NIGHTMARES OF THE WALKING DEAD

The camp is a quiet sprawl of tents nestled within the ruins of an old logging depot. Wind whistles through the rusted rafters of the main warehouse, carrying the scent of damp pine and charcoal. Seth leans against the exterior wall, his ribs aching from his recent skirmish. He watches John polish his blade near the dying embers of a fire.

The girl sits near a cluster of supply crates, shivering despite the heavy wool blanket draped over her shoulders. She toys with a frayed thread on the edge of the fabric, her eyes fixed on the flickering shadows cast by the campfire. Seth walks over, his boots crunching softly on the frozen dirt. He lowers himself to a crouch, maintaining a respectful distance to avoid spooking her.

Seth stands and walks toward the corner of the depot where John sits sharpening a jagged piece of scrap metal. The fire crackles, casting long, dancing silhouettes against the rusted corrugated walls.

I think about it every time the wind dies down. We were drinking bad coffee and complaining about the rain, if I recall.

You were talking about that old pickup truck of yours. The one that wouldn't start unless you swore at it in three different languages.

It was a piece of junk, but it was ours. We didn't know how good we had it, wandering around without a care for who might be hiding in the brush.

A heavy, metallic clatter echoes from the perimeter gate, instantly severing the memory.

Seth pulls a dented silver flask from his bomber jacket and hands it to John. The liquid sloshes softly as John takes a measured pull, the harsh scent of cheap rye cutting through the smell of damp pine needles.

The metallic clatter at the gate repeats, more insistent this time, followed by a rhythmic scraping sound against the corrugated metal exterior. The camp fire flickers as if struck by a sudden, icy draft.

You hear that? That is not just the wind catching the chain.

Seth steps away from the warmth of the fire, his boots crunching on the frost-hardened dirt. He studies Miller’s posture, noting the tension in his shoulders and the way his eyes dart toward the shadows beyond the perimeter. Seth’s own perception sharpens, picking up the subtle irregularity in the scraping sound. It is not the irregular rattle of wind, but a deliberate, dragging weight.

The scraping abruptly stops. The silence that follows is heavier, pressing in against the depot walls. A single, distinct metallic thud echoes through the yard as if someone—or something—has just braced their weight against the gate, waiting for a response from inside.

Seth moves with practiced fluidity, his heavy boots silent despite the frozen ground. He reaches the gate in two long strides, his hand hovering inches from the iron latch. He doesn't pull it open. Instead, he presses his ear against the cold, scarred wood, listening to the labored, rhythmic breathing on the other side. It is human, but ragged and uneven. He catches a faint, metallic scrape—the sound of a blade being slowly drawn against the outer chain. He doesn't flinch. He shifts his weight, his muscles coiled, ready to swing the heavy gate outward to meet whatever is lurking in the dark.

Seth tightens his grip on the Desert Eagle, his knuckles turning white against the cold steel. Instead of retreating, he steps closer to the gate, his boots crunching softly on the frost. He doesn't move to open the latch, but he shifts his stance to a combat-ready crouch, angling his body to maximize his sightline through the gaps in the wood. He waits for the precise moment the intruder commits—the second the chain slips—to deliver a strike that won't just repel, but eliminate. A heavy metallic snap echoes as the chain loses tension, the gate beginning to groan inward.

Seth’s voice is a low, controlled growl, cutting through the tension. John and Miller immediately snap into a tight tactical formation behind him, rifles shouldered and eyes locked on the breach. Seth shifts his weight, his boots dug firmly into the frozen dirt. He doesn't flinch as the heavy gate screeches, the metal screaming in protest against the rusted hinges. As the wood swings inward, the darkness beyond the perimeter begins to shift, a human silhouette detaching itself from the gloom. Seth leads the charge, shoulder-to-shoulder with his men, turning the defensive line into an aggressive push before the intruder can find their footing.

Seth pulls the trigger, the roar of the AK-47 shattering the silence of the depot. The lead intruder staggers as the rounds connect, his chest erupting in a spray of dust as he collapses backward into the dirt, eyes glassy and vacant. In his dying reflex, the man raises his sidearm, but his aim is wild, the bullet tearing into the wooden gatepost inches from Miller’s ear instead of finding its mark. The remaining two intruders freeze, stunned by the sudden, brutal efficiency of the strike. The heavy gate hangs open, the chain now lifeless and swinging against the frame.