"Argh... What the fu—?"
Lee tried to lift his hands to nurse his throbbing head but jerked to a stop—cold metal bit into his wrists. Handcuffs. His vision swam as he blinked down at them, the steel gleaming dully under the flickering light.
"I don't like whatever this is."
The world sharpened slowly. He was in the back of a police cruiser, but the windshield was a spiderweb of cracks, the hood crumpled like paper. And in front of the car—
A cop.
Or what was left of one.
The man lay sprawled on the asphalt, his uniform dark with blood, his face slack in death.
"Hey, man! You al—"
Lee's voice died in his throat. A reflection stared back at him from the rearview mirror—wrong. The face was familiar, but not his own. The sharp jawline, the dark skin, the wary eyes—
"Oh, shit."
The realization hit him like a punch to the gut.
He was Lee Everett.
And that meant—
His gaze snapped back to the dead officer.
No time.
Lee twisted, planting his feet against the window, and kicked. Once. Twice. On the third strike, the glass shattered. He barely registered the sting of cuts as he tumbled onto the asphalt, biting back a curse as pain lanced up his leg. A jagged gash tore through his pants, blood already soaking the fabric.
"Great. Just what I fucking need."
He forced himself up, scanning the wreckage. A shotgun lay near the cop's body.
I know how this goes.
Lee grabbed it, the weight unfamiliar yet steady in his grip. He stepped toward the corpse, jaw tight.
"Thank God I won't be charged for this shit."
He flipped the shotgun, aiming the stock downward.
One. Two. Three.
The officer's skull caved with a sickening crunch.
[Paul Dubois killed. Reward: Marksmanship (Lv. 1)]
A rush of knowledge flooded Lee's mind—the kickback, the reload, the way the weapon settled naturally in his hands. Like muscle memory he'd never earned.
"Thanks... Paul." He exhaled, staring at the corpse. "Guess that was your name."
A quick search turned up the handcuff keys and another set—probably for the trunk. Lee freed himself, rubbing his raw wrists before moving to the back of the cruiser. He scooped up loose shotgun shells along the way.
The trunk popped open with a click.
"Sweet mother of Mary."
A small arsenal waited inside: a bulletproof vest, ammo boxes, a first-aid kit, a flashlight, zip ties—and a backpack.
Jackpot.
Lee shoved the supplies into the bag, strapped the vest over his shoulders, and loaded the shotgun. Movement flickered in the treeline. Shadows lurched forward, drawn by the noise.
Walkers.
The reality of his situation crashed over him.
He was Lee Everett. A man marked for death in this rotting world.
But the real Lee didn't have... whatever this was.
Maybe that changed things.
"Either way, I can't stay here."
He spotted a fence up the hill and moved, limping, every step sending fire through his leg. He hauled himself over—then hissed as his injured leg slammed into the ground.
"Goddammit—"
Lee slumped against the fence, digging out the first-aid kit. He cleaned the wound with rough, efficient motions, wrapping it tight.
"Not too shabby."
Standing, he scanned the overgrown yard. A treehouse loomed in the corner.
Lee approached slowly, voice low.
"Anyone up there? I'm not here to hurt you. Just need some help."
Silence.
"Smart girl," Lee chuckled.
He moved toward the house, scanning the shattered sliding door before easing it open. The interior was gutted—furniture overturned, cabinets ransacked—like a pack of wild animals had torn through it. His grip tightened on the shotgun. Not animals. Worse.
A rust-brown stain smeared the kitchen tiles, long dried.
"Gotta be a real dumbass to slip on this," he muttered, stepping carefully around it.
Rifling through the drawers, he unearthed a handheld radio. The battery compartment was intact. Jackpot. He flicked the power button, voice low.
"Hello?..."
Static.
"Can anyone hear me?—"
"Behind you!"
Lee whirled.
A walker lurched around the corner, milky eyes rolling, jaw unhinged in a wet, rattling groan.
"Saves me the trouble of lookin' for you," Lee muttered. His hand shot to the knife block—then froze. Wait.
As the thing reached for him, he pivoted and kicked its knee sideways. Bone snapped. The walker crumpled like a marionette with cut strings. It writhed, teeth gnashing, until Lee drove the blade through its eye socket with a sick crunch.
"D-Did you kill it?" Clem's voice crackled through the radio.
"Yeah. It's done." Lee wiped the knife on his jeans and stepped to the doorway, squinting up at the treehouse. "Are you okay? Not stuck, are you?"
"I'm fine. And I'm not in there." A flicker of movement—frizzy hair beneath a baseball cap.
"What's your name, kid? I'm Lee."
The treehouse door creaked open. Two wide, wary eyes peered down.
"Clementine. That's my house." She hesitated, then added softly, "You… found me."
"Guess I did," Lee grinned. "Nice to meet you, Clementine. C'mon down—I don't bite."
"That's not funny." She clambered down with practiced ease, her yellow sundress fluttering.
Lee's chest tightened. She's real. The cap barely containing her curls, the smudge of dirt on her cheek, the way her tiny fists clenched at her sides—alive, in a world hellbent on snuffing out light like hers.
"Cool treehouse," he said, nodding toward it. "You been holdin' out up there long?"
Clem nodded, a flicker of pride cutting through her fear. "They can't climb." Then her gaze darted past him, to the corpse in the kitchen. "Are you sure it's dead? Sometimes they… get back up."
Lee crouched to her level. "Destroy the brain, sweetpea. That's the only way."
Her eyes locked onto his vest, then the shotgun. "Are you a policeman?" Hope edged her voice.
Lee's throat closed. Damn it. He could lie. Should, maybe. But those eyes—
"No. I found this gear with a real cop. He was… too far gone to need it."
Clem's shoulders slumped.
"What's wrong?"
"Police find people," she whispered. "My mom and dad… they left ages ago."
Lee followed her gaze to the landline inside. He knew what waited there—a voicemail, a ghost's voice, a goodbye.
"I'm sorry, sweetpea." His hand settled gently on her shoulder. "Might be a while 'til they come home." Her breath hitched; he squeezed before the tears could fall. "Listen, I may not know what exactly happened but I'll take care of you till then."
Clementine hesitated, then gave a small nod. "What should we do now?"
Lee straightened, stepping toward the shattered sliding door. The sky burned peach and gold, the sun dipping low behind the trees. "It'll be dark soon. We need to move—find help before then."
"Yeah," Clem murmured, shuffling beside him. Her eyes swept the overgrown yard—the swing set, the trampled flower beds—lingering like she was memorizing it. "It's not safe at night."
"Grab anything you wanna take," Lee said, nodding to the treehouse. "Quick as you can, okay?"
Clem scrambled up the ladder without a word.
Alone, Lee stared at his hands. Blood speckled his knuckles, dark and flaking. Real. All of it. His chest tightened.
What would've happened to her if he hadn't shown up? Would she have starved in that treehouse, too scared to move? Or wandered out alone, just another tiny victim in a world that chewed up kids first?
No. He clenched his fists. This wasn't about "roles" or games anymore. Clem needed someone. And damn it, he'd be that someone—not because he had to, but because he chose to.
"I'm back." Clem trotted up, a fraying backpack slung over her shoulders. Cartoon vegetables—a grinning carrot, a winking pea—stitched across the fabric.
"Got everything?" She nodded. "Then let's move."
He took two steps before realizing she hadn't followed.
Clem stood frozen, fingers digging into the straps of her bag. "Lee?..." Her voice wavered. "What if my parents come back and I'm gone?"
Lee crouched, meeting her eye-to-eye. She wasn't just scared—she was terrified, a kid clinging to the last thread of hope.
"I know, sweet pea." He kept his voice soft. "Tell you what—we won't go far. Just far enough to be safe. And if they come home?" He tapped her walkie on her backpack. "You got that, right?"
A beat. Then, a tiny nod.
"Good. Then they'll know." He offered his hand. "Deal?"
Clem exhaled, her grip small but fierce as she took it. "Deal."
They rounded the house—and Lee froze.
Ahead, just beyond the gate, something was making far too much noise for the dead world they now lived in. Metal groaned and voices strained against the evening quiet.
Lee pushed the gate open slowly, Clementine's small hand gripping his tightly as they approached two men struggling to push a stalled sedan out of the road. Their grunts and curses carried clearly in the still air.
"Hey!" Lee called out, keeping his voice low but carrying. "You two need a hand?"
The dark-haired man spun so fast he nearly lost his balance. "Jesus Christ!"
"Don't eat us!" the larger man bellowed, throwing his hands up in a comically defensive posture.
Lee and Clem exchanged a glance—part amusement, part exasperation—before Lee raised his free hand in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. "Easy now. We're just like you—trying to stay alive."
The dark-haired man exhaled sharply, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. "Christ, you scared the hell out of us. Thought you and the kid were... you know." He mimed gnashing teeth.
"Not today," Lee said dryly. He nodded toward the car. "Trying to get that moving?"
"Yeah," the man said, wiping his brow. "Neighborhood's gone to hell. More of those things here than I've seen since downtown Atlanta, and that's saying something."
The Atlanta comment stuck in his mind—was Rick Grimes out there somewhere? Another problem for another day.
"I'm Shawn Greene," the dark-haired man offered.
The larger man crouched to Clem's level with an awkward wave. "Name's Chet."
"Lee," he replied, then gently nudged Clem forward. "This is Clementine."
The girl offered a shy smile but stayed half-hidden behind Lee's leg.
Shawn's eyes darted around the darkening street, his posture growing tense. "Look, we can't stay out here jawing all day. Help us get this car moving, and you can ride with us back to my family's farm. Safer there."
Lee looked down at Clem, seeing the conflict in her eyes. She didn't want to go far, but this neighborhood was clearly a death trap. Shawn's mistaken assumption—"you and your daughter"—sent an unexpected warmth through his chest, but he had to correct it.
"She's not my daughter," Lee said, resting a hand on Clem's shoulder. "I'm just... her new friend. Looking out for her."
Shawn's eyebrows rose, but he simply nodded. "New friend, huh? Well, friend, we've got a few hours of daylight left to get the out of here. Staying put is a mistake."
Lee felt Clem's small fingers dig into his palm at Shawn's words. He knelt beside her, voice low but urgent. "I know we said we wouldn't go far, sweet pea, but this place isn't safe anymore." He tapped the walkie-talkie clipped to her backpack. "You've still got this, right? Your parents can reach us wherever we—"
A guttural moan cut through the twilight.
Every head snapped toward the road's end. Shadows lurched into view—seven, eight, maybe more—their slack jaws dripping, milky eyes locking onto the living. The lead walker's foot caught on the pavement, but it barely slowed as it dragged its rotting body forward.
"Them monsters comin'!" Chet scrambled behind the truck like a startled bear, his meaty hands gripping the tailgate. "We gotta go now!"
"Lee, now!" Shawn slammed his palms against the car's trunk. Lee didn't hesitate.
Pain shot through his wounded leg with every shove, but the sight of Clem throwing her tiny weight against the metal beside him fueled his strength. The car groaned forward inch by agonizing inch.
"Shit shit shit—they're twenty feet back!" Chet's voice cracked as he vaulted into the driver's seat. The ignition screamed.
"Stop yapping and help, damn it!" Lee snarled.
Tires screeched as the sedan finally cleared the road. Shawn dove for the passenger side while Lee acted on instinct—one arm scooping Clem up, the other hauling himself into the truck bed as the engine roared to life.
"Go!"
The truck lurched forward just as skeletal fingers grazed the bumper. Lee watched over the tailgate as the creatures dwindled to specks in the dust-choked road, their hollow cries swallowed by distance.
Only then did he realize he'd stopped breathing.
"Lee?" Clem's whisper was barely audible over the wind.
He turned to find her clutching her cap with both hands, knees drawn to her chest. Dirt smudged her cheeks where tears had tracked through.
"You hurt?" His hands hovered, checking for bites, bruises—anything. When she shook her head, her chin wobbled. "That was... really scary."
A half-smile tugged at Lee's mouth. He adjusted her crooked cap with a gentleness that surprised even him. "Yeah, it was. But we made it." His thumb brushed her cheek, wiping away a smudge. "And I'll keep making sure we do."
Clem studied him for a long moment—really studied him—before nodding once. Not the quick, nervous bob of a child, but the solemn acceptance of a child who'd already seen too much. "Okay."
Lee pulled her against his side as the truck rattled down the country road. The fading sun painted the fields bloody, and for the first time, the weight of what he'd promised settled in his bones. This was just the beginning.
But as Clem's small fist curled into his shirt, he knew—he'd walk through hell itself before letting go.