NIGHTMARES OF THE WALKING DEAD

The lighthouse balcony groans, the iron railing bending like wet straw as the final support snaps. Seth lunges across the widening gap, his prosthetic blade digging into the masonry of the outer pier. With a savage heave, he hauls himself and a terrified Blake onto the stable stone, just as the lantern room implodes in a swirl of glass and splintering wood.

The sea spray lashes against their faces, cold and violent, as the group scrambles toward the overgrown trail snaking inland. Behind them, the roar of the ocean is drowned out by the thundering crash of the tower hitting the jagged rocks below. They don't look back. They scramble into the dark, tangled brush, the Kingdom line still miles of treacherous, walker-infested woods away.

A ragged cry tears through the thick brush. The team pushes past a veil of hanging vines to find Tyrese sprawled against a rotted log, a jagged length of rebar skewering his abdomen. Blood darkens the damp earth beneath him.

Seth kneels, his steel hand locking the metal rod into place with surgical precision. He packs the wound with soaked strips of fabric, his movements fluid and efficient despite the tremors of adrenaline.

A low, guttural moan ripples through the woods. The dead are closing the circle.

The dense forest canopy swallows the light, turning the world into a blur of splintering wood and ragged breath. Tyrese stumbles, his boots dragging through the mud as his knees buckle. He collapses against the thick trunk of an ancient oak, his skin pale and slick with sweat.

Seth heaves Tyrese upright, locking his steel prosthetic hand firmly onto the man's jacket. He ignores the rattling gasps of the encroaching horde, his focus narrowing into a single point of iron will. He finds a hidden opening between the thorns and pushes forward, tearing through the foliage with brutal strength.

A shadow darts ahead through the brush, but Seth keeps moving, dragging Tyrese toward the distant, flickering safety of the Kingdom lights.

Tyrese spits blood, his hand gripping Seth’s forearm with surprising, desperate strength. He shoves back, his eyes burning with a manic, sacrificial fire. The woods around them erupt with the wet, guttural moans of the herd. Shadows detach themselves from the trees, closing the circle.

Seth hesitates, his steel-bladed hand twitching at his side as the first rank of the dead crests the small rise, their rotting limbs reaching out.

Tyrese draws his heavy hammer. He pulls Sasha into a final, bruising embrace, then shoves her toward the tree line. With a guttural roar, he pivots, his boots tearing through the leaf litter as he charges headlong into the closing ring of rotting flesh.

The impact is sickening and beautiful. Tyrese swings his hammer in a wide, crushing arc, shattering skulls and splintering bone. He is a whirlwind of desperate defiance, his form carving a path through the throng. The walkers swarm him, pinning him under their weight, but he continues to swing, his grunts of exertion fading into the dense, encroaching coastal fog. Within seconds, he is swallowed entirely by the undulating mass of the dead.