A quick aside. This chapter features an early version of the game's modified melee weapon. For the purists out there, yes I realize Joel looked like he was having a total light bulb moment when he finds the modified melee weapon atop the house at the start of Bill's Town. Forgive me if I'm introducing that concept a little earlier than the game implies - I find it hard to believe Joel survived 20 years without learning how to strap sharp things to long, swingable things. ;)

Chapter 6

October 1, 2014, Late Evening

The orange glow of the fire made the interior of the old wastewater treatment plant glisten as the light flickered across water seeping down cement walls. The entire place was pervaded by the damp that had leeched into the building over a year of disuse, but it was a welcome shelter from the storm that roared outside. Rain slapped against the large windows that were set high in the wall. The gusts of wind buffeted the old plant with such force and intensity that Tommy guessed they must be in the midst of a late-season hurricane that had made landfall wherever they were near the Mississippi Gulf coast.

Vaguely, Tommy found himself wondering what the weathermen would have categorized this hurricane as. Not that it mattered. Categories of hurricanes were for scientists who could study them from the safety of their comfortable offices. Now, it only mattered that it was a violent storm, and that meant seeking shelter.

They had set up a camp of sorts on the main floor of the plant, where the high ceiling of the cavernous building allowed the smoke from their fire to disperse without choking up the room. Fat gray and white pipes snaked throughout the space, creating the maze that had once transported water to and from the huge round vats outside the main building. Once, this building had likely thrummed with noise, but only the howl of the storm outside now echoed through its empty spaces.

Joel sat on the cement floor, his back against a pipe that was almost half as tall as he was. He had his knees drawn up and had propped up the broken handle of an old shovel between them. Currently he was using the last of a roll of Scotch tape to bind a pair of scissors to the end of the handle, angling the blades so that they were perpendicular to the handle itself. He had separated the blades and bound each an inch apart, parallel to each other.

On his left wrist, his broken watch glinted in the firelight as he worked.

"How's that?" he said, looking up as he set aside the empty roll of tape. It was rudimentary, but it would allow him to swing the broken handle and drive two three-inch-long blades into whatever, or whoever, he was swinging at.

"That tape's not gonna hold more'n a swing or two," Tommy replied from where he sat on the ground opposite Joel, eyeing the homemade weapon as Joel handed it to Javier for inspection.

"Don't need to, if y'hit the son of a bitch right the first time," Javier said. He wiggled the tip of one of the blades. Even with several layers of scotch tape, it did indeed seem likely to tear off after only a single blow. "Just need t'make sure you hit it in the head. Whatever's turnin' 'em crazy makes 'em not die like humans should. Like that bastard I shot in the goddamn chest? Fuck man, just made it angrier." Javier shuddered at the memory and handed the modified weapon back to Joel.

"Duct tape would probably work better," Joel muttered distractedly.

Javier grinned. "Ha! Right, amigo. Fuckin' end of the world? Nah. Guns and duct tape. All you need to live forever."

Joel glanced up belatedly, then gave a half-hearted smile as if processing the joke a few seconds too late. Sitting atop one of the pipes, Javier returned the smile, but shot Tommy a concerned glance once Joel had looked away. More than a month on the road had heralded the return of Joel's black mood. Not that Joel had ever been carefree, but the comfortable camaraderie that he had enjoyed during their time on the Huntersville barricade crew had all but vanished. He spoke less and watched more. His birthday had come and gone with no mention of it or any of the memories associated with it. Tommy wanted to believe it was simply Joel playing the role of big brother, but instinctively he knew it was more than that. Joel was afraid.

And that scared the hell out of Tommy.

"That sign on the highway said there was a town two miles from here," Joel said, setting the broken handle down beside him. "You gonna be able to make that tomorrow, Jav?"

"Sure," Javier replied unenthusiastically. Atop the pipe, his legs dangled down a few inches off the floor. His right ankle was wrapped in a plastic medical boot they had found at a pharmacy in Louisiana, but the added stability the boot afforded his sprained ankle had not sped their progress on the road. It had been a slow few weeks since their van had died not long after crossing into Mississippi.

"At least in a bigger town we got a better chance of findin' a car that works," Tommy offered optimistically. "Nothin' but junkers out here in the sticks."

"It's the gas," Joel muttered, sighing heavily as he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the pipe behind him. "The preservative's gone bad in most cars by now. Y'run that bad gas through an engine and you'll kill it. Just gotta find a car with a good tank that's kept the oxygen from gettin' in and ruinin' the gas."

The wind outside howled with a fresh gust, drowning out the pleasant crackle of their fire, but it brought with it a new sound. At first Tommy thought he had imagined it, but he noticed both Javier and Joel look up with perplexed expressions, frowning as if trying to determine what the noise was. It came in a quick throaty rhythm, like something swinging in the breeze, but slowly Tommy began to realize that it was echoing. It was inside the building.

It sounded like panting.

"What the hell is that?" Tommy said quietly, but loud enough for the others to hear him over the wind. Javier reached for the semi-automatic shotgun that he had left leaning against the pipe beside him, while both Tommy and Joel started to scramble up from the cement floor, moving slowly as they continued straining to hear the unfamiliar noise above the roar of the storm. Tommy lifted the hunting rifle he had brought with them when they had fled Huntersville, but Joel deftly picked up his new modified melee weapon and put a finger to his lips. Tommy nodded.

They had learned the hard way that their guns were often a liability. Nothing was more effective at taking down the infected, but God help you if you lingered in the area after discharging a firearm. Every gunshot seemed to draw fresh infected for miles around.

Several of the pipes in the cavernous room ran vertically from floor to ceiling, creating long columns of gray metal that cast deep shadows behind them. Joel gestured for Javier to stay where he was, but pointed Tommy towards the right side of the nearest set of vertical pipes. Joel moved to the left of the pipes.

Taking slow steps, Tommy steadily drew closer. When he was only a few feet from the pipes, he moved abruptly and stepped around them, pointing his rifle at the shadows behind. Nothing. Joel joined him, boots scraping on the cement floor.

Suddenly they heard the sound again, but this time a tortured whine accompanied it, like whatever animal was making the sound was in great pain and attempting to conceal it. Joel and Tommy launched into motion, their cautious uncertainty now replaced by an urgent awareness that, whatever was making the noise, they did not want to be in the same room as it. Together, the brothers moved in sync, seamlessly working their way around pipes to check every shadow and corner. Every few seconds, the anguished panting returned, echoing across the cement walls so that they could not tell if it was following them or fleeing them.

They had cleared half of the plant's large main floor when they approached the bottom of a set of metal steps that lead up to a steel grate walkway from which wastewater treatment workers had once been able to inspect the pipes from above. Joel quietly placed a boot on the bottom step, Tommy behind him.

Without warning, a shadow detached itself from the inky black underside of the steps. Tommy's eyes had adjusted to the darkness of the plant's interior, but he blinked in confusion at what looked like small translucent spots around the shadow's head. It was humanoid, but it moved with desperate agility as it launched itself at Joel's back. A Runner.

The animal tackled Joel before Joel even knew what was happening, slamming him against the metal steps with a clangor. Tommy instinctively swung his rifle to aim at the Runner, but with a growl he remembered his better judgment at the last second. He pulled the rifle up and charged the steps just as Joel managed to slam an elbow into the side of the creature's head, fighting to throw it off his back. Tommy swung hard with the butt of his rifle and heard a satisfying crack as it smashed against the Runner's head. The creature flailed sideways off of Joel and gave a tormented scream as it gained its feet again. It was clawing at its head, but it suddenly jumped and spread its legs as if preparing to pounce.

K-thunk!

Out of nowhere, the twin blades of Joel's modified shovel handle struck the infected in the temple. For a second, it remained standing, its scream still on its lips. Then it fell, ripping the still-embedded blades right off of the shovel handle as it crumpled. Joel stood above it, breathing hard but holding the now naked handle above the creature lest it should move again. The panting had stopped and silence swooped back around them.

"Joel! Tommy!" The sound of a hop-skip gait preceded Javier's arrival, as their friend moved awkwardly to swing the clunky medical boot at a slow jog. He brought with him light, swinging their solitary flashlight before him as he approached, shotgun in one hand. "Fuck!" he exclaimed as the flashlight's beam swept across the body of the dead infected.

"Never mind," Tommy said quickly, urgency in his voice. "Joel, did he get you? Did it bite you?"

"I don't know!" Joel replied. With frantic motion, he started feeling the back of his head and neck, prodding for signs of a bite.

"Jav, gimme the light!"

Javier tossed the flashlight to Tommy, who immediately pointed it at Joel's back. His brother was still fingering the bare skin at the nape of his neck, but it did not appear to have been broken in his struggle with the infected. No blood glistened in Joel's hair. His shirt was not torn, but Tommy lifted it up just to be sure. No bite marks.

Tommy breathed a sigh of relief. "Jesus Christ, Joel," he whispered in disbelief. "It was right fuckin' on top of you."

"I know." Joel's response was terse, but he sounded shaken and out of breath. Swallowing and clearing his throat, he took the flashlight from Tommy and pointed at the prostrate form of the infected. A look of uncertainty clouded his features.

"What the hell?"

Both Tommy and Javier followed the beam of light to where it illuminated the dead Runner. Only it did not look like a Runner. That it was one of the infected, there was no doubt, and maybe once it had been a Runner, but now? Tommy felt an involuntary shudder run the length of his spine and fought the bile that suddenly bubbled at the back of his throat.

The creature had skin like thick, rough parchment and ropes of blood-red veins stood out across its face and chest like licorice. It was dirty, but more than that, its skin had turned a mottled blotchy mess of bloodless white and gray-brown. Its eyes were completely red with a solid black pupil at the center. Or rather, its single eye was, for that was what made Tommy want to gag. Twisted, alien branches of something gray and fleshy had grown out from the creature's right eye and nose. Whatever it was had snaked its way to the top of the creature's head, snarling amongst thin, patchy hair and standing on end. The tips were pale pink, like mushrooms, only they seemed to be faintly glowing.

"Holy mother of God," Javier whispered, eyes wide as he stared.

Only belatedly did Tommy process the fact that this thing had once likely been a woman. Unlike the Runners, its former humanity was not readily obvious. It was an alien thing.

Making a face, Tommy slowly knelt next to the infected and leaned forward, watching it warily for any signs of life. When it did not move, Tommy reached towards its head and took hold of one of the scissor blades still bored into its temple. With a grunt, he jerked it free. Still moving like he was ready to spring back at a second's notice, Tommy slowly used the tip of the bloody blade to prod one of the gray, fleshy branches that stood out from the infected's head. It was pliable, but it sprang back to attention as soon as Tommy released the pressure from the blade.

Tommy rested his elbow on his knee and pressed the back of his wrist against his mouth and nose as he looked up at Joel. "I think...I think it's the fungus."

Joel made a disbelieving sound, lips parting. "In their brain? Christ."

"Not just in their brain anymore, apparently," Tommy said, standing.

"And not actin' like a Runner," Javier added, pointing at the creature. "Runners don't hide. They might be fast bastards, but at least y'can hear 'em comin'."

"Jav's right," Joel nodded. "This thing knew we were here. It's like it was...huntin' us or somethin'."

"Great," Tommy said, throwing the scissor blade back at the dead infected. "It ain't bad enough this fungus makes the infected into mindless killers? Now these sons-a-bitches gotta start stalkin' us? Fuck."

Shaking his head, Joel discarded his broken shovel handle and stooped over the infected. "C'mon Tommy, help me. I ain't sleepin' with this thing in here." Tommy knelt to help his brother.

They left the corpse outside in the storm, but it didn't matter in the end. None of them slept that night anyhow.

October 16, 2014, Mid Afternoon

"He gonna be okay?"

Tommy looked up at the question, glancing sideways at Javier, then up at Joel. Joel was keeping a good 30 feet ahead of them as they walked down the main street of a ghost town that vaguely resembled the old Huntersville quarantine zone, without the walls. Or the people, for that matter. A light autumn breeze buffeted across empty roads and boulevards.

Javier sauntered with a cigarette dangling from his lips, carrying his shotgun across his shoulders and resting his wrists over either end of the gun. Yet even Javier's expression turned uncertain as he stared at Joel's back.

Adjusting the rifle strap that he held at his right shoulder, Tommy could only shrug as he dropped his eyes to the road again. "Guess so," he muttered.

They walked side by side, boots kicking up the carpet of leaves that had scattered across the asphalt. Although Joel was not leaving them behind by any means, he seemed to prefer staying ahead of them on his own, ostensibly to scout out any trouble in advance. Javier had discarded the medical boot and seemed to be walking almost normally, though they still took fairly frequently breaks. Not like they were in a hurry to get anywhere anyhow.

"Yeah," Javier said vaguely, squinting against the sun. He pinched his cigarette between two fingers and coughed out a gust of smoke. "He always been like this?"

"What, the responsible one?"

Javier grinned at the implication.

"Not sure you'd of always called him responsible," Tommy said, keeping his voice low enough that Joel would not hear. "But realistic, yeah. Christ, we used t'get in these huge fights as kids. I hated him always playin' big brother, always lookin' after me. Still do sometimes, I guess."

"Always gonna be his job to look after your ass, hey?"

Tommy actually chuckled, grinning as he shook his head as Javier. "Guess so. We just don't always see things eye to eye. He never asks "why". Just gets on with things, no questions. Not me. I don't roll with the punches. I gotta figure out why someone's tryin' to punch me, maybe make 'em stop."

"So what's up with him now? Him keepin' to himself and all."

Tommy shrugged. "Honest...I think he doesn't know what to do. Just driftin' like this? Scares the hell out of him."

"Scares the hell outta me too. You remember those coupla folks who slit their wrists in Huntersville? Sometimes I figure they had it right."

"Might not always be like this, Jav."

Javier cast Tommy a mockingly patronizing glance, eyebrow cocked. "Aw Christ, a fuckin' optimist. Right, Tommy boy," he said, laughing, "cause a year from now I'm gonna be sittin' at fuckin' Mickey Dees laughin' about all this. Hey look, there's one now." He pointed dramatically towards the burned out shell of a former McDonald's in the distance, its golden arches standing proudly oblivious to the blackened ruin beneath it.

"Gotta aim for somethin', Jav."

"Little hard to aim for anythin' when everythin' on two legs is tryin' to kill ya, Tommy."

Tommy had no response to that and simply shook his head.

"You two wanna keep it down?" Ahead of them, Joel had apparently stopped at the sound of Javier's laughter and was looking back at them now, his posture at once tense and weary. Like Tommy, he carried a rifle over one shoulder, but he also had his pistol tucked into his waistband. From a loop on his belt, a new homemade club hung: a tire iron with a kitchen knife strapped to it.

"Yes, boss," Javier said with mock seriousness, touching two fingers to his brow in a lazy salute. They joined Joel where he stood at the center of the street, opposite the entrance to an old coffee shop on one side of the street and the wide sliding doors of a mechanic's garage on the other.

Joel made a face as if about to reprimand the two of them again, but a movement atop the roof of the coffee shop suddenly drew both Joel and Tommy's attention. Without hesitation, they both swung their rifles off of their shoulders and snapped eyes skyward to discern what had caught their eye. Javier followed suit a half-second later, his lazy stance vanishing as he knocked the stock of his shotgun back against his shoulder.

A man stood above the coffee shop, a black rifle trained down on the three of them as he looked over the low wall that rimmed the shop's rooftop. He had a shaggy black beard and hair like Joel, but he was built like a bear – not overweight, but broad and tall and full of muscle. He wore a black leather vest over red flannel.

"Wouldn't be so quick to draw if'n I were you," the man called down, voice laden with Mississippi flavor. He released one hand from his rifle to point behind Joel, Tommy, and Javier.

Stomach sinking, Tommy glanced sideways at Joel. Together, they both turned to look behind them. Half a dozen figures were now emerging from the empty garage and other buildings behind them. They turned back towards the coffee shop to find half again as many people slowly stepping out from the broken windows of abandoned businesses. There were men and women alike, all dressed rough for the road, all with guns trained on the three companions who stood utterly exposed in the middle of the street.

From the back of the coffee shop, a man emerged. Others made way for him as if he were someone of importance. He stepped out onto the street, the edges of his dark green camouflaged jacket pulled back with his hands in his trouser pockets. Tommy guessed he must be near sixty, a tall, round man with receding silver hair and a salt-and-pepper beard that turned full white at the chin. His skin had the over-wrinkled look of a man who has lost a great deal of weight in a very short time.

He stopped at the edge of the sidewalk in front of the coffee shop. "Why don't you gentlemen just put up those guns and we can have a conversation, hm?" A gentile Mississippi twang hinted at a man once of wealth and education.

Both Javier and Tommy instinctively looked to Joel, lips parted in wary question. Joel was careful to keep his expression straight, but there was no mistaking the thin sheen of sweat that had broken out across his brow as his eyes flickered to the guns pointing at them on either side of the man in the camouflaged jacket. He continued staring down the barrel of his rifle for several seconds, but he swallowed finally and blinked, slowly lowering his gun with a long, low sigh. Tommy and Javier followed suit. All three raised their hands, still holding their firearms in one hand but with them extended away from their bodies in a clear demonstration that they would not use them.

The man in the camouflaged jacket smiled and waved them towards him as he turned back to enter the coffee shop. "You can keep your guns for now," he called behind him. "Just don't make as if to use them, if you don't mind."

Joel cast a final wary glance at the people still pointing weapons at them before slowly starting after the man. Tommy felt an uneasy shiver begin to wriggle in the pit of his stomach.

The inside of the coffee shop had a damp, musky feel as if its large broken bay windows had exposed it to the elements for too long. Yet a corner of the place had been swept out and a table and chairs set up. A half-full bottle of Fireball whiskey sat at the center, beside four mismatched glasses.

Their "host" seated himself with his back against the wall and waved Joel, Tommy and Javier towards the open chairs. They cautiously removed their packs and eased into the seats, propping their guns against their knees.

"So, how long have you boys been on the road?" the man said, his voice a reedy rumble. He leaned forward and unscrewed the top of the cinnamon whiskey, pouring a splash into each glass. But when none of them answered his question, he looked up expectantly. "Well, can I at least get your names?"

"You first," Joel said warily. His eyes flickered again to the armed guards still standing at the door of the coffee shop.

The man smiled as if amused, then pushed a glass in each of their directions. None of them reached for the whiskey, but the man grabbed his own and leaned his chair back against the wall, balancing on two legs.

"Once upon a time, a name meant something," he said comfortably. "You give a man your name and he could do any number of things with it. Look you up in the white pages. Turn you into the police. Hell, he could google you and probably come up with half your life story. But these days, there ain't any white pages or police or internet. A name's mighty useful for just about one thing: distinguishing one man from another.

"But if it makes you feel more comfortable askin' me my name first, that's just fine by me. Name's Haney. Though most of the folks outside just call me Judge or Judge Haney, seein' as that's what I was, once upon a time."

Tommy looked more closely at the man now and noticed for the first time that, beneath his camouflaged jacket and fingerless gloves, he wore a dirty white dress shirt and a black suit vest. Whatever he had once been though, there was no mistaking the bulge of a shoulder holster under Judge Haney's left arm.

Joel glanced down at the glass of whiskey in front of him, then back up at their host. "Joel," he said finally, then nodded to the others. "Tommy. Javier."

"Pleasure," Haney said, smiling. "Now, how long you been on the road?"

"'Bout a month and a half."

"And before that?"

Joel looked at Tommy and Javier, his lips pressing together. "Quarantine zone in Texas, just outside Austin."

Haney swirled the cinnamon whiskey thoughtfully in his glass as he looked up at Joel from under silver brows. "Mind my askin' why you left?"

"...Infected. Overran the place." Joel rubbed a hand across the back of his head, a nervous gesture he had had since childhood. He might be good at keeping quiet, but Joel was a poor actor when it came to concealing his emotions.

The former judge nodded lightly, frowning as he considered the three of them with an appraising stare that had likely been honed by decades on the bench. In fact, he spent so long simply staring at them that Tommy had started to fidget uncomfortably by the time Haney spoke again.

"You come across a former quarantine zone to the west of here? Place called Moseby?"

Joel nodded. Moseby had been the town a few miles from the old wastewater treatment plant, but they had not entered it as planned. After they had heard gunfire from the direction of the town, they had chosen to skirt a wide path around the place.

"Most of the folks you saw outside were at Moseby," Judge Haney continued. "But I'm afraid to say Moseby didn't make it near as long as your zone. Fell to infected this last January. There was a fellow tryin' to pull it back together a few months back, but my understanding is he was killed not too long ago. Too many folks fightin' for supplies left over at the old zone. After that, we figured we were better off on our own."

Joel nodded slowly, still eyeing Haney as if waiting for the gentile façade to fall away. When the judge lapsed once more into thoughtful silence, Joel leaned forward, placing his arms on the table. "You mind my askin' what you plan to do with us?"

Smiling, Haney absently scratched at his salt-and-pepper beard. "You mean do I intend to kill you?" he said lightly. "That's what it comes down to these days, isn't it. Well, you may be pleased to know that, no, I do not intend to kill you." He allowed his chair to tip forward again, all four chair legs scraping against the weather-worn coffee shop floor. He pointed outside.

"We're something of a motley crew here, gentlemen. That fellow up on the roof? Big guy with the black hair? Guess you'd call him my second-in-command. Name's Troy. I put him behind bars 15 years ago for manslaughter, for killin' a man during a drunken brawl at a bar not five miles from here. Why, Troy was one of the great examples of the success of the Mississippi penitentiary system. Man found God while he was behind bars. Came out of there a changed man. Just in time for the end of the world, matter of fact. Goes without saying, he lost God again mighty quick, but he's still a good man, in his own way."

"Okay," Joel said slowly, as if struggling to see the point of Haney's speech.

"What I mean to say, gentlemen, is this. All of us here got our own separate pasts, but we all got one thing in common now: we look after each other. There ain't a single man or woman out there who doesn't pull his or her own weight. We keep movin' and we watch each other's backs, and day-by-day, we manage to survive in this hellhole God's left us with."

Some of the uncomfortable wriggling in the pit of Tommy's stomach began to abate. A community of survivors outside the quarantine zones, working together to survive not because some military command structure ordered them too, but because they wanted to. Tommy felt a glimmer of hope begin to kindle in his chest.

"Now," Haney continued. "What if I were to offer you a place in our merry band?"

Tommy felt his lips part, but Joel frowned, eyes narrowing at Haney. "And if we're not interested?"

"A very good question," the former judge chuckled, waggling a finger at Joel. "I'd have thought less of you if you hadn't asked it. A man ought to know everything about a proposal before he decides whether to agree or not. Otherwise it's like puttin' extra salt and pepper on food you've never tasted. Allow me to explain a bit more about what we do here."

Haney's light-heartedness faded and his expression grew somber. He pushed his glass of whiskey away from him and set both hands on the table, as if he were a coach about to explain the next play to his team. "I've told you every man and woman here pulls their weight and I mean it. There's no person among us that lives off the hard work of others. I won't stand for it. But more than that, the people you see here are survivors. Most were survivors even before the world decided to end.

"The strong will inherit this new world of ours, gentlemen. They already are. We no longer have the luxury of supporting those unable to support themselves, even if they are good people, people we'd like to help and shelter. That's what the quarantine zones are tryin' to do, and for what? So all can starve together. So all can be overrun by infected together. That way of life is no longer sustainable."

Tommy frowned and slowly crossed his arms. The hope that had begun to kindle in his chest was fading. Admittedly, some small part of him felt like nodding at the logic of the judge's speech, but a deep instinct was gnawing at him, an inherent sense that this line of reasoning was wrong.

Judge Haney continued. "It's an uncomfortable notion for many, but there you have it. No two ways around it. I take no pride in sayin' such heartless things, but I'm not ashamed of it either. I've been on the road a good deal longer than you boys. That's simply a reality that we have had to accept in order to survive."

"I'm not sure I understand what you're tryin' to say, sir," Tommy said cautiously, before Joel could silence him with a look.

"I'm sayin' we survive by takin' what we need, even if it means takin' from others." Judge Haney's face was deadly serious, but he did not sound or look as if he meant to imply a threat with the revelation. His tone was almost matter-of-fact, though not without a hint of regret. "We rob people, gentlemen. There's no other way of sayin' it. We take what we need because we can, because we have the strength, firepower, and will to do so. It gives me no pleasure to say that. In another life, I put men and women behind bars for this very thing. But I refuse to let humanity sink into extinction because we did not have the stomach to do what we must in order to survive this world. You ask what happens if you decline my offer to join us? You'll be free to walk away, once we've taken what we need from your supplies.

"Now," he said, holding up his index finger and tapping the table with it. "I will tell you this. If you choose to leave, I will tell you that we are headed west. But south of here, about eight miles, is another town. I don't know what sort of supplies you'll find there or if there are infected about, but I can tell you that you can head that direction without fear of us followin' you."

Haney lapsed into silence, fixing the three of them with a long stare. Joel held his gaze for a second, then glanced first at Tommy and then at Javier. Both wore unreadable expressions.

"One final point," the judge continued. "I doubt you have lived as long as you have without learnin' to kill the infected, but if you have not discovered it yet, you will soon learn that other humans are often the greater threat. That being said, we do not kill indiscriminately. We do not kill at all if we can help it. Many in this world have no such qualms, but I personally have no desire to turn into a monster, gentlemen. We commit only those sins that are necessary to survive. Nothing less, nothing more."

Haney's chair scraped as he pushed back from the table and stood, gesturing for the others to do the same. "You're free to discuss this amongst yourselves. There's a large bathroom at the back here, should you prefer a closed door. I simply ask you leave your gear here while you confer."

Joel looked at Haney for a second and then nodded deftly. He removed his modified tire iron and set it across the table, then placed his pistol next to it. His pack and rifle he left leaning against the table's edge. Tommy and Javier did likewise. Together, they shuffled to the back of the coffee shop, where a large handicap-accessible bathroom with high frosted windows gave them some privacy.

Once the door had closed behind them and engulfed them in a dim gray light, Tommy breathed out sharply, as if he had been all but holding his breath.

"Well, boys?" Javier said, digging a hand through his thick black hair as he cocked an eyebrow at Joel and Tommy.

"Well what?" Tommy said abruptly. "There ain't anything to discuss, Jav. Tell me we're not seriously considerin' this."

"You said yourself, Tommy," Joel rumbled quietly. "Without our gear on the road, we're dead."

"What? Are you serious? We'll find other fuckin' gear, Joel. Hasn't yet been a problem findin' what we need. Besides, if you remember so well, that's what I said to the last people who tried robbin' us. You sayin' you want us to sign up to do the same to others?"

Joel's expression grew angry and sharp irritation entered his voice. "I ain't said one way or the other, Tommy."

"Then what are you sayin'? Better to rob others than lose our gear to these fuckin' cowboys?"

"I'm sayin' we ain't got the luxury of ignorin' an option if it's there."

"Luxury?" Tommy snorted. "Jesus Christ, Joel. Don't start usin' fancy words just cause some jumped up ex-judge put 'em in your mouth. It ain't a luxury to choose not to prey on the weak. It's just right."

Joel's eyes flashed and he suddenly shoved Tommy in the chest, driving his brother back against the bathroom's tile wall. "I said I ain't said one way or the other, Tommy."

"Better start makin' up your mind then, big brother," Tommy said, not quite successfully keeping the sneer out of his voice. "I doubt they're exactly gonna give us a coupla days to think it out."

"Then let's try it." Both Joel and Tommy looked at Javier, apparently having forgotten he was in the room with them. He sounded unusually serious. "Ain't anybody sayin' we gotta stay forever, boys. But if it's this or back out there on our own, I'll stick to numbers. Don't get me wrong, boys. I can't never repay you for lookin' after me when my foot got all screwed to hell, but it's been a lonely fuckin' few months. Three guys out here on our own? How long before we run into a pack of fuckin' Runners and that's it?" He shook his head. "I won't leave you, boys. But I'm sayin' I think we give this a go."

All three were silent for a time, considering the weight of Javier's words. An uncomfortable sense of dread clenched at Tommy's stomach, but he had difficulty deciding whether it was dread at the prospect of joining Judge Haney's crew or dread at the thought of returning again to their long, perilous road to nowhere.

"All right," Joel said quietly, backing away from where he had crowded his brother against the wall, but nonetheless watching Tommy's reaction.

"All right?" Tommy said, disbelief wrinkling his brow. "That's it? That's all it takes to make you agree to robbin' other people, just because you can?"

In a snap, Joel's temper flared again and he angrily grabbed Tommy by the collar. "Goddamnit, Tommy! You think I like sayin' it?" he growled. "Grow up, boy. This is the world we live in."

"Listen," Javier interjected, placing a hand on Joel's shoulder, but looking at Tommy. "For all we know, they get most of their gear from scavengin'. We've found plenty that way, right? Maybe they don't even need to lift it off other folks most of the time."

Tommy snorted, practically ignoring Javier as he scowled at Joel. "Are you gonna do this, Joel? Is it worth that much to you that you'd join them over your brother?"

"Are you gonna make me choose?"

Tense silence settled taut over the bathroom for several seconds as both brothers fixed each other with hard glares, their breathing deep and sharp with emotion. Tommy felt the heat of Joel's hand against his collarbone as he held Joel's angry stare. He imagined what it would be like to return to the road, just the three of them, knowing there was a community of survivors they might have joined, even if that community's means of survival was morally questionable. But more than that, he imagined what it would be like to return to the road, utterly alone in a broken world.

The tension in Tommy's face slowly loosened. The anger remained, but the staring contest was lost. Tommy let his eyes slide down a fraction, then shook his head. He could not bring himself to admit his decision aloud. Joel released him.

"C'mon then," he growled without delay, yanking open the bathroom door.

Neither their gear nor Judge Haney had moved from the table when they reentered the main coffee shop floor. Haney had reseated himself and appeared to have been studying the gently swirling whiskey in his glass, but he smiled and stood again as they neared. He clinked his glass back down on the table.

"Well," he said, lifting silver eyebrows. "Have we a decision?"

Without ceremony, Joel nodded and said simply, "We'll join."

Haney smiled broadly and nodded back. "I'm glad to hear it, Joel. Not many folks are extended this invitation, so I'm mighty glad I judged you boys right. Now, before we shake on it." He tipped his head forward, like a father explaining the house rules to his children.

"This group, we're family. We look after each other. You're each free to do as you like, so long as you don't do it to the detriment of one of the family. This ain't a warnin' or a threat, just fair notice. If you cross one of us, we will cross you. But—" he held up a finger "—by the same law, if another family member crosses you, we will cross them. Is that acceptable to you?"

Joel considered a moment, then nodded.

"Then shake on it."

Judge Haney extended one of his fingerless gloves towards Joel. Pointedly not looking at Tommy, Joel caught the judge's hand and shook it firmly.

A big thank you to all my reviewers! I'm far enough into this story now that I'm frantically writing because I want to know what happens next, but the reviews are a big boost when real life threatens to leave me with too little time or sleep to write on any given day. Remember to Follow the story for update alerts. Tune in next time to find out what happens when someone in the Judge's family breaks the cardinal rule...