NIGHTMARES OF THE WALKING DEAD

The bridge groans one final time before the remaining steel snaps, sending the structure into the depths. Seth and John scramble away from the ledge, lungs burning as they scramble up a rocky embankment, putting distance between themselves and the swirling dust of the collapse.

They crest a ridge, revealing a sprawling, abandoned orchard nestled in a valley. The rows of gnarled apple trees are withered, but the perimeter appears untouched by the horde. A weathered stone farmhouse stands in the center, its windows boarded but intact.

John pauses, looking back at the orchard's edge where the trees cast long, skeletal shadows against the farmhouse porch. He shifts his grip on his rifle, his knuckles white. Suddenly, a rhythmic thumping echoes from the interior of the house, muffled by the thick, boarded-up wood. It is not the aimless drag of a walker, but something deliberate. Two heavy knocks. Then silence.

Seth steps forward, his hand drifting toward the Desert Eagle at his hip, his eyes scanning the gaps in the boards for movement.

Seth moves with practiced silence, his boots making no sound against the frozen orchard floor. He pivots behind a gnarled apple tree, his gaze fixed on a jagged hole in the farmhouse siding. Through the splintered wood, he catches the faint flicker of a candle being extinguished. The air grows heavy and still. Behind the house, a second set of thuds begins, faster this time, moving toward the rear exit.

Seth shifts his posture, his muscles coiling for a sprint. He locks eyes with John, signaling for him to hold the front, then moves to flank the farmhouse corner just as the back door creaks open.

Seth bursts around the corner of the farmhouse with athletic precision, his boots finding purchase on the frost-hardened earth. He cuts the distance in seconds, arriving just as the door swings wide on screeching, ungreased hinges. A silhouette stands in the threshold, framed by the dim, stagnant air of the interior. The stranger freezes, mid-stride, caught in the act of fleeing. Behind Seth, John skids to a halt, his chest heaving, his weapon leveled at the shadow. The person in the doorway holds a heavy iron poker, knuckles white, eyes wide with the raw, frantic energy of someone cornered.

The stranger’s knuckles are white, his knuckles trembling as he holds the heavy iron poker like a lifeline. He shifts his weight, the floorboards groaning under his boots. He isn't looking at John’s gun; he is staring directly at Seth, his gaze flickering between the desert eagle and the cold, hard set of Seth's jaw. The air between them is thick with the scent of damp wool and old rot. The intruder's chest rises and falls in frantic, shallow bursts. He is one word away from lashing out or dropping the weapon entirely.

The stranger blinks, the tension in his shoulders snapping like a frayed rope. The iron poker dips, his knuckles finally loosening their death grip. John hesitates for a heartbeat, his finger tracing the trigger guard, before he slowly lowers the muzzle of his rifle toward the floor. The stranger exhales a ragged, shaky breath, backing slowly into the shadows of the farmhouse hallway.