NIGHTMARES OF THE WALKING DEAD

The open plains stretch toward a bruised, purple horizon. Seth’s horse labors under the strain, its flanks heaving as they cross a field of rusted, skeletal farm equipment. The silence is absolute, save for the rhythmic crunch of dry, dead timber under hooves.

Up ahead, the trail leads toward a jagged line of dead trees. Seth spots a familiar shape slumped against a splintered tractor: a motorcycle, half-buried in tall, yellow grass. It is stationary, the engine cold.

Seth pulls the reins, slowing the horse to a cautious trot. He scans the rusted tractor, his steel hand gripping the reins tightly. The wind whistles through the dead timber, masking the sound of footsteps—or perhaps the drag of a boot—coming from the brush.

Seth fires. The bullet tears into Negan’s shoulder, forcing him to veer. The horse panics, stumbling over the rusted plow. Man and beast collide with the earth in a violent tangle of dust and iron. Seth is on him instantly, gun barrel pressed against Negan’s temple.

Negan’s hand flashes out, a desperate, steel-trap slap that sends the Desert Eagle spinning into the tall grass. He tackles Seth, driving him into the dirt. Negan gains the mount, his fingers locking around Seth’s throat, squeezing the air from his lungs. Seth’s mechanical hand clatters against the tractor, clawing for purchase. Suddenly, a wet, rhythmic *thwip* echoes through the plains. Negan stiffens, his eyes bulging as a jagged piece of shrapnel blooms in his throat. He collapses onto Seth, gurgling a fountain of copper-scented air. Seth shoves the dying man off, gasping, as a mysterious figure steps from the treeline, a crossbow lowered.

Seth shoves the dying man away, his chest heaving as the iron tang of blood fills the air. Negan collapses into the trampled stalks, clutching his throat while the light fades from his eyes. Seth shifts his stance, his steel hand humming with the tension of the blade as he tracks the source of the shot. A silhouette emerges from the treeline, a stranger gripping a heavy crossbow, standing motionless in the tall grass. The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by the wet, rhythmic struggle of a dying man and the wind whipping through the plains.

The stranger takes another step forward, his gaze fixed on Seth’s prosthetic. The desert eagle lies lost somewhere in the thicket, leaving Seth with only his blade and his wits.