NIGHTMARES OF THE WALKING DEAD

Seth leaves the Kingdom behind, his eyes fixed on the horizon. He navigates the dense, fog-heavy pine woods, his hand gripping the cold steel of his revolver. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and rot. He reaches the outskirts of a long-abandoned trucking depot, where rusted trailers lie like broken teeth against the gray sky.

Seth moves through the graveyard of metal, his boots crunching on shards of glass. A flicker of movement in the terminal building catches his eye. He keeps his gaze sharp, his prosthetic hand tight against his belt. The threat is close. Gareth is hunting, but so is he.

He spots the trail he was looking for. Fresh boot prints mar the mud, leading directly into the main warehouse. The hunt for his son officially begins.

Seth moves like a ghost. He hugs the shadows of the rusted shipping containers, his footsteps leaving no sound upon the gravel. Two of Gareth’s men stand near the warehouse entrance, their posture lax, cigarettes glowing in the dim light. They are expecting a frontal assault, a desperate father charging to his doom.

Seth doesn't give them the satisfaction. He slides behind a stack of rotted pallets just three feet from their position. He watches them, his breathing steady, his prosthetic steel fingers twitching with the urge to reach for his rifle. They are distracted, arguing about a lack of whiskey, completely unaware that the man they are meant to capture is currently invisible to them. He shifts his weight, his eyes tracking the perimeter, mapping the kill zones. He is close enough to hear the catch in their voices, yet he remains a phantom in the gloom.

The sudden weight on Seth’s shoulder is heavy and familiar. Miller steps from behind the rusted trailer, his presence a startling contrast to the quiet tension of the hunt. The two guards at the warehouse entrance jerk their heads toward the sound of the metal clanking against Seth's shoulder, their cigarettes freezing in mid-air as they squint into the darkness. Seth’s grip on his AK-47 tightens, his knuckles white against the dark finish. He has a split second to decide if Miller’s intervention is a tactical disaster or the exact backup he needs to breach the line.

Seth steps into the sliver of moonlight, his hands raised in a mimicry of surrender that fools the guards instantly. As the closest Savior begins to smirk and saunter forward, Seth’s tactical precision takes over. In one fluid motion, he closes the distance, his steel prosthetic locking onto the guard's throat with crushing force while his right hand draws the Desert Eagle. A dull thud echoes as the first guard collapses, eyes wide and sightless, before Seth pivots the barrel toward the second man, who is still reaching for his holstered pistol. The second guard freezes, his face pale as he realizes the surrender is a ruse.

Before the second guard can clear his holster, Miller steps from the shadows, his rifle bark barking a singular, sharp report. The man drops instantly, the back of his skull erupting against the cold concrete. Seth lunges forward, his steel prosthetic humming as he pivots, using the weight of the metal to slam the surviving guard against a rusted support beam. With the grace of a predator, he wraps heavy industrial chains around the man’s chest, cinching them tight against the jagged metal of the beam until the guard is pinned immobile.

Seth does not hesitate. He drives the steel point of his prosthetic hand deep into the guard's thigh. The man screams, a jagged, wet sound that echoes against the corrugated metal walls. Seth twists the blade, ignoring the pleading, and grabs a nearby, snarling crawler by its tattered collar. He hauls the rotting corpse forward until its snapping jaws are inches from the guard's face.