The sun never rose over the Sanctuary. The people tilted their faces skyward, desperate for even a glimpse of natural light through the thick, swirling whiteness, but salvation never came.
Without sunlight, the passage of time became impossible to measure. Hours bled into days, into weeks – perhaps even months. Inside the Sanctuary, every clock had stopped, as though time itself had been warped, corrupted by the unnatural mist. And although the sun never rose, the wind, it whispered. A chorus of a thousand faceless voices carried through the fog, distant and unintelligible. Unfathomable.
Sometimes, something else appeared in the sky.
An immense arched shadow would come drifting high above in the smoky mist, sweeping over the Sanctuary like some otherworldly satellite, gliding slowly at first, then faster and faster with every pass, wreathed in violent bursts of lightning too blinding to behold.
The soft wind would swell into a howling storm, and with it, the whispers – closer, louder, insistent. In, in, let me in.
Until, finally, the voices would come together in a single, deafening shriek. And when the colossal ring passed over the Sanctuary one last time – its people writhing, clutching their ears against the terrible cry – it was as if the air itself burned away, leaving behind a jarring, absolute silence. Those who still had breath in their lungs howled in voiceless terror, mouths agape, eyes bulging, yet no sound escaped into the vacuum.
It was always a mercy, when the whispers returned.
"Watch your back!"
Dean's warning cut through the air as he swung, the long-handled scythe slicing clean through the neck of the walker lunging at Daryl's back. Daryl didn't flinch, duck, or even look over his shoulder; he simply slammed down with a rusty pitchfork when the creature's head landed near his feet, skewering its skull with a solid thunk.
The Hilltop Colony was a farming community. The horde had destroyed their fields; wheat stalks flattened and ruined, soil churned up by the relentless trudge of so many feet. However, the scattered tools left behind had caught Dean and Daryl's attention early on. They each grabbed what they could use, preferring the long reach of the gardening tools over their own short blades.
"They're catching on," Daryl huffed in dismay. He yanked at the pitchfork, but its pronged head snapped off, embedded in the walker's skull.
Dean tossed him a pair of pruning shears. "Starting to, yeah. Magic's fading," he said as Daryl put the tool to work. "We better haul ass."
It had been a long night, and as the first rays of sunlight broke over the horizon, Dean felt a wave of relief as the glow of flames finally disappeared from above the walls. They'd been at it for hours, fighting tooth and nail to cull the horde's numbers. Yet for every corpse that fell at their feet, two more seemed to stumble up the hill. Now, with the fire gone, all that remained was to clear the dead amassed outside the walls.
Easier said than done. The hex bags gave them an advantage over the dead, but the magic was failing. Even a muggle like Dean could feel the spell weakening, losing power by the minute. He and Daryl were caked in enough filth to stay hidden a little longer, but sooner or later, the dead were bound to sniff them out.
"We gon' try the backdoor again?" Daryl suggested, leaning forward on his knees, taking advantage of the momentary lull to catch his breath.
"That's what she said," Dean quipped automatically, though his heart wasn't really in it.
Every inch of his body was crying out in protest; from his strained shoulders and heavy arms down to the searing pain in his leg, the bullet hole throbbing under his stitches. He dreaded what he might find on closer inspection, uncertain if the festering smell was coming from his own wound or just the stench of death surrounding them.
As if reading Dean's mind, Daryl jerked his head toward the towering walls. "They got a doctor. Might as well let 'em look at that leg."
Dean grimaced. "We'll see."
In all honesty, he had zero intention of sticking around any longer than he had to. The Hilltop's doctor could do his worst with someone else; Dean had his own priorities. As soon as they were in the clear, Dean was making a straight shot to Alexandria.
To Cas.
…Maybe after a change of clothes, though.
Daryl gave him a narrowed-eyed look. The kind that said: don't be a fucking moron.
"Yeah, yeah, gotta get inside first, don't we?" Dean deflected, turning away before Daryl could press the issue.
At least the Hilltop's back entrance was no longer quite so backed up, now that the guy hanging over the trap door had turned. All that wriggling had loosened the rope; the walker was dangling a few inches off the ground, swaying slightly with each mindless twitch. Its face was bloated, the skin turned an unnatural purple-gray, and its mouth opened and closed repeatedly behind its trapped arm, as though it was working up a strongly-worded complaint regarding its lot in death.
His name had been Gregory, Jesus had said. The Hilltop's leader, though he hadn't seemed too torn up about it.
Daryl shrugged at Dean's unspoken question. "Guy was a prick."
There might have been fewer walkers lingering near the back entrance, but 'fewer' still added up to too damn many. They pushed forward slowly, their boots sinking into the dirt and scuffing against twisted limbs and bloated torsos – the fruits of their labor. Halfway there, Dean caught a familiar sound, one that made his heart sink to his stomach: the deep, guttural rumble of a heavy engine.
"Wait," he said, grabbing Daryl's shoulder just as a loud, hollow thunder rumbled, shaking the walls and sending a tremor through the ground.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then came a deep, heavy groan as a ten-foot-wide section of the Hilltop's walls began to buckle, the massive logs splintering and crashing down like some of Purgatory's felled giants. They leaped out of the way just as a thick wooden beam slammed into the earth, sending a cloud of splinters into the air.
This was no attack; it was a deliberate demolition.
"They're gonna get mobbed," Dean coughed, grabbing Daryl's offered hand.
No sooner had the words left his mouth than piercing screams and frantic shouts erupted from the direction of the Hilltop. The horde poured into the settlement, their lumbering figures stark against the fine mist of wood dust hanging in the air. Gunfire crackled, scattered and panicked. Another blast shattered the main gates, sending the dead surging en masse to flood the breach. Then came a third explosion, and a fourth, sections of the Hilltop's walls collapsing in succession.
Vehicles came barreling out past the ruins, fitted metal cages slamming into the mass of bodies, flinging thick clumps of blood and viscera in the air. They jostled for space along the narrow path, scraping against one another in their rush before tearing off into the unknown. Dean saw Gregory's head burst open like a ripe melon under the massive wheel of a semi.
The Hilltop Colony had fallen, and Sam's last resort, his evacuation plan, was now in motion. One thing was clear, though: this was no coordinated retreat. The walls had been breached without warning. Somewhere inside, something had gone terribly wrong.
A single thought rattled inside Dean's head:
"I have to find my brother."
He didn't ask Daryl to follow, but as Dean's scythe carved a path forward, his friend fell into step beside him.
As soon as they closed in on the nearest breach, a small hatchback attempted to pass the ruins, its engine roaring in protest as it struggled over the uneven ground. The damn thing was completely unsuited for the task – it skidded off the fallen logs and crashed into a walker, the creature's body folding in half as it slammed into the car's windshield, cracking it. Another found itself dragged beneath the hatchback's wheels. Predictably, the car jolted into a complete stop, tires spinning helplessly in the terrible slurry of gore and dirt.
The dead immediately swarmed the vehicle, trapping its occupants inside. Dean caught a glimpse of the driver – a man in his forties, frozen behind the wheel – and the woman and child in the backseat, their desperate screams muffled by the press of bodies against the car.
Daryl didn't hesitate to jump into the fray. Dean followed suit, the family's screams echoing in his ears, the fading magic barely holding the dead at bay. Daryl scrambled onto the car, gripping the edges of the roof as he tried to wrench the small sunroof open, aiming to pull the family out. But where to? The dead kept coming, a relentless tide frenzied by the promise of an easy meal.
Another vehicle suddenly came roaring toward them, a towering off-road box truck decked in camouflage. Seeing his chance, Dean threw his hex bag to the ground and ran into the truck's path, frantically waving it down. The driver, mercifully, spotted him in time to hit the brakes.
"Pull over!" Dean shouted, but the man behind the wheel just stared back in wide-eyed confusion, his face ghostly pale. With a growl of frustration, Dean slashed through two walkers, stormed to the truck, and yanked the door open. "Move," he snarled.
Sliding into the driver's seat, Dean slammed the truck into gear and barreled toward the hatchback, mowing down the dead in his path. Moments later found him standing in the truck's cab, his body braced against the window frame, while Daryl attempted to wrestle the couple's young daughter out through the car's sunroof.
The little girl clung to Daryl's neck like a limpet, her tiny arms locked in an iron grip. Despite his urgent coaxing, she refused to let go, twisting away whenever he tried to pass her over to Dean. Below, bony fingers clawed at the car's roof, their jagged nails scraping dangerously close to Daryl's boots.
"Addy!" the woman inside the car screamed, lifting her head from the sunroof. Her resemblance to her daughter was striking. "What are you doing? Get in the truck! Get in the fucking truck now!"
If anything, the girl's arms only tightened around Daryl's neck. She looked to be around eight or seven, and absolutely terrified. Dean exchanged a loaded look with Daryl; they didn't have a lot of time.
"Hey there, Addy," Dean called up to her from his perch on the truck's window, keeping his voice steady despite the tension coiling in his gut. "I'm Dean." Her wide eyes darted toward him, and he offered a quick, easy grin. "You know the guy you've got in a chokehold? That's my buddy Daryl. He's a tough one, but he's gonna need you to ease up a bit, okay?"
"Chokehold's illegal," Daryl told her seriously.
Muffled shouts from the truck's unseen passengers rose from the back, frantic and fearful. Inside the cab behind Dean, the driver was losing his nerve. "They're all over us! You're killing us here, man!" he shouted, his voice breaking with desperation.
Dean snapped his head around. "Wait one goddamn second!" he hissed before turning back to Addy, his expression softening into calm reassurance. "I won't drop you, sweetheart, but you've got to let go now. Just keep your eyes on me, okay?"
The girl slowly loosened her grip, letting Daryl carefully pass her into Dean's waiting arms. "That's it," Dean murmured softly. Her feet swung mere inches above the grasping hands of the dead, their fingers clawing uselessly at the empty air. "Don't look down, Addy. Just look at me. Only me. You've got this."
With Addy secured in the truck's cab, Daryl turned his attention to her mother. He steadied her as she climbed through the hatchback's sunroof, her glasses askew and her wide, fearful eyes darting toward Dean. She hesitated for a moment before finally reaching for his hand.
And that was when everything fell apart.
A walker had clambered onto the car's windshield. As its fingers scraped against the cracked glass, the fractured windshield gave way with a sharp crack, splintering into hundreds of tiny shards. It crawled inside the car, sending Addy's dad scrambling out of the sunroof a moment too soon, kicking at the dead creature snapping clumsily at his feet.
The car shuddered and groaned under the combined weight of all three – Daryl and the girl's parents, not to mention the dead pressing on all sides – its roof beginning to buckle. With a startled cry, Addy's mom lost her footing and toppled over the far side of the car, dragging Daryl down with her.
The dead surged toward the noise, a wave of snarling bodies closing in on the pair. "Daryl!" Dean shouted. Behind him, Addy let out a desperate wail, crying out for her mother.
Grabbing his scythe, Dean jumped out and vaulted over the car roof. He hit the ground heavily on the other side, a shock of pain shooting up his injured leg. The truck didn't wait. It veered off, tires screeching in the mud as it sped away, the little girl's crying pulling away with it.
Dean was too late.
The dead wasted no time ripping Addy's mom apart. As her piercing screams turned to gurgling moans, Daryl scrambled out from under her, protected by the last traces of magic that clung to him still, saving him from the brunt of the walkers' attention. Moving quickly, Dean swung his scythe, covering Daryl's escape.
But Dean no longer had such protection. Struggling to hold back the dead, Dean's arms burned as he braced against the car, his back pressed to the passenger window, feeling the push of the walker trapped inside straining against the glass. He glanced up and caught sight of Addy's dad, still standing atop the hatchback, his wide eyes fixed on the horror playing out just feet away.
"Get down," Dean snapped at Addy's dad, shoving another walker away with his scythe.
The undead creature fell on its back, and when it turned its head, its focus shifted away from Dean. Instead, it crawled along the ground until it found a slim ankle, peeking out of the frenzied feeding pile of walkers. Dazed, still staring, Addy's dad jumped down, landing next to Dean on shaking feet.
Separated by a crowd of walkers, Daryl shouted, "Get inside, I'll cover you!" His voice was hoarse and raw as he tore through the dead with ruthless, almost feral efficiency. "Go! Find your brother!"
Nowhere to go except in. Dean let out a low, frustrated growl. "Come on," he snapped, grabbing Addy's dad by the scruff of his shirt and hauling him through the ruins.
Two people barreled past them, one slamming into Dean's shoulder without so much as a glance, ignoring his shouted warning. Moments later, their screams echoed behind him as Dean shoved forward, dragging the dazed man along. He'd be damned if he let that girl lose another parent tonight.
Inside the walls, it was pure, unadulterated chaos. The air was suffocating and thick with dust and smoke, seeping into his lungs like smog. Addy's dad stumbled after Dean in a daze, shock written in his vacant expression, while all around them, screams intermingled with the death cries of livestock and the guttural moans of the undead, blending together in a symphony of terror.
Weapon flying, Dean searched frantically for any sign of his brother. "Sam!" he yelled, unable to stop himself, even as the sound pulled more of the dead to them. "Sam! Where the hell are you?"
He slashed through one shambling corpse after another, stepping past piles of frenzied feedings and the strewn bodies of the recently deceased, still warm and twitching, an open buffet for the ravenous dead. He saw a man leaping from a collapsing scaffolding as it broke away from the wall, breaking his legs with a sickening crunch. The dead were on him before Dean could do a thing.
A middle-aged man stepped out of a nearby trailer, holding a double-barreled shotgun, blood caked in his long beard, and murder burning in his eyes. He fired, dropping two walkers with a single gunshot. But when his gaze landed on them, his expression twisted with rage. Before Dean could register what was happening, the barrel of the shotgun shifted in their direction.
Dean reacted instinctively, grabbing Addy's dad and yanking him aside just as the shotgun fired. As he dragged them around a corner, he glanced back and caught a final glimpse of the middle-aged man slamming the butt of his shotgun into a walker's skull before the horde closed in on him.
"What the hell was that?" Dean growled, but Addy's dad only stared back at him, wide-eyed and speechless.
"Look out!" someone called out somewhere nearby.
A grenade rolled into his path, though he didn't see who had thrown it. Dean dove behind one of the trailers, dragging Addy's dad with him just as it exploded, sending dirt and shrapnel raining down around them, along with body parts from the dead caught in the blast radius.
Three walkers nearly caught him off guard, emerging from around a corner of rubble, their rotting hands grazing his skin. Snarling, he pulled back, creating some distance between them. One of the walkers was hobbling on a foot that was twisted a full one-eighty. Dean shoved it to the ground and slashed through the skull of the second, but at the absolute worst moment, the scythe snapped in his hands.
Cursing, he yanked out his spare knife – an angel blade – and plunged it into the third's skull before finishing off the one he'd shoved down. He barely had a second to catch his breath before four more stumbled around the corner, their blank eyes locking onto him.
"Let's dance, motherfuckers," he growled under his breath, flipping the blade into position.
The blade's short range forced him into close quarters with the dead, each swing bringing him just inches from their snapping teeth. What followed was a series of close calls, but by the skin of his teeth, Dean managed to gain the upper hand. He took three down but found himself grappling with the forth, a freshly turned walker with unsettling speed and strength.
Suddenly, Addy's dad appeared to break free from his stupor. With a burst of desperate strength, the man drove a piece of broken wood into the head of the walker, stopping it cold.
"Thanks," Dean ground out, his words clipped as he fought to steady his breathing. He grimaced, testing his shoulder before turning to the man. "You good?"
The man stared back at him, eyes hollow.
"Fair enough," Dean sighed, shaking his head.
He motioned for the man to follow, leading them between two evenly spaced trailers. Weapon raised, he peered around the corner, his eyes narrowing against the stinging smoke that clung to the air like tar. Spotting two walkers ahead, Dean moved to attack. But before he could act, a chicken darted out of the rubble, clucking frantically as it bolted past the walkers. They immediately veered off in pursuit, their groans shifting into predatory snarls.
Dropping his weapon to his side, Dean exhaled sharply and turned to Addy's father. "What the fuck happened here, man?" His voice hardened. "Was it the Saviors?"
Addy's dad shook his head. His hands, covered in dry flakes of blood, trembling as they hovered uselessly at his sides. "I… I don't know," he stammered, a hitch in his voice. His gaze darted away for a moment before snapping back to Dean. "I took the car… I didn't know what else to do. I didn't know! We were supposed to go out with the first convoy, but they left without us. They left." His voice cracked, rising in pitch. "They said that when the walls came down, we'd have enough time to – to evacuate." A sob wrecked his frame. "That's what they said."
"Who said that? Was it Sam?" Dean cut in sharply, leaning closer. It had been Sam's plan after all – the last resort. "Do you know where he is? My brother?"
The man's eyes darted nervously again, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. His pale face glistened with sweat. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then shut it, shaking his head. "Your brother?" He hesitated, then looked away again. "I-I don't know, I'm sorry." He absently pressed his hand to the dried, rust-colored stain on his stomach. "It all happened so fast."
That wasn't his blood. Dean's brow furrowed, a flicker of suspicion prickling at the back of his mind. Before he could press further, a call for help caught his attention. Squinting through the haze, he spotted movement near the ground, where a figure was huddled under a trailer's front steps.
Dean approached quickly, his boots crunching over the debris. An older man emerged from under the stairs, shaky and bruised but able to stand on his own two feet. He winced, clutching his side as he spoke. "Help my boy," he gasped, voice tight with pain. "He's hurt bad. I tried to get him out, but there's too many of them. I couldn't – couldn't do it alone."
Sighing, Dean knelt down to take the son's pulse, ignoring the pain shooting in angry pulses up his thigh.
"Please help him," the father begged, standing over them. "All the cars are gone. We were – they didn't take us with them. They left us behind." He shuddered. "The doctor left, too."
Dean's hand dropped to his side. "I'm sorry," he said, hating this.
The man's son was – or had been – a young man in his early twenties, wearing the same blood-soaked overalls as his old man. He'd taken a beating recently. Very recently, given that his busted-up face hadn't had a chance to swell. Most glaringly, his wrist ended in a bloody stump, the amputation recent and messy. The hand rested, discarded, a few feet away from the corpse.
"Saviors do this?" Dean asked, indicating the kid's messed-up face.
"The dead," the father whispered, kneeling down to take his son's remaining hand in his own trembling, blood-stained palms. "It was quick. I-I don't think the infection had time to take."
The dead didn't mess up your kid's face. Dean didn't voice the thought. He glanced up at Addy's dad, who quickly looked away. No help there.
"If you stay here, you'll die with him," Dean said bluntly. He raised his blade in offer, catching the father's glossy, unfocused gaze. "I'll make it quick, if you want. You don't have to look."
"He just needs a doctor," the father whispered.
"He's dead," Dean said, his tone sharper than he'd intended. "I'm sorry."
Around him, other voices pierced the chaos – shouts for help, desperate cries from people who might still have a chance. And somewhere in all of this, Sam.
The father kept staring at his son, unmoving. Dean knew he wasn't going anywhere.
Dean had no choice but to leave him behind. The self-loathing could wait.
Sam, where the hell are you?
Awareness crept in slowly. The first thing Sam registered was pain – a pounding headache and a deep ache in his back that throbbed with every jolt of the road. They were on the move.
Feigning unconsciousness, Sam took a mental tally of his situation. He'd been placed in a recovery position, lying on his side with his arms stretched out in front of him. Someone had taken the trouble to drape a blanket over him, but had also bound his wrists together.
He felt a hand press at his neck, and instinct took over. Sam lashed out, his tied fists connecting with something solid. The impact sent a splitting, searing pain through his skull as he scrambled to his knees, groaning in sync with the man he'd struck. Blinking past the haze clouding his vision, he tried to focus.
"Dr. Carson?" Sam rasped, confused.
They'd met at the Hilltop, albeit briefly. Dr. Harlan Carson was the settlement's physician, a soft-spoken man who, as far as Sam could judge, appeared to be a well-respected member of the community.
Wincing, Carson gingerly pressed his fingers to his face. "Nice," he sighed, working his jaw. He glanced at Sam, giving him a thorough once-over. He'd been cuffed as well, though he'd managed to slip a pair of blue latex gloves over his hands. "How do you feel, Sam? Any numbness, or shortness of breath?"
The doctor started moving closer. Flinching, Sam raised his fists. "Don't," he warned, his voice rough, before gingerly leaning back against the wall. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ward off the nausea that surged with each jolt of the moving van.
He racked his brain, struggling to piece together how he'd ended up here. Every movement sent waves of pain pulsing through his back and head, throbbing in sync. It came to him in bits and pieces. The Saviors had lured him into the medical trailer with some story about an infection. That had to be a lie, hadn't it? They killed Earl. That much he was certain of. And then, they stabbed him in the back.
Adrenaline had kept him on his feet. Anger had fueled the rest. Sam remembered – landing a punch on a surprised face, then another, and another, remembered the satisfying crack of cartridge and bone against his knuckles. The trailer floor had been slick with the old man's blood. The Saviors surrounding him, pain exploding at the back of his head, and then – nothing.
Wait, not Saviors.
Not just Saviors.
Damn it.
The doctor's voice cut through the fog in Sam's mind. "–lost a lot of blood."
Sam's eyes flickered open. "What?" he groaned.
Carson raised his hands, palms out in a placating gesture. "I packed the wound as best I could, but this isn't exactly a trauma unit. You've lost a lot of blood, Sam. I'm surprised you're even awake."
Sam ignored him, his gaze sweeping over the dimly lit interior. They were in the back of a moving van, stacked high with boxes. A faint light flickered overhead from a dim fixture in the roof. His eyes landed on a couple of body bags tucked among the crates, and his frown deepened.
"I strongly suggest you lie back down," Carson said firmly. When Sam merely scoffed at him, he sighed, dropping his bound hands in his lap. "Or don't. What do I know? I'm just a doctor."
"I'm fine," Sam responded roughly, eyeing Carson with suspicion. Trust wasn't something he was handing out easily right now. "What happened at the Hilltop?" he demanded to know. This was one of the vehicles they'd prepared in case of an evacuation. His gut twisted with the implication.
"You put up one hell of a fight," Carson replied with a raised eyebrow, a hint of grudging respect in his tone. "The Saviors didn't know what they were up against."
"Weren't all Saviors," he shot back, raising a hand to the back of his head.
Carson paused, looking pained. "People do stupid things when they're afraid," he ventured, his gaze flickering to his bound hands in his lap. Slowly, he peeled off his gloves, one finger at a time. "Doesn't matter anymore. What's done is done." Sighing, he added, "The Saviors told me to keep you alive as long as I could. You're a prize, Sam."
"Lucky me," Sam scoffed, leaning back.
After a moment, Carson leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "I don't think they know you've been bitten." He glanced meaningfully at Sam's arm. "I can make it quick, if you prefer."
Sam's eyes flickered to his bandaged arm. "I'm immune," he said flatly.
The doctor looked at him, brow furrowed. After a long moment, he seemed to accept it, though there was still a contemplative frown on his face. "Right," he said, his voice soft. "If you say so."
Sam let out a slow exhale. "Do you know where they're taking us?" Although his body throbbed with every movement, he reminded himself that he'd survived a hell of a lot worse than this.
Carson paused, then offered a tired, almost wry smile. "Home, I'd wager." He leaned back with a sigh. "I don't imagine you've been dying to meet Negan, have you?"