POV: Morgan Jones
The silence was the worst part.
Not the moans, not the screams in the distance—those were expected now, part of the new rhythm of the world. But the silence? That was heavier. It clung to the walls of this house like mold. It crawled under Morgan's skin and wrapped around his throat every night he tried to sleep.
He sat by the boarded-up front window, hunting rifle resting across his lap. His back ached. His eyes were gritty from lack of rest. The world outside, once just a sleepy Georgia neighborhood, now looked like the edge of hell.
Across the room, Duane was curled up on the couch with a blanket wrapped around his thin shoulders. The boy barely spoke anymore, and when he did, it was always with a glance over his shoulder. Like he expected the dead to come through the walls any second.
He wasn't wrong.
Morgan stared through a narrow crack between the planks on the window. Outside, the sun was beginning to dip. The trees cast long, dark shadows across the road. Somewhere down the block, a walker groaned—low and distant, but enough to set every nerve in Morgan's body on alert.
It had been like this for weeks. Just the two of them, scavenging by day, hiding by night. Ever since Jenny came back.
No—not Jenny.
What came back wasn't her. It wore her face, her clothes, even tilted its head the way she used to. But those eyes… empty.
Duane still asked about her sometimes.
Morgan never had the heart to tell him that he saw her every night—wandering the neighborhood like a lost dog, sometimes walking straight past this house. She hadn't recognized them. Or maybe she had, in some horrible, buried part of her soul.
Either way, Morgan couldn't bring himself to shoot her.
Not yet.
That day, they heard something outside.
Just a scrape at first. A bump against the back gate. Duane sat up fast, eyes wide.
Morgan moved like instinct, checking the door, window, rifle. Two shapes limped into the backyard, their outlines caught in the last streaks of twilight.
Walkers.
Morgan aimed through the broken pane. One wore an apron stained dark. The other looked like a teenage boy with a shattered leg, limping unnaturally.
Duane stood beside him, clutching the bat they'd found last month. His voice cracked, "Dad, shoot."
Morgan hesitated.
Every time he saw one, he thought of Jenny. Thought of that blank stare. Thought of what he'd have to do if it was Duane out there someday.
He clenched his jaw and fired.
CRACK!
The first walker dropped instantly.
The second turned toward the window, drawn by the noise. Morgan fired again—center mass. Not good enough. The thing staggered, groaned.
"Dad!"
Morgan adjusted, aimed higher, and fired once more—this time between the eyes. The walker dropped in silence.
He lowered the rifle, chest rising and falling in shallow gasps.
Then it hit him.
The sound.
Two gunshots in a dead world echoed like sirens.
"Get your things," he said to Duane, already scanning the windows. "We might need to move."
Duane nodded silently and started packing their bug-out bag. He knew the drill.
Then—footsteps.
Not shuffling. Not staggering.
Human.
Morgan stepped in front of the door, raising his rifle again. Duane ducked behind the couch. The footsteps stopped just beyond the porch.
Then a voice.
"Don't shoot."
Morgan's finger hovered near the trigger.
The man stepped into the open, arms raised. He looked like hell. Hospital bandages around his torso. Thin. Dirty. But alert. Too alert.
"I'm not infected," the man said. "Name's Rick. Rick Grimes."
Morgan's eyes narrowed.
That name. It stirred something—maybe from the news. Maybe from town.
"You from the hospital?" Morgan asked.
The man nodded. "Coma. Just woke up yesterday. Place was abandoned."
Morgan studied him. His stance was too good. His eyes were scanning everything—exits, angles, even Morgan's grip on the rifle.
Not just a cop.
A soldier, maybe?
"You've got no idea what's going on, do you?" Morgan asked, finally lowering the rifle.
"I've got a rough idea," the man said, stepping closer. "But I could use a refresher."
Morgan hesitated only a second more.
Then opened the door.
"Alright. You'd better come inside."
Later That Night
Rick sat across from Morgan at the kitchen table, his face lit by the soft glow of a lantern. Duane was asleep again, his breathing steady for the first time in days.
Morgan told him everything. The fall of the cities. The people who turned. The ones who got bit and came back. The rumors about Atlanta. The collapse of everything they once knew.
Rick listened. Quietly. No panic. No trembling. Just focus.
That's what unsettled Morgan the most.
This man wasn't reacting like someone who just woke up to the end of the world. He was cataloging. Planning. Assessing.
"I saw one today," Rick said. "Took it down with a crowbar."
Morgan raised an eyebrow. "Most folks don't survive their first."
Rick just nodded. "I got lucky."
Morgan doubted that.
But he also didn't question it.
"Atlanta's the best shot," Morgan said after a while. "That's what the radio said. Safe zone. Soldiers. Might even be a cure."
Rick leaned back slightly, his face unreadable.
"Then maybe we go together," he replied.
Morgan looked down at the sleeping boy on the couch.
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