what that sort of look meant. It sat crooked with him. Despite sharing an age, Beth felt too young. She hadn’t let go of the child within, and in a manner of speaking that made her a child in all but name. Jon was not the sort of man to pursue a girl. Not that it mattered. Even if she did grow up, there wasn’t time for such things, especially with the horde so close.

Julie loaded her pistol with one hand. She held it between her knees, the barrel pointed towards the distant farmhouse. With her only hand, she positioned a magazine against the hole on the bottom of the grip. She jostled it back and forth with small movements, then drove it in with the flat of her palm. With a nod, she cocked the pistol, stood, and aimed it.

After pretending to fire a few rounds, she sat, turned away from the wall, gripped the gun with her knees, caught the magazine as it fell out, and started the whole process over. When they’d started practice a few hours ago, she’d struggled to grip the gun, let alone reload the thing.

If only she could adapt to the world as well as did to being crippled.

Last night, Jon caught Tyreese outside his tent. Painted pale silver by the meagre light of stars and a waned moon, he’d looked more monster than man. Monsters often skirt the line between the natural and unnatural. They dress up in the vague approximation of a person, something with just enough of the correct parts that – at a glance – they look like any other nondescript passerby. Only when you take the time to look, to really look, do you notice the absent pieces.

Tyreese’s eyes harboured no life. They blinked, and followed what they were focused on, but they didn’t change with the man’s expressions. The pupils didn’t shrink or grow, nor did the coloured parts tighten or loosen with his scowls and frowns. They remained as they were when Jon asked him to kill the Culvers. Like eyes from a portrait, they pretended to be of man.

“I’ll kill Sam,” Tyreese said. “I’m as strong as him. He won’t be able to overpower me.”

“Have you killed before?” Jon asked. A pointless question. Have the clouds turned grey before? Has the rain fallen? Has the sun set? Yet, some part of him demanded he hear the answer.

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Six.”

“Why?”

“They were dangerous.”

“And Chris? Julie?”

“Bowen killed a thief, and a rapist. Chris killed his father.”

“Julie? Has she killed anyone?”

“No.”

“A lack of necessity? Or a lack of will?”

For the briefest of moments, Tyreese’s pupils shrunk. He scrubbed his eyes with his sleeve, and when he unveiled them his pupils were back to normal. “She’s not strong enough to do it, yet.”

“Yet?”

“I can convince her. On this, I can convince her. She’s reasonable.”

“Mayhaps we should convince Chris first, then he and you could-”

“No. I can do this.”

The way Tyreese spoke, for a moment, it convinced Jon. Tyreese spoke the way kings spoke in stories and songs. Sansa would have loved him.

“Alright, try. But if it doesn’t work, we’ll do it my way.”

“Deal. You don’t need to worry. She’s a smart girl. She’ll realise how important this is, even if she doesn’t like it.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I am.”

He wasn’t.

Jon strolled over to Julie. “You’re doing well.”

“I keep fumbling the insertion. Fucking walker. Why’d it have to bite my right hand? I swear, I’m going to end up getting stuck during the real thing. The magazine lips will refuse to line up properly and I’ll just be sitting here like a dumbass, jiggling the fucking thing back and forth. Do you think any of those robotic prosthetics survived all this? They cost a small fortune before, but now they’d cost nothing. Right? Unless people have scooped them all up and are selling them for an even higher price. Probably are. That’s how people are, I guess. They’re all like, ‘The end of the world? Time to make a quick buck!’. You know what I mean?”

“Aye, I think so.”

Julie loaded her gun, but rather than pretend to fire it, she put it down. She looked up at him. “Hey, after we’re done here, will you tell me about Westeros? Bowen never talked about it.”

Jon blinked. “Sure.”

“Great!”

Julie took off on another rant and left Jon at a loss for words. He’d prepared a whole series of clever ways to convince Julie that she wanted to have a talk with him so that when they sat down it would feel like her decision. He’d expected that after all the shouting between her and Tyreese last night, that she’d hate him. Did Tyreese frame it as his idea, rather than ours?

Jon shook his head and watched Chris struggle with James’s automatic rifle. It took him three attempts the align the magazine lips. One attempt missed the slot entirely. When he managed to get it loaded, he sighed and hung his head.

“I used to be so good at this…” he muttered.

“Keep trying,” Jon said. “You’ve improved today.”

“Yeah, from four attempts to three. Yay.”

Julie patted his back with her stump. “I’m sure we’ll find some glasses out there somewhere.”

“With my exact prescription?”

“Sure! Well, not your exact prescription, but close enough. Like, think about how many walkers there are. There’s gotta be one roaming around with glasses you could use. Also, who’d think to scavenge a glasses store? If we find one I reckon they’ll have all sorts lying about. A bit dusty, sure, but they’ll be there! I mean, who in their right mind is gonna back their bag with glasses when there’s food, guns, and medicine to steal? It’s only a matter of time until you’re an expert marksman again.”

Chris smiled. “I wasn’t an expert.”

“You went to nationals.”

“Plenty of people go to nations. That doesn’t make them experts. Trust me, I met them.”

“Well, you’re still better than any of us!” Julie flung her arms around Chris and yanked him against her chest. “You’ll be nailing headshots from yonks away again in no time!”

Chris laughed. “Don’t be dumb, you’re just-”

“WALKER!” Sam bellowed.

A lone walker stumbled out of the woods. Once, it must have been a woman. A flowery dress draped its stick-thin frame. Ropes of hair tied into a ponytail fluttered in the warm, muggy breeze. A pair of rounded spectacles reflected the sun’s glare. Everyone dropped what they were doing to stare at it.

May scrambled back up her ladder, snatched the rifle out of Randall’s hands, and took aim. “Got it!”

“Lower your weapon!” Jon shouted. “There’s no need to waste the-”

May fired. The gunshot shredded the air with an ear-splitting clap of thunder. A small geyser of dirt erupted beside the walker’s feet. “Shit.” She pulled back the lever, dumped an empty shell, and loaded a new one.

Sam ripped it from her hands. “You’ll draw more.”

“And all that shouting won’t, dumb fuck?”

With a face of stone, Sam cracked the back of his hand across the side of her head. May’s head twisted with a jolt, and she staggered. A trickle of blood wept down her cheek from a small cut. She clutched the cut and glared at him.

“Do that while I’m holdin’ the gun next time. See what happens,” May said.

“Go sit on the grass,” Sam said.

May climbed down the wall’s ladder and stalked off to nowhere in particular. Without sparing her a glance, Sam approached Jon. The man loomed a head and half over him. He handed the rifle over and grabbed his sledgehammer.

“I’ve got it.” Sam made for the ladder.

“Not on your own,” Jon said.

Sam paused. “It’s fine.”

“I’ll go with him,” T-Dog said.

“Aye, go.”

“Whatever…” Sam climbed down the ladder, vanishing from sight.

As T-Dog put down his gun and gathered up a hatchet, Dale approached the ladder. “Sam, hold on.”

Sam’s head poked back up. “What?”

“Look, I don’t mean to call you out in front of everyone, but-”

“You will anyway.”

“You shouldn’t treat that girl like that. It ain’t right.”

Sam grunted. “Only thing that works.”

“She’s just a kid.”

“Seventeen’s pretty much an adult. She’s old enough to know better.”

“You shouldn’t be hitting anybody, no matter how-”

“How about you mind your own business, old man?”

Sam climbed down the ladder and stalked off, making rapid progress on his long legs. T-Dog ran after him. As they approached the walker, Dale sighed.

“Don’t waste your breath. Nothing you say will change him,” Jon said.

“I’m not trying to change him, just his outlook.”

“You won’t change that either.”

“Maybe. But I’ve never been the kind of person to give up easily. That’s the thing about us old men, Jon; knock us down and we get right on up again, even if it hurts like a son of a bitch. We’re stubborn like that.”

“Get up as much as you want, Dale. Not every problem can be solved with words.”

“Sure it can. We just ain’t found the right ones yet, is all.”

T-Dog and Sam split apart, rounding the walker’s flanks. T-Dog waved his arms above his head, and shouted like a maniac, while Sam raised his hammer. The walker screamed and staggered towards T-Dog. Nails raked the air. Bloody spittle sprayed. T-Dog held his ground and egged the corpse on. It screeched. Sam’s hammer pulverised its head. The skull collapsed. Brains and black blood sprayed through the cracks, and gushed over its face. It crumpled into a heap.

“Jesus…” Julie whispered.

Jon scanned the woods. Nothing. “What? What’s wrong?”

“No. No, nothing is coming. It’s just… so horrible. Do you think they can feel pain? Or think? I’ve always thought that a little bit of who they used to be is trapped in there, fighting to get-”

Beth fell to her knees and broke down crying.

At once, Dale and Julie rushed to her aid, while Jon simply stared.

He couldn’t fathom such a reaction. How many walkers had Beth seen killed? Nothing was special about this one.

“Was she someone you knew?” Dale asked.

Beth nodded. “Ms Robinson. She was…” She drew a shaky breath. “She was my daycare teacher when I was little. She… She…” Beth buried her face in her hands, shoulders heaving.

“There there.” Julie smiled. “It’ll be alright.”

“We’ll bury her.” Dale looked at Jon. “Would you like that?”

Beth nodded.

Jon rested his hand on Longclaw’s hilt. “Take her back to the house. We’ll call an end to this for today. Rick’s sent word saying that the herd team is on their way back. His orders are to prepare for supper.”

Julie and Dale helped Beth down the ladder and across the fields, with Chris trailing behind them. Sam and T-Dog followed after Jon shouted to let them know they were done. Which left only Jon and Randall atop the wall.

Randall hobbled over. “Hey, uh, can we talk, man?”

“What is it?”

“It’s just, uh…” He glanced in May’s direction. “There much sense in me bein’ here?” he whispered.

Yes, it’s where I can keep an eye on you. “You’re here because you have no medical experience. If you want to transfer to the medical team, I’ll ask Rick.”

“No. I mean, I was thinkin’ more like the herdin’ team. I’m good with a car. Took to it quickly. Wouldn’t it be better if I was somewhere where I could be useful? I can’t hardly climb these ladders. I’m just gettin’ in your way up here.”

“We’ve already discussed who gets to drive, extensively.” Everyone had wanted to be on the herding team. It seemed driving cars was much the same as riding horses; in the sense that everyone thinks that their way of riding is the best and won’t hear anything to the contrary.

“I know, but-”

“There’s nothing to discuss. If you can convince James or Pete to switch with you, you can be on the lure team. Otherwise, you remain here.”

“Please, man. I- I really don’t wanna do this.”

“If you’re the master race you claim to be, you shouldn’t have any trouble. Should you?”

Randall winced. He stiffened and put his back to Jon. “Fuck you, man…” Grumbling, he climbed down the ladder.

Jon watched him hobble away. In truth, there wasn’t any harm in transferring Randall to the herding team. He was getting in the way on the wall. In a car, among the horde, what harm could he do? It might even be wise to split the Culvers up further. Three in one place was too many. But no, the idea of giving a creature like Randall what he wanted left a sour taste in Jon’s mouth.

Ghost greeted Jon at the bottom of the ladder. The summer sun set his blood-red eyes a blaze and instilled a golden warmth into his stark-white fur. He leaned into a scratch behind the ears before taking off into the woods. The natural void swallowed him whole. Not even the white of his fur broke through the darkness.

Bowen

The Craggy Tower sat atop a small hill, perched above a cluster of mismatched buildings. As a child, Bowen called the small hill the Little Hump.

The Little Hump jutted above the marshes as a beacon of fertility amongst the sea of sticky, soupy mud. Buildings huddled around its base, exposed to the elements, defenceless. Meagre farms kissed the perimeter of the marshes. They couldn’t hope to feed every mouth on the Little Hump, but they did help alleviate the pain during trade dry spells. No palisades protected them. The marshes took care of that. It took teams of a dozen men to guide a single merchant cart; an army stood no chance.

The Craggy Tower cast a sentry guard figure against the backdrop of the slate sky. Like a knight resting on the pommel of his sword, it watched over the small folk with dozens of arrow-slit eyes. An arrow hadn’t been fired from the Craggy Tower since the Targaryen Conquest, but still, as a child, they reminded Bowen that no matter how far he travelled he would be safe so long as he could see the Craggy Tower. Such was the folly of children.

Bowen followed Alden through the marshes. It should have been torture. On that day, Bowen had painstakingly trudged through knee-deep muck, thick as porridge and twice as sticky. Now, the muck ignored him. He walked through it as easy as air. It wasn’t cold between his toes. It wasn’t sticky up his shins. It wasn’t anything.

Alden leapt between clumps of sedge as he sang the wrong words to The Bear and The Maiden’s Fair. He often made up his own words to songs. Sometimes they clashed horribly. Most often, they somehow worked just as well. Alden sang about how the bear wanted to build a castle deep in the woods, but had to first – with the help of the maiden – convince the forest creatures to accept him as their lord. The bear was a prickly fellow with no patience for folly or whimsy, while the maiden was kind and patient. Separate, they stood no chance at appealing to all the creatures’ needs, but when they put their heads together, there was nothing they couldn’t accomplish.

Overhead, storm clouds rolled across the sky. A mass of pitch-black clouds spanned from horizon to horizon. Inch by inch, they erased the sky. Storms were evil things. They blew down houses, destroyed crops, and spread sickness. All while having the gall to rain precious water. How dare they provide the backbone of agriculture as if they weren’t agents of The Stranger. Bowen much preferred blizzards. Blizzards didn’t pretend to be something they’re not. They destroyed and killed, and were bloody proud of it.

A group of leech farmers watched them. They wore only britches. Fat leeches squirmed all over their body, neck to knee. They wedged them off with the blunt end of a knife and tossed them into wicker baskets big enough to carry a handful of little lords.

A farmer submerged down to his neck called out to them. “A storm’s on her way, mi-little-lords! Best be home before too long! Wouldn’t want to gets caught up in it, would we?”

“We won’t, Wat!” Alden said as he leapt onto a large sedge clump, like a frog.

Alden knew all the names of the small folk. It was the only part of him that Mother disliked. Well, that and his love for Bowen, but that was more of a hatred than a dislike.

Bowen stopped to watch Wat. He lay in the mud and stared at the sky with blank, happy eyes. His fellow leech farmers stood around him in a disorganised clump. No one moved or talked. As Alden hopped further away, their faces fuzzed, then their bodies. They dissolved into a clump of fuzzy human-shaped forms.

As the ground began to fuzz, Alden turned around. “Come on, Little Bow! You’re so slow!”

“I am.”

“Come on, Little Bow! You’re so slow!”

“That’s why we didn’t make it in time.”

The storm clouds froze. A bolt of lighting hung on the horizon, still as stone. It’s flash painted the marshes silver.

Bowen took a step towards Alden. The bolt vanished, the ground unfuzzed, and the clouds resumed their steady march. Thunder built. First as a rumbled whisper, then a growl, and then an explosion. The ground trembled. Heavy, oppressive sound weighed on Bowen like iron chains.

It wasn’t real thunder, just an imitation. Then why do I feel like crying?

“Almost there, Little Bow! Try not to be so slow. We’ll be there before you know.”

*** 

Spitting rain tapped a lazy rhythm on the glass garden’s roof. It poked holes through the grime, and carved tracks down the roof’s peak, like tears on cheeks. Brown-green light wormed its way past the grime through the holes and tracks. It speckled the bare, dirt floor and rows of empty shelves. As the storm swallowed the sun little by little, the light dwindled.

Glass gardens were a northern invention, designed to grow food where it was too cold to sew seed. The marshes didn’t need them. Trade made up for their lack of fertile soil. Bowen’s grandfather, Lord Dayfdd Marsh, commissioned them to be built anyway on an empty island of hardy land a short walk from the Craggy Tower. Among other luxuries.

Bowen never saw the luxuries, but he heard the tales from Father. A gaudy sept, three stories high, with depictions of The Seven carved from granite. A paddock of thoroughbred destriers that never saw more than a handful of tourneys, none of which they won. And a useless distillery that made wine that no one would buy; the locals had taken to calling it bog wine. Grandfather paraded minor lords – and once Lord Tully himself – around the island to bask in the splendour of House Marsh.

When Father became lord, he had them all torn down, which he reminded Bowen and Alden of often. They worshipped in a room tucked away at the bottom of the Craggy Tower, to charcoal drawings. They rode common workhorses, for work, not tourneys. Bog wine was outlawed. Food on Marsh land was primarily traded for, as it had been for Bowen’s grandfather’s grandfather, and his grandfather before him.

Still, the glass gardens remained. Empty, but standing all the same. Whenever Bowen asked why, the ice and stone would fade from Father’s eyes, his lips would hint at a frown, and he’d dismiss Bowen from his presence. Bowen soon learned not to ask those sorts of questions.

From the doorway, Bowen watched Alden dance. His brother hopped from foot to foot, upon the dots of light. When he missed and his foot touched the dark, he laughed and called for Bowen to take a turn. On that day, Bowen did just that. For all his worrying about Mother and the storm, he’d danced. With Alden, Mother didn’t exist, nor the storm, nor the persistent wet heat of the marshes. The things one could forget when faced with a brother’s smile.

Now, that smile was stomach-curdling homesickness, heart-stabbing betrayal, and the inescapable doom of time. Bowen could hardly look at it, let alone join it. He remained outside the door, in the fading light and the first spits of rain.

“Please, Alden…” Bowen whispered; for there was little point in shouting when speaking to deaf ears. “If you leave now, you’ll get back home before it arrives. The hearth awaits you. Don’t you want to be warm?”

Alden turned that cursed smile on him. “It’s your turn, Little Bow! Dance with me and you’ll know, that there’s no fun in being slow!”

Thunder roared. With a start, Bowen felt it in his chest, in his feet, and in his hands. The panes of the glass garden rattled.

Lightning flashed. For a fraction of a second, blinding silver light filled the glass gardens. Alden’s pale skin and golden hair glowed like the sun. The light died. Darkness consumed the garden. Ice-cold sheets of rain pelted Bowen’s back.

Sensations returned all at once. The muggy heat clung to his skin. Sulphur burned the back of his nose. Rain drenched him to the bone.

Shivering, Bowen held his head in his hands. “Gods, please. Please, just take me. I can’t do this again. I can’t…”

Thunder crashed as the storm captured the sun.

“Come inside, quickly!” Alden shouted over the howling wind.

“But it’s not.”

“Come inside, quickly!”

“The wind will blow the door off its hinges.”

“Come inside, quickly!”

“Lighting will strike the roof, and the glass will shatter.”

“Come inside, quickly!”

“A thousand shards will rain down on you. They’ll cut you. Your face, hands, arms, your… one shard the size of my hand will take you in the eye.”

“Come inside, quickly!”

“The rain and wind will pelt you from all directions. It’ll feel like swimming in ice and needles for hours and hours and hours.”

“Come inside, quickly!”

“By the time Wat finds you, your lips will be blue. You’ll be as pale as milk. You’ll be attacked by fits of thrashing. Those will never go away. The cuts will heal, and the colour of your skin will return, but you’ll be plagued by those fits for the rest of your life.”

“Come inside, quickly!”

“You won’t die. No, that’d be too easy. You’ll live forever in fear of thunder. So much as a spittle of rain will reduce you to tears. As much as you’re able, you’ll spend your time indoors. With her. Always with her. She’ll sink her talons in deeper and deeper.”

“Come inside, quickly!”

“She’ll whisper, ‘It was his fault. That stupid boy always filled your head with folly. Stay away from him. He’s not your real brother. No real family would do such a thing to you’. And damn you, you’ll believe her!”

“Come inside, quickly!”

“You’ll never smile again!”

Lighting stabbed the ground. Dirt and grass exploded. Heat warped the air. Thunder roared without delay. Darkness stole Alden from view. His voice travelled from the void beyond the doorway, calling. Always calling.

“Come inside, quickly!”

Bowen couldn’t move. He was in a storm. The storm. Men weren’t meant to linger in such places. They were meant to scurry back to their homes, pray, and hide under the blankets. If he tried to move, the thought that he’d step into the path of a lightning bolt kept him frozen.

Shelter. He needed shelter. Somewhere to hide.

“Come inside, quickly!”

Bowen dropped to his knees. “Mother have mercy. Mother have mercy. Mother have mercy.”

Alden wasn’t wrong. Aye, the roof would explode, but there were other places to hide in the glass gardens. The shelves. A few forgotten chairs. An old tool chest full of spiders and mice. They’d keep the rain off, and the lighting, maybe even the glass.

Bowen got up on one foot. The dream must repeat for a reason. Mayhaps he could save Alden and undo everything. Was this a second chance at life? Another resurrection?

No.

If he stepped through that doorway, into the void where Alden lived, he would die back in the real world. A real death. No resurrection or second chances. He knew so, in the same way, one knows that a fall from a great height will kill them. The very essence of his being knew it to be true.

Bowen looked over his shoulder. Horror awaited him to the east. A wall of rain rampaged across the marshes, so dense that not even light could escape. Everything in its path vanished, swallowed by the downpour. The void awaited him to the west; the Stranger’s cold embrace.

So what if I die? The world would be better off.

The rain wall swallowed the Craggy Tower. Gone. In the blink of an eye.

Then why can’t I join Alden?

The rain wall swallowed the Little Hump and her little town.

Because I’m a coward. Damn me to the seven hells if it isn’t true.

The rain wall swallowed the marshes and rampaged towards him. It grew bigger, bigger, impossibly bigger. Bigger than the Craggy Tower. Bigger than The Wall. Bigger than the sky. At its base, the tiny silhouette of a man stumbled through ankle-high mud. The rain wall swallowed him too.

It isn’t real. He isn’t real. But what awaits me in there, in the void, that’s real. I’d rather face a fabricated horror than the truth of what The Stranger has in store for me. Life or death. The horror of the storm or the Father’s judgement. There is no choice for a traitorous coward like me. 

Bowen faced the storm, opened his arms, and let the rain wall consume him.

Jon

“Aye, we had all sorts of luxuries at Winterfell,” Jon said.

“Like what?” Julie asked. “Oh, stables. Did you have stables? Did you have your own horse? I bet you did! Probably like, quite a few. Right? And what about, like, hunting hawks? I remember learning about those in History. Back in the medieval ages, when we had lords and stuff too, they’d train hawks to hunt in the woods. Did you have those?”

“Father wasn’t much of a hawker. It’s more of a Southern pastime. However, we did still-”

“What about kennels? Like, dogs and stuff? Not pets – did you have those though? – I mean, like, hunting dogs? Or guards dogs? Show dogs? Any kind of dogs really. Did you have those?”

“We did.”

“How many? I bet it was a lot. Lucky! Dogs are the best. Like, Ghost is great, but I’m not talking about wolves. He seems more independent and, like, his own thing. You know? He’s not a pet. But, dogs, dogs are so sweet! They’re kinda dumb, but that’s okay, they’re meant to be a little dumb. It’s cute! They’re loyal, though. That’s what counts. I’ve had so many dogs. When I was a baby we had…”

As Julie went off on another tangent, Jon tried very, very hard to remain composed and appear relaxed. They’d been at it for hours. Hours and hours of Jon answering clumps of jumbled-together questions, only to be barraged with more. Never before had he met someone with such little regard for the flow of a conversation.

Julie thought with her mouth. No seconds were wasted between the formation of a thought and the act of speaking it. Which made it quite impossible to lead a conversation anywhere. How am I meant to present an argument when I can’t get so much as a sentence in between rants?

“… We had to. You know? He just wouldn’t stop. I don’t know if there was something wrong with his brain… or something. It was like, he either felt all of it or none of it. Full-blown rage or calm. No inbetween. It was only a matter of time before he killed another dog, or hurt someone real bad. So, we had to put him down. Right?”

Julie stopped talking. One second. Then two. Normally, that’s all it would take. Hesitate for even a moment and she’d fill the silence. She fidgeted with the bandages around the stump and looked at Jon like a child who’d admitted to raiding food from the kitchens.

“You… You did. Sometimes there isn’t an easy choice.”

“Yeah.”

Julie dodged his eyes. Dusk’s bonfire light filtered through the RV’s windows and painted the left side of her dark-brown face. On a pale face, such colours would glow, brightened by a canvas of pink and cream. On Julie’s face, those colours enriched, darkened by blacks and browns. It was the difference between a green boy and a veteran on a battlefield. A veteran didn’t have to leer or flex; he didn’t have to show off; he didn’t concern himself with the impression he made on the enemy, because he knew he was strong. And such reservation, paradoxically, portrayed more strength than any amount of showboating ever could. Julie’s skin infused the colours of dusk with a true confidence that Jon hadn’t thought possible.

Julie attempted to brush a strand of her thick, black hair out of her face. Her stump touched the hair. She winced, shrunk into her seat, and left her hair be. Silence persisted. Finally.

Jon chose his next words carefully. “I’ve had to make hard choices too.”

Julie met his eyes. “Like what?”

“I’ve had to swallow my pride, and admit when I was being a spoiled, arrogant ass.”

Julie smiled.

“I’ve had to sacrifice comfort and leisure in order to protect those I care about, as well as myself.”

“I have too…”

“I’ve killed those who threaten me when left no other choice. I killed a man named Orell, a soldier unfortunate enough to be on the other side and in the wrong place at the wrong time. I killed a friend and mentor named Quorin when ordered to by the man himself. I killed my lover, Ygritte, when we met on the battlefield. And I beheaded a man named Janos Slynt when he made it clear that he intended to kill me. These deaths weigh heavy on me every day, as they should, for to take another’s life should never be easy. But, if given the chance, I’d do them all again. I’d take on my burdens despite the knowledge of their cost. For the sake of those I hold dear, for those who depend upon me, for the lives I know, and for those I don’t. And for my own.”

“Have you… killed anyone since you arrived here?”

“A man named Merle Dixon threatened to get me and others killed in Atlanta. I left him on a roof, chained to a pipe. A man named Dan Culver tried to steal life-saving medicine from me. I drove my sword through his chest. A girl in our group no older than Carl got bitten on the arm. I cut it off. The injury killed her a few days later.”

Julie hid her stump in her lap, beneath the table. “I heard about what you did for that girl. You didn’t murder her.”

“Aye, but I killed her.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did. When I swung my blade, I knew the gamble. Killing is always a gamble. When you choose to kill a man, it doesn’t necessarily kill the threat he poses. He might resist and overpower you. Another man may take up his cause. His death might unsettle others, and create whole new threats. That is why we must always be sure it is the only solution before we pass such a sentence.”

Julie tensed, scowled, and sat up. “You’re in on it too, aren’t you? God, you are! Did he put you up to this?”

“No, Julie. It’s-”

“He always does this! He can never take no for an answer. It always has to be his way, because, of course, he knows best. He knows everything! The world revolves around Tyreese fucking Williams!”

“Julie, this was my-”

“What did he say to you? Some bullshit about the, ‘greater good,’ or about how, ‘the world ain’t how it used to be,’ right?” Julie threw her hand and stump into the air and stood. “He’s manipulating you! It’s what he does. Whenever something doesn’t go his way, he twists words and turns people on each other. I’m sure whatever you had to do in the past was justified, or unavoidable, or whatever. But this shit with the Culvers?”

“Julie, listen-”

“This shit has nothing to do with any of that. He’s just scared, and lashing out at anything that he can remotely justify as a ‘threat’. Because if he isn’t killing something or shouting orders, he feels like his whole world is crumbling down around him.”

Jon slammed his fist on the table. “Enough!”

Julie started. Wide-eyed, she took a step backwards. Jon calmed himself with a slow breath. He shouldn’t have shouted. That was unbecoming.

“Please, Julie. Sit. Allow me to explain myself.”

“You… You don’t need to. I get it. He has a way of getting under people’s skin.”

“He didn’t put me up to this. This is my idea.”

“Your idea? So, you…”

“Convinced him? Aye.”

“Who else have you convinced?”

“I can’t tell you that, yet. Not until you’re onboard.”

Julie raised an eyebrow. “You aren’t gonna convince me of this. It’s evil.”

“Then what’s the harm in listening?” Jon gestured to her seat.

Julie remained standing but didn’t leave. She leaned against the RV's kitchen counter and crossed her arms.

“The Culvers pose a real threat to you.”

“Why, because they’re racist?”

“Well, aye.”

“Plenty of people have been racist to me. I’m from Alabama. None of them ever tried to kill me. One tried to fight me. She was a real mean bitch tho, so I don’t know if it was because she was racist or-” Julie’s cheeks darkened and she dodged Jon’s eyes. “Sorry, what were you gonna say?”

“I was going to say, that you speak of a time when this land still had rules. Now that the rules are gone, people like the Culvers become-”

“What, monsters? People don’t just suddenly become monsters without laws. You sound like a preacher.”

“Most people aren’t like the Culvers.”

“I know, but it’s true for them too. I’ve seen them. They’re idiots. Not monsters.”

“You’ve only known them a couple days.”

“And you know them better? You’ve only been on Earth for a few months.”

Jon suppressed the urge to rub his temples. He needed to appear composed, as if her folly had no effect on him. Instead, he opened and closed his sword hand under the table.

“You’ve seen the tattoos they have, aye?”

“Yeah. I know what they mean. Seen ‘em before.”

“Then you know that they’re not normal fools. They’re nazis.”

Julie scoffed. “Don’t use that word like you know what it means. Westeros had nazis, did it?”

“No, but we had hateful zealots. And I’ve been taught about nazis by the others. Julie, they don’t think you’re human.”

“And you know that for a fact?”

“I do. I’ve talked to them. That boy Randall, a man the same age as us, told me that people like you are supposed to be subservient to people like me. He talked about your people as if they were cattle.”

Julie rolled her eyes. “So he parroted some nazi talking points. Does that earn him a death sentence?”

“Of course it does. They want to kill you, Julie. You, your father, T-Dog, and Glenn. If they can’t force you to be their slaves, they’d rather not have you around at all.”

“God, you actually believe all this, don’t you? What happened to you, to make you this way?”

Jon clenched his sword hand. “Nothing made me this way. I simply grew up. People depended on me to make the hard choices for them. So I did, and so I will, for as long as you’re all too short-sighted to see for yourselves. How can you trust these people – people who hate you, who openly display symbols that are antithetical to your very existence, who will kill you the first chance they get – with the lives of those you care about? How can you not want to kill them?”

“You should know. How many people have you killed? Six?”

“Seven.”

“Then you should know that we’re not meant to do it. We’re hardwired against it. That’s why it weighs so heavily. And, at the end of the day, we’re all the same. Every single one of us. No matter what those dumb pieces of shit say, they won’t go through with it, because deep down they know it would destroy them.”

Jon had met quite a few stubborn fools in his life. None had been as thick-headed as her. She really believed the things she said. It wasn’t mere words meant to cover up an uncomfortable truth. No, she’d actually managed to delude herself into believing everything she said was true.

Fine then. If she was blind to the truth, that left only one option.

“Their threats aren’t empty. They’ve tried to kill before.”

“If you’re gonna talk about that gunfight you had with them, that doesn’t count. You literally just told me about how you had to kill on the battlefield.”

“I’m not talking about the battle at the bar.” Jon touched the scar Orell’s eagle gave him over his eye. “This was their work.”

Julie uncrossed her arms. “What do you mean?”

“They snuck into my tent at night. May – the girl with the black hair – tried to drive a knife through my eye.” This is for her own good.

“What? Why?”

“Because I stuck up for T-Dog.” The means don’t matter

“How do you-”

“Because she told me as much as we fought over the blade.” If it saves their lives, why should it matter?

Julie’s eyes traced the other scar on Jon’s face, on the opposite side.

“I’m lucky to have kept my eye, let alone my life,” he said. “If they’re willing to kill me because I defended someone like you, what do you think they’d be willing to do to you? I doubt they’d make it as quick. You’ve heard the tales of lynchings, aye? There’s plenty of rope laying around here, and more trees.” What is a lie compared to a murder?

“They… They tried to kill you.”

“Aye.”

“They really tried to kill you…” Julie sat on the floor and tried to hold her head in her hands. When her stump touched her forehead, she buckled and whimpered. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

Jon got out of his seat and went down on one knee before her. “They’ll try to kill you too Julie. And your father. And any other innocent person who happens to look like you.”

“But why? I never did anything to them. I’m…” Julie choked on a sob. “I’m just trying to hold on. Same as them.”

“Because they’re monsters.”

Julie pressed her palm against her brow and took a handful of her hair. “I can’t do this. I can’t kill. I can’t. I can’t even kill walkers. I can’t kill a person.”

“You don’t have to.” Jon offered her his hand. “We’ll carry that burden. Let us take care of you.”

“And who is us?”

“Your father, Daryl, Maggie, Glenn, Andrea, Carol, Bowen – If he survives, and Chris.”

Julie met his eyes. “Chris?”

“Well, he’s not technically on board yet. But you can change that, can’t you?”

“Is that all you want me to do? Convince Chris?”

“That, and vote for Andrea in an election.”

“Against Rick?”

“He hides from the truth that you and I have come to accept. Should a man like that be allowed to lead?”

“I suppose not…” Julie considered Jon’s hand. “Won’t doing this tear the group apart? The others who don’t agree, they’ll hate us.”

“In time, they’ll see what we did was right. Probably. It doesn’t matter, because there are more of us than them.”

Julie bowed her head, sighed, and took Jon’s hand. Her hand trembled, but its grip was firm. Jon helped her to her feet.

“You mustn’t speak about this to anyone not onboard. Don’t try to convince them without coming to us first. If you fail, it could jeopardise everything.”

“Except Chris?”

“Except Chris.”

Some of the colours had returned to Julie’s face, but a subtle ashen tone remained. Not even the sunlight could combat it. Her eyes pointedly avoided Jon’s. She had the face of someone who’d recently beaten a fever. “I should probably go apologise to my dad, huh?”

“I’m sure he’d appreciate it, aye.”

“Do you really think Bowen will go along with this? He doesn’t seem like the killing type.”

“He’ll agree. Trust-”

The RV’s door flew open and slammed against the wall. Jenner burst in. He looked like a soldier who’d awoken to the sound of horns. “Julie! Come, quickly! It’s Bowen!”

Bowen

The howling wind stole Bowen’s black cloak. Twisting like a viper, it streaked beyond the curtains of rain and vanished.

Bowen was real again. The rain froze him to the bone. Mud filled his boots and clumped between his toes. It sucked his feet deep below and fought tooth and nail with every step. The wind’s ice-cold grasp tried to pluck him from the mud. It howled and raged like a giant’s tantrum. Grass, reeds, and small boulders swirled around him, tossed this way and that. None of it mattered. Bowen wasn’t destined to die that day.

Step by step, Bowen trudged towards the shadow silhouettes of the Craggy Tower and the Little Hump. They warbled like the last whisps of the smoke of a sickly fire. Each step was agony, but life was agony, so Bowen kept on trudging. He may never see Chris’s rare smile or Julie’s warm eyes again, but by the gods, he would hear their laughter again. He’d listen to Julie’s awful singing voice, and pretend to understand Chris’s rambles about tanks, planes, and other meaningless things that excited him so. He would return to them. He would keep them safe.

Wat burst through the rain curtain, as sodden as a drowned cat. His dirt-brown hair clung to his scalp, sleek and smooth. A defiant leech squirmed on his cheek. It whipped this way and that, beholden to the whim of the ever-changing wind. “YOU THERE!” Wat screamed over the wind. “HAVE YOU SEEN THE LITTLE LORDS?”

Bowen trudged over to him and clasped him on the shoulder. “Best hurry, Wat. The lighting will strike any moment now.”

“WHAT? SPEAK UP, MAN!”

Silver light set the marshes a blaze. Thunder shook the earth. The light died. Wat cringed under its weight. Bowen wanted to curl into a ball and cry, but he stayed firm.

“Run, Wat. Your future lord needs you.” Bowen trudged onward.

“WHAT? SAY THAT AGAIN! HELLO? HELLO?”

The rain swallowed Wat and his shouts. He’d run off to find his death. Wat was a good man; and the only one Mother could use as a scapegoat for her decision to let two highborn boys run around the marshes before a storm, unguarded, and hardly clothed. Alden hadn’t actually gotten Father’s permission that day, he’d simply known the right words to say.

The more Bowen trudged, the less distorted the Craggy tower became, and the closer he got to where he wasn’t wanted.

Jon

Julie dragged Jon into Bowen’s room by the arm. He didn’t want to see this, but the damnable girl wouldn’t let go no matter how much he protested.

Inside, it was pandemonium. Screams. Shouts. Pleads. Bowen thrashed about on the bed as he rasped nonsense. Crimson blood wept through the sodden bandages which covered his eyes. Hershel pinned him down by the shoulders, and Maggie rifled through a draw. She shouted to be heard over Daryl and Beth’s argument. Daryl had a knife ready, and Beth held him back, screaming, teary-eyed. And Rick’s voice boomed above it all.

“Dammit, Hershel! Get off him before he turns!” Rick shouted.

“He could hurt himself!” Hershel said.

“YOU GOT A DEATH WISH, OLD MAN?” Daryl took a step forward, pointing his knife past Beth.

Beth shoved him to no avail. “LET HIM WORK!”

“Beth, help me find the tranquilliser!” Maggie said

“Storm!” Bowen raved between ragged gasps. “Storm! Storm! Storm!”

Julie let go of Jon and hurried to help Maggie. Jenner shouldered past Rick and pushed Daryl away from Beth.

“Out!” Jenner yelled. “Anyone who isn’t helping, out! Now!”

“The Storm!”

“Hell off me!” Daryl shoved Jenner. “He’s gonna kill someone!”

“He comes!”

“And that’s their risk to take! Rick, find Chris and Tyreese. They’ll want to be here.”

“Right!”

“The Stranger rides the storm!”

“No need.” Tyreese shouldered past Jon and held Bowen’s flailing legs down to the bed.

Chris lingered in the doorway. “This is just cruel…”

“Storm!”

“He’s had enough,” Jon said. Apparently, not loud enough, for no one reacted. “Damn you all! Look at him! We gave Sophia mercy for less!”

“The kid’s right, dammit!” Daryl shoved past Jenner and snatched Rick’s arm. “Do somethin’! For once, be a fuckin’ man, and do somethin’!”

“Storm! Storm! Storm!”

“He won’t die,” Tyreese said. “It isn’t his time yet.”

Rick reclaimed his arm. “Daryl, leave on your own, or you’ll be made to.”

Daryl sheathed his knife. “Fuck it. Fuck it. Y’all wanna get bit? Go ahead! Ain’t my fuckin’ problem.” He stormed out of the room and shouldered past Chris.

“Got it!” Maggie shot to her feet. She brandished a needle.

Hershel held up his maimed hand. “Wait!”

“The storm…” Bowen’s thrashing petered out. “It… desires… all.”

The second Bowen went still, Hershel felt his wrist.

“He got a pulse?” Maggie asked, lowering the needle.

“Faint and irregular, but he’s still there.”

Jenner’s eyes widened. “Hershel, step back.”

“What? He ain’t-”

“Step back! The virus changes the rhythm of the heart! He’s turned!”

Bowen

The storm would be known as the worst storm in recorded history. A meaningless denotation. Aye, it tore harvest crops from the ground and set more than half the villages of the Seven Kingdoms to ruin. And aye, it killed thousands and stole Alden’s light from the world. And aye… the memory of it tormented Bowen for decades to come. But all storms are monsters, just as all wars are hell. What point would there be in telling a soldier fighting in the worst war of all time, that his hell was the worst of them all? Why raise one above the other? They are both obviously awful.

The wind pinned the corpse of a washerwoman to the steps of a bakery. Blood and brains drizzled from her caved brow. Splintered bones jutted out through her skin like snapped branches. If Bowen hadn’t known her as the Plump Singing Lady, he wouldn’t have recognised her twisted, broken form as human.

Bowen passed her by so that her memory may dissolve beyond the cognitive confines of his prison. Something deep within him drew him to the Craggy Tower. The way a starving man is drawn to a pile of rotting scraps. He needed to get it over with or die.

No guards stood watch around the Craggy Tower’s base. They were supposed to stand at the Craggy Tower’s base come seven hells or high water. A thick, oaken door bound with iron bands flapped on its hinges like a flag. It beat a frantic rhythm against the granite.

Bowen found no relief outside the rain. Stepping out of the rain was worse than walking in it. Inside the rain, he grew accustomed to the wet, the cold, and the misery. It became numb and easy to ignore. The dry reminded him of how truly soaked and cold he was.

A perpetual shiver plagued him. It rattled his bones, trembled his hands, and chattered his teeth. He tripped on a corpse. Old Bill. He’d guarded Father’s room since before Father could speak. In his rush to bar the door, he’d slipped and cracked his head open on the bottom step. His death had caused Father to order helmets worn at all times since the storm, even indoors. Which saved the life of Fat Tom when a piece of the battlement crumbled and fell on his head.

Father’s chambers resided at the very top of the stairs, right below the battlements. The wind tried its best to tear the rooftop trapdoor off its hinges. A stubborn iron bar held true against the might of the tempest. A lone guard stood outside Father’s chamber door. Wyland Pyke; a hedgeknight.

Wyland started at the sight of Bowen. “You there!” He touched the hilt of his sheathed short sword and looked Bowen up and down. He spoke with the clipped, curt accent of the Iron Islands. “Y- You’re welcome to seek refuge here, Brother of The Watch, but you are not permitted inside his Lordship’s chambers.”

“I’m not here for my father, Wyland.”

Bowen approached. Wyland drew his blade.

“Stop! Stop! In the name of the warrior, I will cut you down if you approach!”

“It is not my day to die.”

Wyland thrust his blade at Bowen’s chest. It bounced off. Baulking, Wyland lunged at Bowen with an arched swing. Bowen brushed it aside with the back of his hand. No blade could harm him. Not yet. With a wave of his hand, he banished the memory of Wyland into dust and opened Father’s chamber door. 

Jon

“You don’t know that he’s turned! He’s just had a seizure, and he’s got a fever. ‘Course his heart rate is irregular!” Hershel yelled.

“God dammit, Hershel! Out of a hundred tests, one hundred fucking tests, every single victim’s heartbeat became irregular after death! He’s turned!”

“A hundred tests don’t prove nothin’.”

Jenner gawked.

“Dammit, Dad.” Maggie grabbed Hershel’s shoulder. “Listen to him he’s a doctor.”

“I’m a doctor.” Hershel knocked her off. “Beth, help me prep a new IV needle. The last one fell on the floor.”

Beth eyed Jenner. “Daddy… maybe we should-”

“Fine, I’ll do it myself.”

Hershel plucked a needle from a tray on the bedside table and attempted to attach it to a plastic tube with one hand. No one did anything. They all just watched him, in varying states of disbelief. Except Tyreese and Julie. Firm resolve hardened their expressions, the fools.

Jon marched up to Rick. “Do you intend to merely stand there?”

“I… Hershel, please. I don’t want to hurt you by accident.”

“Hurt me?” Hershel turned on them, putting his back to Bowen. He opened his arms. “Try it, son. I may be old, but I’m still a United States Marine. You wanna drag me away? Go right ahead.”

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Hershel. But, it’s over now. Think of Maggie and Beth. Do you want them to face this world without a father? Are you willing to risk that?”

“I will not let y’all kill a man who might very well live.”

Jon stepped towards Hershel. An idea came to him. Hershel eased into a grappling stance.

“Calm.” Jon raised his hands. “Check his blood.”

“His blood?”

“Th- That’s right!” Jenner rushed forward. “If he’s turned, his blood will be black! Check it! Quickly, someone, a knife!”

Jon handed his dagger to Hershel, hilt first. Hershel didn’t accept.

“Step back,” he said.

“Hershel!” Jenner groaned.

“All of you. I don’t want nobody rushin’ me while my back is turned.”

“Are you-”

“Do as he says,” Rick said. He walked over to the other side of the room. “Come on, all of y’all.”

Everyone except Jon and Tyreese joined Rick. Hershel took the dagger, and Jon joined the others. After one last glance at the group, Hershel knelt beside Bowen. He reached for Bowen’s arm.

Bowen snatched his wrist and let out a guttural, gargled growl.

Bowen

Lord Randall Marsh was a bear of a man. Curly black hair as thick as a wire brush covered him head to toe. Garbed in a simple, cloth nightgown, one might mistake him for a lumberjack, or a trapper. He had the look of a man who earned all he had with his hands, out in a wilderness as untameable as he. Father once hung a man who made that mistake. No one made it since.

“YOU DARE BARGE IN HERE?” Father boomed. He pushed Mother behind him, balling his fists. “STATE YOUR PURPOSE!”

“Forgive me, Father. It’s only a dream, but still, you shouldn’t have to see this.”

“WHAT?!”

“You loved her. I don’t blame you. How can one blame a man for loving his wife?”

“He’s insane!” Mother screamed. “Randall, do something!”

Father took a step forward, and Bowen dismissed him to dust. Oddly, Mother didn’t scream. She fell to her knees, a blank look on her face as she watched Father’s dust swirl to the floor.

“Are you the Stranger?” Mother whispered.

“I’m your son, but I wouldn’t expect you to know that.”

Bowen held out his hands, and Lump appeared. The massive greatsword weighed nothing at all. Mother screamed. Or rather, the memory of her screamed. It scrambled backwards, like a crab, across the room until it reached the wall. Sobbing prayers, it clawed at the craggy stone.

It was what he needed to do. Something commanded him without words. The Seven, mayhaps. Mayhaps, something older. It had a voice and spoke no words.

Bowen yanked Lump’s hilt. Lump slid from the scabbard, smooth as silk. Candlelight gleamed across its broad, polished face. It was as perfect as if it’d come fresh from a forge. No dents, scratches, chinks, or cracks. Perfect, silver, steel. A blade the size of a child.

An invisible force dragged Mother across the stone floor. She kicked and screamed. It forced her to kneel and tilted her head to look Bowen in the eyes. A defiant look hardened her cerulean eyes.

“You’re worthless,” she said.

“I know.”

Mother fought her restraints. “I should have smothered you in the crib!”

“You would have spared many a great deal of pain.”

“Y- You won’t do it! You’re a coward!”

“I am, but I will.”

Bowen pointed Lump at Mother’s chest. It should have felt amazing. Better than sex. How many times had he dreamed of this? Yet, he felt numb. The same feeling after he stabbed Jon.

“You’re going to run me through?” Mother devolved into laughter. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “It should be you! You should use that blade to open your throat and be done with it! The world would be better off!”

“It would.”

Bowen rammed Lump through Mother’s chest and The Craggy Tower melted into darkness.

Jon

Jon moved without a second thought. As screams and shouts filled the room again, he seized Hershel by the shoulders and yanked him as hard as could. Bowen’s fingers slipped. Hershel crashed to the floor.

The corpse’s bandaged mouth gaped open as it let out a rasp. Blindly, it grabbed at the bed sheets, in search of prey. Jon grabbed the IV needle, and-

A huge weight slammed into him. The ground slipped out from under his feet. The bedroom flipped onto its side and vanished. Black. Then white. His ears rang. The bedroom faded back into form. Someone was crying. No, a few people were. Children? Yes, children, but also… a man.

Tyreese pulled him to his feet. “He’s not dead.”

“Wha…” Jon held his head. His vision swirled like clouded soup. “What are you-” The soup vanished.

Chris and Julie hugged the corpse. And the corpse hugged them back. All three of them sobbed like mourners. But that didn’t make sense. Why hug a corpse? No, a corpse shouldn’t be able to hug. Or cry. Should it?

“Kid?” Tyreese waved his hand in front of Jon’s eyes. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-”

“Move.” Hershel appeared. Gently, he guided Jon… somewhere.

It was a soft somewhere. The living room. That’s right, the living room. On the farm. On Earth. A light shone in Jon’s eyes. He winced and tried to turn his head, but Hershel stopped him and held the light steady.

Hershel clicked his tongue. “What’s your name, son?”

“It’s… It’s alright. I’m coming back.”

“Your name.”

“Jon Snow. Hershel, they’re hugging a corpse. Someone needs to stop them.”

“Jesus… Jon, that’s Bowen.”

Jon shook his head. “No, Bowen’s dead. He got scratched, and turned.”

“He made it. Just like I said he would.”

“But he died.”

“No, he almost died.”

“No, he died. People don’t just come back from the dead, Hershel. Everyone knows that.”

“You did. Didn’t ya?”

“That’s… that’s not the… but, he died.”

Hershel took his hand. “It’s been a long day, hasn’t it? Let’s get you to bed, son. Okay?”

***

Darkness shrouded the wall. A veil of clouds stole the moon and stars while a campfire provided flickering, orange light. The light cast Jon’s shadow against the battlements. It wavered like a banner in the wind.

What a fool he’d been. A mere knock to the head had reduced him to a blathering mess. Bits and pieces remained in his memory – a rare show of mercy from the gods – but what he did remember made him feel like a toddling babe. Spoken to with slow, gentle words. Ushered away to bed. Tucked under the covers. When he’d awoken the next afternoon in only his undergarments, tucked into a big soft bed, and a meal ready on the nightstand, he wanted nothing more than to shrivel up and hide away forever.

His senses returned in a timely manner. The horde would arrive that day. It wasn’t a day for idle hands. He’d insisted on taking part, and Rick begrudgingly let him reassume command of the wall team.

The braziers weren’t lit; they couldn’t risk the horde spotting them. If even a handful of walkers broke away, everything could come undone. So, they put up with the dark. To stare into the distant forest was to stare into a barrel of pitch. The traitorous dark hid anything beyond the treeline from sight.

Jon faced the darkness alone. He and the guns manned the wall, while the others sat around the plastic long table, bathed in orange light. There was no sense in having them man the wall for the whole night. That would lead to frayed minds and itchy trigger fingers. The dark liked to play tricks on the eyes. If the horde did break, they’d have plenty of warning. What I would have given to have a few walkie-talkies back at Castle Black.

All was silent. Too silent. Nature had a queer sense for the dead’s approach.

Jon looked down at Ghost. He stalked the perimeter of the little wall camp, golden-orange in the fire-light. His crimson eyes watched Dale, T-Dog, Beth, Julie, and Sam as they chatted and ate at the long plastic table. In the last few weeks, the table hosted every meal, many meetings, and countless idle conversations. It was the heart of their camp. No wonder they’d dragged it all the way out here.

Only May and Randall refused to sit at it. They sat close to the fire and whispered, backs to the others. Let them. Let them enjoy feeling safe while it lasts. Their recompense would come any day. After Shane’s. And it couldn’t come soon enough. The day they were free of the Culver’s folly would mark the first step towards progress. Even today of all days, they sewed chaos. James had stolen back his automatic rifle and replaced it with a revolver. Children in all but name.

Jon opened and closed his sword hand. Shane should have been dead by now, but the man seemed to plan his days as if he expected to be killed. Every day he followed the exact same routine, and never once did it lead to him being alone or out of eye-shot, or ear-shot. He never went on scavenging runs, and he slept in the middle of the tent huddle.

Mayhaps the gods will be merciful, and he’ll break his neck falling down those blasted rickety stairs.

The walkie crackled. “Jon? Jon, come in. Over,” Rick said. The dead raged in the background as he spoke. The walkie crackled and hissed. Gunshots, horns, and shouts screamed over the dead like a troupe of particularly awful mummers.

Jon unclipped the walkie from his belt. “I hear you. Over.”

“We just passed checkpoint A. Over.”

“Understood. We’ll keep an eye out. Over.”

“Over and out.”

Checkpoint A was the last place they’d set up camp on the highway. Where Sophia lost her arm. It was directly parallel to the farm. Jon clipped the walkie on his belt and honed his ears. Nothing. More nothing. Then, the faintest of sounds seeped out of the forest. The roar of engines. Wailing horns. Exploding gunshots. And the muffled groans of the dead.

Sam left the plastic long table. He skirted around May and Randall and climbed the wall’s ladder. Basked in shadows, he loomed over Jon. “They okay?”

“Aye.” Jon touched the walkie.

“I know it’s the plan and all, but fuck me if it don’t sound like hell on earth.”

“If anything goes wrong, they’ll let us know. Even if Rick falls, everyone out there has a walkie on hand.”

Sam nodded. He leaned on the battlements His hands trembled. “You’re welcome, by the way…”

“We all appreciate you allowing us to use your walkies, Sam.”

“Yeah.”

“You should go back down. I’ll let you know if you’re needed.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather stay up here. Can’t stand sitting in the shadow of this thing.” He patted the wall. “Makes me feel fucking tiny.”

“Fine, just don’t hold a gun. I won’t have you shooting at shadows.”

“I ain’t gonna-”

“Isn’t it fucking disgusting?” May said. She hoisted herself over the top of a ladder and ambled over to them across the wallwalk. “Trying to herd the dead, I mean. Do y’all really think we can control something so much bigger than ourselves? I guess you do. That’s the kind of scum you are.” 

“May, what the fuck are you talking about? Go sit by the fire.” Sam said.

“Or what?” May plucked a handgun from the battlements. “You’ll hit me?”

Sam stiffened.

Jon touched Needle. “May, put that-”

“Well? Are. You. Gonna. Hit. Me? You know, like you did Aunt Indie?”

Sam balled his fists. “Don’t talk about her, May.”

Jon tried to skirt around Sam, but his massive frame occupied the whole width of the wallwalk.

“Oh, come now, I don’t hold it against you. She was a right old bitch, Aunt Indie. A couple knocks round the head probably did her some good.”

“I said don’t!”

“Sam, take the gun from her!” Jon shouted.

“I don’t care. So what if you hated her? She hated you. And I hated her. And she hated me. And I hate you. And you hate me. We’re all fucked up, aren’t we? One big fucking, fucked up family!”

May raised her handgun. Thunder beyond thunder clapped. The back of his head erupted. Blood and brains got in Jon’s eyes, mouth and nose, and the bullet cut a line of fire across the cheek. Wiping his eyes, he drew Needle.

The red-hot barrel of May’s handgun pressed against his forehead. It ate into his flesh like thousands of tiny needles. “Uh uh. Don’t be stupid, Jon. Drop it.”

Jon clenched his jaw.

“I will not ask you fucking twice, Jon! Drop it! Now!”

Jon sighed and dropped Needle over the edge of the wallwalk.

“Good.”

May grasped his shoulder and gave him a shove.

For a few eternal heartbeats, Jon hung in the air. He weighed nothing. His stomach flipped. The world spun and slowed to a crawl. Solid-packed earth slammed his back. The wind raced out of him. Gasping, he could do little but fight for footing while May tossed a rifle to Randall.

“Nobody move a fucking muscle!” May said. With one foot planted on Sam’s back, she pointed her handgun down at Jon.

Jon stood. Thunder clapped. The ground beside his feet exploded.

“What the fuck did I just say?” May screamed. “Don’t. Fucking. Move!”

Randall hobbled over and pointed his rifle at Jon’s chest. “Kneel, Jon.”

Jon spat blood. “Which is it? Kneel or don’t move?”

“Just do as I say, man.” Randall eyed Ghost. The direwolf stalked back and forth between Jon’s peripherals. “And call Ghost off.”

“So you can shoot me on my knees rather than my feet?”

“Come on, man. Please.”

“Please? He could kill you in a heartbeat. One whistle. That’s all it would take.”

“He ain’t bulletproof. I’ll shoot him, Jon. Don’t make me. Kneel. Over there by the table.”

Jon knelt before the table, beside a horrified Beth. “No one’s making you do anything.”

Randall grimaced and gripped his rifle tight. The campfire painted long shadows across his features.

“Sit, boy,” Jon said.

Ghost sat beside him, teeth bared, eyes locked on Randall. Anger flowed through Jon. Unbridled rage that made him want to tear the stupid boy’s throat out. It would have been so easy. He was right there. No, control yourself. Wait for an opening. A too-long glance. A lowering of the guard. Anything. Pounce on it, no matter the risk.

May and Randall gathered the others up in a line beside Jon parallel to the long table. Engines roared. Beth perked up. May shoved her gun in her face. She screamed and shied away.

“Don’t get too excited now. They ain’t here to help.”

Jon risked a glance. The headlights of a quad bike and motorbike pulled into the gravel lot, and the silhouettes of James and Pete dismounted. They approached the house, wielding guns.

“DADDY!” Beth screamed. “MAG-”

May struck Beth. The handgun’s hilt cracked against her temple. Beth’s head spun to the side, and she collapsed in a heap.

“Shit.” May kicked her. “I was gonna shoot her first. Ain’t no point now. Randall, shoot the nigger girl.”

“No!” Chris shouted. He made to get to his feet but froze when May aimed at him.

Her eyes left Jon, but Randall’s remained. They bore into him, hardly blinking. He pressed the barrel of his rifle harder against Jon’s chest.

“I’m feeling generous, so I won’t shoot you for moving, string bean,” May said. “Hell, if you shoot her, I’ll even let you live.”

Chris balled his fists and drove them into his knees. Tears streamed down his cheeks, sparkling orange in the firelight.

Julie bowed her head. Her shoulders slumped. “Do it,” she whispered.

“What? No! I-”

“Just do it, Chris! Please, you-”

“Boooooring.” May put her arm around Randall’s shoulder. “What are you still doing, Randall? I think I told you to shoot the nigger girl. He look like a nigger to you? Or a girl?”

Randall didn’t take his eyes off Jon. “H- He’s plannin’ somethin’. I can tell.”

“He’s probably waiting for us to put our backs to him, ‘cause he’s smart. Don’t worry ‘bout him. I’ll watch him and the wolf. You kill the nigger girl. That’s what you wanted right? To prove yourself?”

Randall nodded slowly.

“Then go on.” May shoved Randall down the line and pressed her pistol against Jon’s forehead. It burned a new circle.

Everything inside Jon screamed at him to pull away. He ignored it. It was like a battle. You didn't flinch or shy away on a battlefield.

Randall tore his eyes away from Jon and hobbled down the line. His crippled legs always made him slow, but his hobbled half-hop seemed especially slow. Julie was at the end of the line. As Randall passed T-Dog, T-Dog glared at him. Dale followed him with sad eyes. Not scared eyes. Sad eyes, full of pity.

“You don’t gotta do this, son,” Dale said.

“Shut up.” Randall pointed his rifle at Julie’s chest.

Gasping for breath, Julie looked up at Randall with pleading eyes.

“Please don’t!” Chris screamed.

“Shut up!”

“There’s a place here for you. Do you really want to throw it away, and go back out there?”

“Shut up!”

Dale got to his feet and smiled. “This is the start of the end, son.”

“Randall, he ain’t meant to be on his feet,” May said.

Randall pointed his rifle at Dale. Dale didn’t flinch.

“What we’re building here is that start of civilisation born anew.”

“Why is he still breathing, Randall?”

“You don’t have to be afraid anymore.” Dale offered his hand to Randall.

“I said shut the fuck up!”

The back of Dale’s chest exploded with a spray of crimson. Clutching the hole in his chest, Dale collapsed onto the plastic long table. It buckled under him and collapsed. The gunshot echoed across the fields.

T-Dog bellowed and rushed Randall. Thunder. T-Dog’s head popped. A patch of dirt exploded behind him. He fell in a heap at Randall’s feet. Randall stepped back. His bad leg quivered and he fell. The firelight glittered across his blood-soaked face and hands.

Chris spewed all over his knees. His retches sounded inhuman like a demon giving birth. Julie’s arms went limp at her sides as she stared at T-Dog’s ruined head.

“Randall, we’re not meant to shoot them in the head. We went over this,” May said, eyes fixed on Jon.

“I- I’m sorry.”

“Get up. You ain’t done yet.”

“R- Right.”

Randall struggled to his feet, using his gun for support. May pressed her pistol harder against Jon’s forehead. His flesh screamed. “You ain’t gonna beg?” She asked. “They’re your friends, right?”

Jon refused to dignify her with a response. He watched her eyes. A heartbeat. That’s all. A heartbeat of inattention and she’d be his.

May smiled. She turned her head slightly towards Randall, eyes locked on Jon. “You on your feet yet, Randall?”

“Yes.”

“Then how come I don’t hear gunshots?”

“I’m gonna.”

Jon stole a glance. Randall stared at Dale’s corpse.

Orange light danced on the wall. Bright light. As if the morning had come early. Warmth tickled Jon’s back.

May grinned ear to ear. “Oh, go on. Steal a look. You do not want to miss this.”

Despite himself, Jon looked over his shoulder. Flames spread across the farmhouse. Lunatic, orange, red and yellow ravers flailed like wild beasts. They engulfed the porch, raced up its beams, and claimed the roof. The peeling white paint glowed as it was consumed.

Half a dozen figures knelt before the house, silhouetted by the flames. James and Pete patrolled the line, guns in hand.

Get her talking. She loves the sound of her own voice.

“This is your plan?” Jon asked. “Destroy everything?”

“Yup. Ain’t it beautiful?”

“Why shoot Sam? He could’ve helped you.”

“My uncle was a relic like the rest of ‘em. He didn’t belong in this world.”

The walkie crackled. Rick said something, but the walkie was too far away to make out. His voice peaked. “JON! COME IN, JON!”

May clicked her tongue. “Come on, Randall. We’re runnin’ out of time.”

“You want me to shoot them?” Randall asked. His voice lacked any texture. It morphed his words into formless beings.

“Yes, Randall. I want you to fucking shoot them. In the heart. The nigger girl and her nigger-lovin’ string bean.”

“Okay.”

Randall shot Julie in the chest, then Chris, cutting off his scream.

May laughed. “There you go! That’s what I’m fucking talking about! Now get over here and finish these two off so we can get the fuck out of here.”

The damnable girl’s eyes never left Jon. Not once. It was time to take a gamble. Knock her off balance, trust Ghost to finish her off, and rush Randall before he could settle his sights.

May jammed the barrel into Jon’s forehead. “Uh uh. Don’t even think about it.”

Jon gritted his teeth. He hadn’t given himself away. Had he? His racing heart made the ends of his fingers tingle. Calm. He needed to calm down and-

Beth groaned.

“Yes!” May alleviated the pressure of the barrel. “Randall, watch this one. The bitch is mine!”

Randall and May traded places. The rifle loomed over Jon. Heat from the barrel tickled his face. Randall’s dead eyes watched him from behind the sights. They offered no insight into his soul. Like the painted funeral stones placed on a dead man’s face; imitations of what once was. Although, unlike funeral stones, they weren’t a facade.

Beth didn’t scream when she saw the corpses, she simply stared. No tears or whimpers. Silent and still.

May put her gun to Beth’s head.

“Wait,” Jon said.

Oddly, May stopped. Jon wasn’t sure why he’d spoken and had no idea what to say next.

“What?” May snapped.

“Let me shoot her.”

Beth blinked, as if waking up. “W- What?”

“Shut up, bitch,” May said. “Why should I?”

“You shouldn’t, but I want to.”

“Don’t listen to him, May. He’s tryin’ to trick us,” Randall said.

“Shut up, Randy.” May crouched in front of Jon, less than a foot away from Ghost. She met his eyes and smiled. “Why do you want to shoot her?”

“She’s weak. It’s what she deserves.”

“Jon!” Beth screamed. Tears budded.

“Shut up!” Jon shouted. “This world isn’t for people like her anymore. I don’t think it ever was. She’s only alive because stronger people provided her sanctuary.”

“He don’t believe that, May. He’s-”

“Shut up, Randy! You do not get to speak on this. Not after lettin’ yourself get fucked up by these people. You’re lucky you’re family, or you’d be with Uncle Sam right now, and don’t you ever forget it.”

Randall looked away, shoulders slumped. May glared at Randall. Her gun hung at her side. Jon didn’t take the opening. He didn’t need it anymore.

“May I stand?” He asked.

“Slowly. No, unbuckle your belt first. Drop all them weapons and throw ‘em away.”

“As you wish.”

Jon let his dagger and Longclaw fall to the dirt. He tossed them past Randall.

“Stand.”

Jon stood.

“If you really believe what you said, why’ve you been fightin’ to keep this place alive?”

“Because I’m weak. Not as weak as these fools, but weak. I was afraid to do what was needed. Please, give me a chance to prove myself, May.”

May grinned. “I knew you had it in you. I did! Didn’t I tell you, Randy? Didn’t I say he was strong?”

“Yes…”

“He’d have to be, huh?! To command him!” May gestured to Ghost with her gun. Ghost bared his fangs, which made May holler with laughter. “Look at him, he ain’t even scared of a gun! This is his world. We’re just living in it. How’d you do it, Jon? How’d you get him to respect you?”

“He tried to kill me on the road. I managed to hold my own, if barely. You see those scars around his muzzle? That was me. He spared me that day and has followed ever since.”

May looked at Jon as if he were Azor Ahai come again. “So all those stories about you being from another world?”

“Lies to make the children feel better.”

May giggled. “Children. I like that. It’s true.”

“I’ve always thought you were beautiful, you know. Not because of how you look – although you are nice to look at – but because of how you handled them, the children. You never shied away from the truth. You treated all this as it is. A joke. You stood defiant against their lies. You never backed down from your uncle, no matter how cruel. You faced it all with a smile. I think you may be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”

Flush warmed May’s cheeks. “Keep talking like that and we might not stay strangers for very long.”

“Let me prove myself first.”

“M- May, don’t. He’s lying…” Randall whispered, staring at his boots.

May gave Jon her pistol.

“Please, Jon. Don’t,” Beth said. “You’re a good person, Jon. Not like them. You don’t want to shoot-”

Jon shot May in the chest. Crimson oozed from the wound. Holding it, May looked at Jon like a slapped child. Ghost tackled her. She screamed a shrill, pitched scream as Ghost ravaged her throat.

Randall dropped his rifle. “W- Wait.” He took a step back. His bad leg quivered and he fell on his back.

Jon tossed aside May’s gun, strolled past Randall and collected Longclaw.

“Wait!” Randall scuttled backwards like a crab.

The raging fire painted orange ripples on Longclaw. They shifted as Jon approached. Flaming banners in the wind.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I didn’t want to she made me I didn’t want to I didn’t I didn’t I didn’t I-”

Jon thrust Longclaw and skewered Randall’s chest. Blood welled around the blade, and pooled on his shirt. Eyes wide, Randall grabbed at the blade. Longclaw’s edge cut his palms and fingers to ribbons, but that did nothing to deter him. Weakly, he fought to pull the blade from his chest.

A swift yank gave Randall the mercy he didn’t deserve.

May’s blood painted Beth’s face crimson. It speckled her golden hair and dotted the neck of her white blouse. She stared at May with lifeless eyes. Jon shoved Randall’s rifle into her arms.

“They have your sister and father.”

Beth dropped the rifle. “I can’t.”

“You have to. Pick that up. Go that way and hide amongst the grass.” Jon pointed to the left of the house. “Fire at them, then run. That’s when I’ll shoot. When they’re distracted by me, shoot again. Repeat until they’re dead. Understood?”

“What… What if I hit Daddy or Maggie? I- I ain’t ever been good with these things.”

“If we do nothing, they’ll die for sure. It’s a risk we’re going to have to take.”

“But-”

“Dammit, girl! The horde is on its way, we don’t have time! Pick up that bloody gun and move!”

Eyes wide, Beth nodded and snatched up the gun. She took off into the fields, breathing fast, tripping over every other step.

Jon whistled. “To me, boy.”

Ghost lifted his head from May’s throat. The firelight gleamed in his savage, red eyes.

Bowen

Bowen didn’t cry. The gods wouldn’t bring him back from the dead just to kill him a day later. Jon would save them. Them, Julie, and Chris, and everybody. Everything was going to be okay.

“MAY!” James shouted.

“Quit it,” Pete said. “How many times I gotta tell you? Those shots were theirs. You know, killin’ the sheep? Like we planned?”

“That was her scream. MAY!”

“It was the girl, god dammit! The perdy one. This fucker’s daughter.”

Boot thudded flesh. Hershel grunted.

“Leave him alone!” Carl shouted.

“Shut up, brat!”

Boot thudded flesh. Carl whimpered. Lori screamed.

“Brat! Brat! Brat!” Bloodbeak cried.

“It wasn’t, Pete!” James shouted. “It was-” Thunder clapped. A bullet whistled. “SEE! I FUCKING TOLD YOU!”

Rolling thunder rattled Bowen to the core. If he were a different man, the power of James’s automatic gun would have reduced Bowen to tears and snivels. While Lori and the boy whimpered on either side of him, he held his head high. Thunder held power over him no longer. It was not his day to die.

The thunder died down.

“You get ‘em?” Pete asked.

“Must have. Emptied half the fucking clip at them bitches.”

A gunshot exploded. Bowen heard a thud behind him. Pete screamed.

“Fuck!” Thunder. “JAMES?!” Thunder. “FUCK!” Thunder. Pete gasped raged breaths. His reload rattled.

Thunder. Thump. Silence.

Jon

The fat coward’s ploy didn’t fool Jon for a second. Pete wasn’t dead. Beth’s shot hit him in the shoulder. Apparently, it didn’t fool Beth either. Neither of them moved from the grass.

Without a command, Ghost shot out of the grass. Even across gravel, he made no sound. The direwolf rounded the kneelers, pounced on Pete, and clamped his jaws around his flabby neck. Pete screamed and thrashed and begged. Then gurgled. And stilled.

All those knelt before the blazing farmhouse relaxed.

Lori snatched Carl into a hug. Carol stole James’s gun and cleared a round from the chamber. Jenner helped Hershel to his feet. Bowen laughed.

“BETH!” Maggie shouted.

Beth sobbed and burst from the grass. Her rifle clattered to the gravel as she threw herself into Maggie’s arms. They fell to their knees, buried their faces in each other’s hair, and squeezed the life out of the other. Hershel crushed them in a hug. He raised his eyes to the star-speckled sky and whispered a prayer.

With bandaged eyes, Bowen looked this way and that. “Chris? Julie?” he asked with a smile.

Jon approached Carol. “Is anyone harmed?” Jon asked.

“A bit roughed up. Nothing serious.” She craned her neck to look past Jon. “The others?”

Bowen’s smile faded. “Chris? Julie?”

“Dead,” Jon whispered to Carol. “Where’s your walkie?”

“In the house. Where’s yours?”

“With them.”

Jon stepped aside to allow Carol a proper view. Hundreds of corpses poured around the wall. Their eyes reflected the fire. Against the backdrop of the pitch-black forest, they twinkled like orange stars. Like the rain wall of a storm slowed to a crawl, their advance swallowed the dry, tall grass, the rolling hills, and the boulders. Their cries raced through the air; yowls, screeches, moans, and groans. The cacophony of their cries grew, steady and resolute,

“We need to leave,” Carol said.

“Aye.” Jon stepped away from her a few paces to where everyone could see him. “Collect yourselves, the fire has drawn the horde! The farm is lost! Carol, Maggie, take the bikes and find Rick! Inform him of what has happened! The rest of us will head into town, away from the horde’s advance! Quickly! We haven’t long!”

Carol mounted James’s motorcycle. “What should we tell them?”

“The Culvers betrayed us. Dale, T-Dog, Julie and Chris are dead, along with all of the Culvers. The fire has drawn the horde,” Jon said.

Carol nodded and twisted the motorcycle’s handlebars. Its roar rumbled deep inside Jon’s chest. With a spray of gravel and dust, she raced off down the gravel road.

“Where are the others?” Lori asked.

Bloodbeak cackled and perched on Jon’s shoulder. “Where? Where? Where?”

“You kill those other two fuckers?” Maggie asked.

“Kill! Kill! Kill!”

“Everyone who was on the wall that isn’t here is dead.”

“Lord have mercy…” Hershel whispered.

Bowen’s breaths hastened. “But you brought Chris and Julie, aye? You saved them?”

A pit formed in Jon’s stomach, but he couldn’t think about that. He took Bowen by the shoulder and spoke slowly. “Chris and Julie are dead, Bowen.”

“oh.”

“We need to leave.”

“okay.”

Bowen hung his head. He remained as still as a statue until Jenner took him by the arm and led him away. Lori dragged Carl after them, but Hershel and his daughters stayed where they were. The flames danced in their eyes.

“Everything we owned is in there…” Hershel whispered.

“Mom?” Carl tugged on Lori’s sleeve. “Our photo album is in our tent. Don’t you want that?”

Lori glanced at the horde. She clutched her belly. “N- No, Carl. We need to get as far away from that as possible.”

Jon grabbed Hershel’s arm. “It’s time to go, soldier. The enemy is upon us.”

Hershel blinked and stiffened. Shielding Beth with his arms, he turned away from the fire. The orange light glowed in his white hair and beard. “Maggie, get Nessy and Doreen. Forget their saddles. Get ‘em out quick and meet us by the gate.”

Maggie nodded. “And the rest?”

“Let ‘em loose.” Hershel set his jaw. “They’re gonna have to fend for themselves now.”

“I- I’ll help,” Beth said, breaking free of Hershel’s arms. “Nessy won’t listen to Maggie.”

Hershel gave her a soft smile. “Good thinkin’.”

Without missing a beat, Maggie and Beth raced into the stables.

Jon glanced at the horde. A fair distance remained between them and the camp. “If anyone wants anything out of their tents, now is the time to get it! Bring only what you can carry!”

Jenner and Lori continued towards the farm’s gravel road. Neither Bowen nor Carl fought them. Hershel averted his eyes as a weathered workhorse, a sleek mare, and fowl wandered out of the stables. The mare eyed the horde, whinnied and took off across the fields in the opposite direction. The fowl cried out and hobbled after her on wobbly legs. The workhorse snorted, lay down, and turned his face from the flames.

***

Jon led his procession down the road. A clump of headlights awaited them where gravel met asphalt. Faint shouts mixed in the air with the wails of the dead. While most of the corpses clumped around the flames and stared into them, a dozen or so corpses followed from a distance. Jon paid them little mind. They would be dealt with in due time.

Maggie had refused to leave her family, so they’d abandoned the quad bike. Instead, she walked alongside Nessy with her hand on Beth’s thigh. Beth rode Nessy with a head held high and slumped shoulders. Hershel led Doreen the Donkey to Beth’s left. While Nessy snorted and shook her head with the rise and fall of the wails, Doreen stared at the clumped headlights with glassy eyes.

Bowen wept. He’d broken down early into the march. He did not wail like a widow, nor did he rage and curse. Bowen whimpered and groaned like a man on his deathbed. Jenner offered him the occasional stiff, pat on the back. Otherwise, he tried to avoid looking at him.

The sting of failure gnawed at Jon as he marched. He’d tried his best to keep this place safe, and still, it wasn’t enough. But, he couldn’t dwell on it. Not yet. Not now. Not while danger nipped their heels.

“Did they say why?” Lori asked. She rubbed her arm.

“Sorry?” Jon asked.

“The Culvers… did they say why?”

“Aye, but it isn’t worth repeating.”

“I wanna know why,” Carl said. He clenched his fists.

Lori grimaced. “On second thought-”

“I’d like to know,” Jenner said.

“Me too,” Maggie snarled.

“It might put our minds at rest,” Hershel said.

As one, they looked at Bowen. As silence lingered, Bowen lifted his head and looked right at Jon with those damnable bandaged eyes. “Please…”

“Please! Please! Please!” Bloodbeak cried from above.

Jon looked away. “May said-”

“There’s no point,” Beth said in a dry tone. “Anything they said ain’t mean anythin’. They just hated us. Monsters don’t have reasons for the way they are. They just are.”

The rest of the walk was spent in silence.

When they arrived at Rick’s procession, Jon found – of course – an argument. Rick and Daryl held Tyreese back from Carol.

“How do you know?! You didn’t see! They could be alive!” Tyreese shouted.

Jon scanned the cars for Andrea. She should be distraught about Dale. Try as he might, he couldn’t see her.

“Like I keep telling you, Tyreese. Jon saw them. They’re dead,” Carol said

“But you didn’t! Get the hell off me!” Tyreese sent Rick and Daryl staggering. “I’m going back!”

“She was shot in the chest,” Jon said. Every pair of eyes found him as he approached. “If she didn’t die immediately, she’s dead by now. The horde has overrun the wall. Even if the wound didn’t kill her, they certainly have.”

Tyreese stepped back and scanned the farm with frantic eyes.

“She’s lost.” Jon bore a sharp look into Rick. “Stop him from doing something stupid.”

Rick set his jaw. “I’m tryin’.”

“Yes, you often do, don’t you?”

The remark earned him a few baffled looks, most notably from Rick himself. Jon paid them no mind. Trailed by Ghost, he left Rick to sort his mess out and searched for Andrea. She wasn’t among the group or in any of the vehicles. Nor could Jon spot her further down the road, and if she’d run ahead, they’d have run into each other. Surely, she hasn’t died. All she had to do was drive the jeep.

Ghost nudged his arm. His gentle, red eyes spoke without words. He padded over to the side of the road, where a hunched figure sat amongst the brush beside the threshold between the gravel and the asphalt. Jon sat beside her.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said.

“For what?” Andrea asked, a little above a whisper.

“I should have saved him. Instead, I skulked about in the shadows, plotting and scheming like some spineless cutthroat.”

“Fuck off… we all did that, not just you.” Andrea wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve and sniffled. “I’m never making this mistake again.”

Jon clenched his sword hand. “Me neither. Twice is too many.”

“It’s time to be direct.”

“Aye. Tonight, once all is settled.”

“Now. Let’s just be done with it.” Andrea got out her pistol. “I’ll shoot Shane. You shoot Rick. We’ll show the rest how it’s gonna be from now on. They don’t like it, they can fuck off.”

“No.”

“What do you mean?” Andrea hissed. “This is what needs to happen. If Rick’s in charge, all of this will happen again.”

“Aye, and that’s what I’ll tell him tonight. Rick is the sort of man to blame himself when things go wrong. He’ll step aside.”

“What happened to no more schemes?”

“This is as much of a scheme as pushing a boulder over a hill to get it to roll. What happened tonight is going to eat Rick apart. He’ll step aside. Most likely, he’ll thank us for it.”

“You really think he’ll step aside for me, just like that? Surely he likes being in charge. He thinks he’s good at it.”

“For you? No. But for me…”

“You? I thought you didn’t want to.”

“I’ve been running for too long. No more cowardice. It’s time to resurrect Lord Snow.”

For a moment, Andrea did naught but stare at him. Her befuddled eyes searched him for answers. With a sigh, she holstered her pistol and rested her elbows on her knees.

“Is it wrong that I’m relieved? I feel more comfortable with taking orders than giving them. Being a leader sounds like a lot of busy work.”

“Only tyrants and fools look forward to rule. And they’re bad at it. To be a leader is to be perfect. Tyrants already believe themselves to be infallible. It is only once a man realises how imperfect he is, that he stands a chance to rule.”

“Or a woman.”

“Or a woman.”

Andrea nodded. “So what about Shane? What do we do with him?”

“We’ll slit his throat tonight.”

Ghost looked towards the sky. A silhouette streaked across the patches of silver moonlight that broke through the clouds. Jon held out his arm and, with a flutter of wings, Bloodbeak perched. His scarred eye saw Jon.

Rick shouted. “ALRIGHT, EVERYONE PACK IN! WE’RE MOVING OUT!”

Jon and Andrea got to their feet, shared a nod, and crossed the threshold between gravel and asphalt.