NIGHTMARES OF THE WALKING DEAD

Seth limps into the medical bay, the stale scent of antiseptic and damp wool thick in the air. Sunlight filters through a cracked skylight, illuminating dancing dust motes above rows of sagging, empty cots. The silence is broken only by the rhythmic drip of a leaking IV bag somewhere in the back.

Miller enters the room behind him, looking gaunt. He sighs and leans heavily against the doorframe, his gaze fixed on a shelf of shattered medicine vials.

Seth drops his pack onto a metal tray, the clatter echoing violently. He turns to Miller, his expression hardened by the recent loss at the Town Hall.

Miller flinches at the sound of the pack hitting the tray, his hands hovering over a stack of rusted canisters. He nods, his knuckles white as he grips the edge of the cabinet door.

Seth moves with practiced efficiency, his fingers sliding along the cabinet seam to bypass the rusted latch. He gestures toward the hallway with his chin.

The cabinet groans as the rusted metal yields, but the internal pressure causes a hidden false back to shift. Behind a row of empty pill bottles, a heavy, cold weight slides forward into Seth's palm. It is a Colt 45 revolver, its finish worn but the mechanical action smooth and oiled.

Miller glances back, his eyes widening as he catches the metallic glint in the dim infirmary light.

Seth grips the revolver firmly, his thumb checking the cylinder as he turns his attention toward the remaining medical supplies scattered behind the false partition.

Miller pats his hip, revealing the weathered grip of a snub-nosed revolver tucked into his waistband. He then pulls a rusted serrated hunting knife from his boot, the blade catching the dim light.

Seth gestures toward the vent, his eyes locked on the door as the distant rumble vibrates the floorboards.

Seth slides the heavy Colt across the grimy metal table, his expression firm and unwavering.

Miller stares at the weapon, his calloused hand trembling slightly as he reaches out to claim the grip. A look of profound realization washes over his face, replacing the panic that had been simmering behind his eyes.

Miller nods slowly, holstering the Colt with newfound resolve. "I won't waste it, Seth. If they’re coming, they’ll have to go through both of us."

The heavy thud of engines grows deafening, shaking dust from the ceiling rafters. Through the cracked window, the silhouette of a massive iron-clad transport vehicle crests the main gate.

Miller nods, his posture stiffening as he draws the Colt. "Right. I’m right behind you, boss."

Seth darts toward the back wall, his movements precise and practiced. He kicks the rusted grate of the service vent loose, the metal shrieking against the concrete as it clatters into the darkness of the shaft. Behind them, the infirmary’s front door shudders under the weight of a heavy boot. The Saviors have arrived.

Seth dives into the vent, signaling for Miller to follow, leaving the room to the encroaching shadows and the sound of splintering wood.

The service tunnel is a tight, labyrinthine squeeze of sheet metal and dust. Seth leads the crawl, his tactical awareness mapping the Kingdom’s infrastructure in real time. He maneuvers with fluid grace, bypassing the structural obstructions that would slow down a less experienced operative.

Minutes later, they emerge behind a stack of crates in the staging sector. Carl and Stella are waiting, weapons drawn but low, their eyes scanning the perimeter. As Seth and Miller scramble out of the egress, the tension breaks.