It had been a handful of days since Hershel had operated on Abel. For him, it was a blur of fragmented moments—waking up to muted conversations, falling back into an exhausted haze from the blood loss, and occasionally catching glimpses of Beth as she came and went, keeping an eye on him despite her own need to recover. Hershel had insisted she rest after donating so much blood, but Abel knew from the few times he'd caught her lingering at the door that she hadn't been taking it easy.
Abel's eyes fluttered open again, staring at the all-too-familiar ceiling. He let out a long sigh, his hand falling to his chest. "If I have to stare at this damn ceiling one more time…" he muttered to himself.
Using his arms for support, he slowly pushed himself upright, his muscles stiff but functional. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, careful not to aggravate his healing side. The stitches pulled faintly, but the pain was dull—manageable.
The door creaked open, and Hershel stepped inside, carrying a small tray of food. His presence was calm and steady, the comforting air of a man who had spent his life patching people back together. He let out a quiet chuckle when he saw Abel sitting on the edge of the bed.
"How're you feeling today, son?" Hershel asked, setting the tray down on the small nightstand beside the bed.
Abel glanced up at him with a faint smirk. He rubbed his side lightly, his fingers brushing over the bandages and the faint tug of the stitches beneath. "Feeling good," Abel said, nodding. "Got tired of staring at that ceiling. I could probably rebuild it in my sleep at this point."
Hershel chuckled, shaking his head. "You've got your sense of humor back, at least. That's a good sign." He motioned toward the tray. "Beth made you some food. She wanted to make sure you were doing alright."
Abel's expression softened as he looked at the tray, a small smile tugging at his lips. "She's a sweetheart. Give her my thanks, but…" He trailed off, his brow furrowing slightly. "Shouldn't she be resting too? She gave me a lot of blood, Hershel. I—I feel bad about that."
Hershel nodded, his kind eyes glinting with understanding. "She should be resting, you're right. But that girl is stubborn," he said with a fond chuckle. "Takes after her mother." He placed a reassuring hand on Abel's shoulder. "Don't dwell on it too much. Just focus on getting better. Now eat your food—after that, you should be fine to walk around for a while. Can't keep you cooped up in this room any longer."
Abel let out a small sigh of relief. "Thank God," he muttered. "Thought I was starting to grow roots."
Hershel chuckled as he stepped back, leaving Abel to his meal. Abel reached for the tray and set it on his lap, his stomach growling faintly as he took in the spread.
The plate was a classic southern breakfast—two sunny-side-up eggs glistening with just the right amount of butter, thick-cut bacon cooked to a perfect crisp, and fluffy biscuits smothered in creamy white sausage gravy. Beside the plate sat a small bowl of warm grits topped with a generous pat of melting butter and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.
"Man, this looks good," Abel muttered to himself, his stomach rumbling louder. He picked up his fork, cutting into the buttery biscuit, and took a bite. The savory richness of the gravy made his shoulders relax. "Beth, you're a damn angel," he said quietly, his lips twitching into a smile.
For the first time in what felt like days, he didn't feel like he was on the edge of death. The warm food and Hershel's steady presence were enough to remind him that he was still alive—and for now, that was enough.
The front deck creaked softly under Abel's weight as he stepped out into the fresh morning air. The cool breeze kissed his skin, and he took a deep breath, savoring the scent of dew on the grass and the faint, earthy aroma of the farm. His eyes wandered across the wide expanse of rolling fields and trees that stretched out in every direction, bathed in the golden glow of the early sunlight.
He closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the sun wash over his face. For the first time in days, he felt alive—not just surviving, but alive. Even with the stitches pulling faintly at his side, there was no pain, just a dull reminder of what he'd endured.
The screen door behind him creaked open, and soft footsteps echoed against the wooden deck. Abel opened his eyes and turned, a small smile spreading across his face as he saw Beth stepping out, tugging on a pair of work gloves.
She smiled back, brushing a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "Good morning," she said warmly.
"Good morning, Beth," Abel replied, his voice soft but genuine. "Thank you for that breakfast—it was really good."
Beth let out a small giggle, her cheeks flushing faintly. "I'm glad you liked it. Maggie helped, too," she said, glancing down briefly before meeting his eyes again.
Abel nodded, turning his gaze back to the view. "This place is something else," he said, his tone thoughtful. "Can't believe you wake up to this every day. Feels like somethin' out of a dream."
Beth tilted her head, watching him for a moment before stepping closer. There was something about the way he spoke, like he was seeing it all for the first time—and maybe appreciating it more than most people ever did.
Abel took a careful step forward, descending the stairs slowly, testing his body's limits. The ground felt solid beneath him, and though the stitches gave a faint sting, it was nothing he couldn't handle.
He turned back to Beth, flashing her a crooked grin. "You'll have to give your sister my thanks, too. You didn't have to go out of your way to make me food."
Beth giggled again, stepping down the stairs to join him. "It's the least we could do," she said with a shrug, her soft voice tinged with warmth. "You're our guest."
Abel's eyes dropped to her gloved hands, curiosity flickering in his expression. "What are you off to do?" he asked, pointing to them.
Beth glanced down at her gloves, then gestured behind him with a nod of her head. Abel turned, following her gaze to where a group of people worked a little way from the house, stacking large stones.
"We're building Otis a grave," she said softly, the cheer in her voice fading.
Abel's chest tightened at her words. Guilt gnawed at him like a persistent ache. If it weren't for his surgery, Otis might still be alive. His lips pressed into a thin line as he looked down briefly, but when he lifted his head, his resolve was clear.
"Let me help," he said firmly.
Beth's eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, she looked uncertain. "Are you sure that's a good idea? You could tear your stitches..."
Abel gave her a small, reassuring smile. "I'm feeling really good this morning. Better than the last few days. Besides," he added, motioning toward the others with a tilt of his head, "it's the least I can do. So… shall we?"
Beth hesitated for just a moment, then nodded, her lips curving into a gentle smile. "Alright," she said softly, walking ahead of him toward the group.
Abel followed, his steps steady despite the faint tug in his side. As they approached, the quiet rhythm of work slowed. Rick straightened up from where he'd been stacking stones, a smile spreading across his face as he saw Abel.
"Well, look at you," Rick said, his tone light but filled with warmth.
Shane glanced over his shoulder, letting out a short snort of amusement. "Tough bastard," he muttered with a small grin, shaking his head before resuming his work.
Lori, however, remained still, her expression unreadable. Her gaze flickered over Abel briefly, but she said nothing, simply turning back to the task at hand.
Abel ignored Lori's indifference, focusing instead on Rick's encouraging smile. He gave his uncle a nod, then turned to Beth as she handed him a pair of work gloves from her pocket.
"You sure about this?" Beth asked again, her eyes searching his face for any sign of discomfort.
"Absolutely," Abel said with a grin, sliding the gloves on. "Let's get to work."
Beth smiled, stepping back to join the others. Abel bent down, his hands closing around the rough surface of a large stone. The weight was solid, grounding, and as he carried it toward the growing pile, a strange sense of peace settled over him.
He wasn't just healing anymore. He was moving forward.
Abel moved methodically, repeating the same process for the last fifteen minutes. Bend, grab a stone, straighten up, toss it into the wheelbarrow, and repeat. His side had begun to ache, the steady friction from the movement igniting a dull, burning pain. He winced slightly as he straightened, his face tightening momentarily before he tossed another handful of stones on top of the growing pile.
Shane, now sporting a freshly buzzed head and wearing a pair of Otis's loose-fitting overalls, limped over to the wheelbarrow. His gait was uneven, but his movements were steady as he added his own load of stones onto the pile.
The group worked quietly, the sound of stones clinking together and heavy breathing filling the space. Abel and Beth occasionally exchanged brief glances, the corners of her lips curving into a smile whenever their eyes met, but neither said anything. They simply worked.
Glenn, kneeling near the wheelbarrow, suddenly froze mid-throw, his ears perking at a faint sound in the distance. He straightened and squinted toward the driveway, his brow furrowing. In the distance, something moved between the bright green foliage.
"Hey," Glenn said, lightly tapping Abel's shoulder. He pointed toward the driveway.
Abel turned to look, narrowing his eyes as the faint hum of a motor reached his ears. The sound grew louder, unmistakable now.
The others stopped their work, one by one, and turned toward the driveway. The hum turned into the unmistakable growl of a motorcycle engine, followed by the crunch of gravel under tires. Daryl's motorcycle appeared first, followed by the RV and a sedan trailing behind.
Abel let out a quiet chuckle and turned back to the task at hand. He knelt to grab another stone, but as he stood, the sharp tug in his side flared, making him hiss through clenched teeth.
"Careful, careful..."
Beth's gentle voice pulled him from his discomfort as her small hands pressed against his chest and lower back, helping him steady himself.
Abel straightened fully with her help and gave her a grateful smile. "Thanks. And, uh... sorry you're stuck babysitting me."
Beth giggled, her bright smile lighting up her face. "You don't have to apologize. Besides, it's kinda fun."
She stepped away, heading toward a small patch of stones nearby. Abel's gaze lingered on her for a moment, his eyes trailing over her small frame. His cheeks warmed slightly as his gaze unintentionally dropped lower. Realizing where he was looking, he quickly snapped his eyes back to the caravan of vehicles pulling up in front of the farmhouse.
As the vehicles came to a stop, Abel's thoughts drifted. Guilt crept into his chest like a heavy weight, his mind flashing to Otis—the man who didn't come back. If I hadn't needed surgery… if I hadn't gotten shot…
Shaking the thought from his mind, he walked toward the arriving vehicles to meet the others. The RV door creaked open, and the sedan's doors swung wide as familiar faces began stepping out. Daryl paced toward him first, his eyes wide with relief as they swept over Abel, taking in the young man's upright posture.
"You little bastard," Daryl said, his tone gruff but tinged with something softer. He jabbed a finger in Abel's direction as he paced. "Some lady comes ridin' in on a horse, sayin' you were shot. Had us thinkin' you were dead."
Abel opened his mouth to respond, but Daryl closed the distance between them in two quick steps and pulled him into a rough, tight embrace.
"Come here," Daryl muttered, his voice low.
Abel chuckled, patting Daryl's back as a smile spread across his face. "I'm alive and well," he said lightly. "It'll take more than a hunting accident to take me out."
Daryl released him, his hands lingering briefly on Abel's shoulders before he stepped back. He glanced at Rick, giving him a small nod of approval.
Rick smiled faintly and motioned toward Abel. "He pulled through, as you can see," Rick said, his voice steady but tired. "All thanks to Hershel, his people… and Shane."
The mention of Shane drew everyone's attention. The man stood off to the side, separate from the group, his shoulders hunched and his gaze fixed on the ground. There was a heaviness about him, a weight he hadn't carried before.
Dale stepped forward, pulling Rick into a brief hug before placing his hands firmly on Abel's shoulders. His kind, weathered face studied Abel for a moment before he spoke. "You said a hunting accident?"
Abel nodded firmly, his voice calm. "No one's to blame. It was just one of those things—wrong place, wrong time."
Dale seemed satisfied with the answer and patted Abel on the arm.
Carol rushed forward next, her expression a mixture of relief and worry. Without hesitation, she threw her arms around Abel, pulling him into a tight hug.
"Thank God," she murmured, her voice trembling slightly. "We were all so worried about you. I kept you in my prayers."
Abel felt a warmth spread through his chest at her words. For the first time in days, he didn't feel the crushing weight of her disappointment over Sophia's disappearance. Maybe, just maybe, she didn't hate him for what happened.
"Thank you," Abel said quietly, his voice thick with emotion as he hugged her back.
Carol pulled away, her hands lingering on his arms briefly before she stepped aside. Abel's gaze swept over the group, his chest tightening again as his thoughts drifted back to Otis. But for now, he pushed those thoughts aside
Beth gently placed a small stone on top of the neatly stacked pile, her face somber and her hands trembling slightly. The stones, carefully arranged, formed Otis's grave—a simple yet profound memorial to a man who had given his life to save another. Abel stood a few feet away, his gaze fixed on the grave with a mix of emotions he couldn't fully articulate.
Guilt gnawed at him as his eyes drifted to Patricia, who stood with Maggie's comforting arm around her. The widow's face was a mask of heartbreak, her tears endless as she stared at the stones marking her husband's final resting place. Abel's chest tightened. The weight of Otis's sacrifice felt unbearable—a man who didn't even know me gave his life for mine.
And yet, mingled with the guilt was gratitude. Otis hadn't hesitated to give everything to save a stranger. Abel interlaced his fingers tightly, his knuckles whitening as his mind churned with the question that wouldn't leave him: Am I worthy of that sacrifice?
At the head of the grave, Hershel stood with a solemn presence, his kind face lined with grief. He wore a simple but elegant two-piece suit, his Bible resting open in one hand, its leather cover worn smooth with age. A silk bookmark hung from the edge, its deep red color vibrant against the muted tones of the day. His walking cane hung from his other hand, swaying gently as he shifted his weight.
Hershel's voice, calm and steady, broke the silence.
"Blessed be God, Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. Praise be to Him for the gift of our brother Otis: for his span of years, for his abundance of character. Otis, who gave his life to save a young man's life—now more than ever, our most precious asset. We thank You, God, for the peace he enjoys in Your embrace. He died as he lived: in grace."
As Hershel spoke, one by one, those who had known Otis stepped forward to place a stone on the grave. Beth went first, her hands trembling slightly as she laid the stone down and whispered something under her breath. Maggie followed, her expression tight with grief, though she carried herself with strength. Finally, Patricia approached, her body wracked with sobs. Her hand lingered on the stone for a long moment before she placed it atop the pile, her tears falling onto the rocks below.
Abel's gaze shifted to Shane, who stood apart from the group, his shoulders hunched and his hands fidgeting nervously. His wide eyes stared at the ground, unblinking, lost in a place far from the memorial before him.
Hershel closed his Bible with care, tracing his hand over the worn leather cover before turning his eyes toward Shane.
"Shane," Hershel said softly, his voice carrying a gentle authority.
Shane flinched, snapping back to the present, his wide eyes darting to Hershel's face. The older man's expression was filled with sadness, yet there was no judgment, only an unspoken understanding.
"Will you please speak for Otis?" Hershel asked, his tone both a request and a quiet plea.
Shane froze, his body tense. The weight of the moment pressed heavily on his chest, and he turned his gaze away, his fingers clenching into fists.
"I—I'm not good at it," Shane stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry..."
Patricia, her face streaked with tears, looked up, her voice trembling as she spoke. "Y-You were the last one with him," she choked out, her words broken by sobs. "Y-you shared his final moments. P-please, I need to hear—I need to know that his death had meaning."
Shane's lips parted as if to speak, but the words wouldn't come. He swallowed hard, his eyes glistening as they met Patricia's desperate gaze. Slowly, he nodded.
"Okay," he whispered, his voice raw.
He took a few short, deep breaths, trying to steady himself, but the faraway look returned to his eyes as he began to speak.
"We were about done," Shane said, his voice shaky. "Almost out of ammo... down to pistols by then. I was limping—ankle was all swollen up—it was bad." His jaw clenched, his breathing uneven as the memory overtook him.
"'We've got to save the kid,'" Shane continued, his voice breaking. "That's what he said. He gave me his backpack, shoved me ahead, and said, 'Run.' Said, 'I'll take the rear. I'll cover you.' And when I looked back..." Shane's voice faltered, his words trailing off as he stared at the ground.
Patricia sobbed openly, her face buried in her hands as Maggie held her close, rubbing her back gently. Shane limped forward, reaching into the wheelbarrow to grab a large stone.
"If not for Otis," Shane said, his voice hoarse, "I'd have died. And that goes for Abel, too. It was Otis—he saved us both." He stared at the grave, his expression hollow. "If any death had meaning, it was his."
Shane stepped forward and carefully placed the stone atop the pile. His hand lingered on the rough surface for a moment before he stepped back, his shoulders slumping as he turned away.
The service ended quietly, the group dispersing one by one. People murmured soft condolences to Patricia as they passed, her fragile frame leaning heavily on Maggie for support.
Abel remained behind, rooted in place as the others drifted back toward the farmhouse. His gaze lingered on the grave, the neatly stacked stones stark against the backdrop of the field. Slowly, he walked forward and knelt beside the memorial, his fingers brushing against one of the stones.
The wind rustled the grass around him as he spoke softly, his voice steady but filled with emotion.
"I didn't know you, Otis," Abel said, his eyes fixed on the horizon. "But I'm thankful. You gave your life for a complete stranger, and I hope—" He paused, his throat tightening. "I hope one day I can be worthy of the price you paid. From this day on, I'm gonna try. I'll live by your example. I'll do good by people. I promise."
He stayed there for a long moment, letting the silence settle around him before rising to his feet. He looked back at the grave one last time, his expression solemn, before turning and walking toward the farmhouse, the wind carrying his whispered "thank you" into the quiet morning.
Abel walked slowly toward the group gathered around the hood of an old hatchback, his footsteps crunching softly against the gravel. His eyes scanned the small gathering: Shane, Andrea, Hershel, Rick, and Maggie, the latter approaching with a rolled-up map in her hands. The air was tense but purposeful.
"What's going on?" Abel asked, his voice cutting through the silence.
Rick turned to him, a faint smile softening his features. "Just filling Hershel in on the situation with Sophia," Rick said.
Abel nodded, stepping closer to the car. He leaned against the hood, crossing his arms over his chest, though his expression darkened at the mention of the missing girl. "Three to four days now," Abel added quietly when Hershel turned to him. His voice was heavy with guilt, and his gaze fell to the ground.
Rick placed a hand on Abel's shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
Maggie reached the group and unfurled the large paper map across the hood of the car. The faded lines of terrain and elevations sprawled out in front of them as she placed rocks on the corners to hold it down. Shane pulled out his knife, laying it across another edge to keep the map flat.
"County survey map," Maggie explained. "Shows the terrain and elevations. Best we have."
Rick leaned over, his eyes scanning the map intently. "It's perfect," he muttered. "We can finally get this thing organized."
Hershel glanced at Abel, then Shane, his tone firm but fatherly. "Not you, Abel. Not today. You're still recovering from surgery. Walking around the farm is one thing, but in this heat? You wouldn't last five minutes on a search before passing out."
Abel clenched his jaw, muttering a quiet curse under his breath. Hershel's gaze shifted to Shane. "And you," he continued, "that ankle's still swollen. Push it now, and you'll be laid up for a month. No good to anybody."
Shane frowned but didn't argue, shifting his weight uncomfortably as Hershel's words hung in the air.
"Guess it's just me, then," Daryl said, leaning over the far side of the hood. He pointed to a section of the map, his finger landing on the creek where Sophia had last been seen. "I'm gonna head back to the creek, work my way from there."
Rick nodded, satisfied with the plan. "Sounds good."
"I can still help," Shane said quickly, stepping forward. "I'll drive up to the interstate, see if she wandered back. Somebody's gotta check."
Rick studied him for a moment, then gave a slow nod.
"All right," Rick said, folding his arms. "Tomorrow, we'll start fresh. Do it right."
Shane leaned back slightly, gesturing toward the group. "That means we can't have people out there with just knives. They need the gun training we've been talking about."
Rick hesitated, his reluctance written across his face. Before he could respond, Hershel spoke up, his voice calm but firm. "I'd prefer you not carry guns on my property. We've managed so far without turning this into an armed camp."
Shane let out a frustrated sigh, pulling off his hat and running a hand over his buzzed head. "With all due respect, you get a crowd of those things wandering in here..." he trailed off, letting the unspoken words hang in the air.
Abel, silent until now, reached into his waistband and pulled out the revolver he'd taken from the truck on the interstate. Without a word, he set it down on the hood of the car.
"I'm fine with that," Abel said, looking directly at Hershel. "But... may I still carry my axe?"
Hershel regarded him for a moment, then nodded. "When you're out in the yard or going somewhere, yes. But before you come into the house, I'd kindly ask that you leave it by the door."
"Deal," Abel said, stepping back from the car.
Rick didn't hesitate, pulling his revolver from its holster and setting it next to Abel's. Shane, on the other hand, scowled. He looked between the two weapons and shook his head in frustration.
"This is a bad idea," Shane muttered under his breath, though he reluctantly pulled out his handgun and set it down alongside the others.
"First things first: set camp, find Sophia," Rick said, glancing back down at the map.
Shane's expression darkened, and he took a step closer. "I hate to be the one to ask," he said, his voice low but serious. "But somebody's gotta. What happens if we find her and she's... bit?"
The question hit the group like a blow. A heavy, uncomfortable silence fell over them, each person grappling with the possibility. Abel's brow furrowed, his hands balling into fists at his sides. The thought churned in his gut, a mix of anger and dread.
Shane looked around the group, his voice firm. "I think we should all be clear on how we handle that."
Maggie's gaze shifted to Abel, her expression a mixture of curiosity and quiet shock as he broke the silence.
"We do what we usually do with walkers," Abel said, his voice low but steady.
Maggie blinked, her voice trembling as she asked, "What about her mother? What do you tell her?"
Abel's eyes darkened, guilt and sorrow swirling in their depths. "That I'm the reason her daughter is dead," he said quietly, his voice laced with raw emotion.
Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving the others to continue planning.
Maggie had pointed Dale toward a well on the farm where they could refill their dwindling water supply. With their empty jugs stacked precariously on an old cart Hershel had lent them, Dale enlisted Abel and T-Dog to help haul water back to the group. The trek to the well wasn't far, but the heat bore down on them, and the weight of the cart made every step feel heavier.
T-Dog came to a stop just before the old-fashioned hand pump, breathing heavily and wiping sweat from his brow. His voice, low and almost to himself, broke the silence. "I—I'm not weak, and I'm not a coward..."
Abel glanced at him, confused, and gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder. "We never said you were," he replied, his voice light but tinged with concern.
Dale, already inspecting the pump, waved a dismissive hand without looking up. "No one's doubting you, T. What are you on about?"
T-Dog leaned against the cart, catching his breath as his gaze dropped to the ground. "What I said on the highway… I don't know where it came from. That wasn't me," he admitted quietly, a hint of regret lacing his voice.
Abel furrowed his brow but shrugged as he stepped up to the pump. Gripping the handle with his good side, he began to work it steadily, the rhythmic squeak of the pump filling the silence. "It's okay, T. Even if I don't know what you're talkin' about, it's all good."
T-Dog shook his head, his face tightening with guilt. "It's not, man," he insisted. He turned toward Dale, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "Dale, I'd like it if you never told anyone about that stuff I said."
Dale finally looked up from the pump, his expression a mix of confusion and amusement. "What stuff? I couldn't get a word out of you all day," he said, glancing toward the group setting up camp in the distance.
T-Dog blinked in surprise, his mouth opening slightly before a broad grin spread across his face. A short laugh bubbled out of him, and Dale chuckled too, their shared amusement breaking some of the tension.
Abel paused mid-pump, glancing back at them with a raised eyebrow. "I have no idea what the hell you two are talkin' about..." he said, shaking his head with a chuckle of his own.
The laughter between Dale and T-Dog grew louder for a moment before fading into the warm summer air. T-Dog wiped at his eyes, a genuine smile still on his face as he leaned against the pump handle.
"Say, man," T-Dog said after a moment, his tone more serious. "You think there's a snowball's chance we'll actually find that little girl?"
Abel's hands tightened slightly on the pump, his rhythm slowing. The question hit a nerve, and though he kept his face neutral, a flicker of doubt crossed his eyes. He didn't want to say it aloud, but part of him was starting to lose hope.
Dale sighed heavily, his gaze drifting toward the horizon. "For the first time in my life... I'm betting on the snowball," he said, his tone resigned.
As he spoke, his eyes caught on something near the pump—a large, broken wooden cover partially obscuring something. His brow furrowed, and without a word, he began walking toward it.
Abel noticed the shift in Dale's demeanor and let go of the pump, following him instinctively. T-Dog, now left alone, grumbled quietly to himself and took over pumping the water. "Don't care if I have to comb the woods like Rambo or fetch a damn pail of water," he muttered. "Everyone's gotta pull their weight..."
Dale stopped beside the wooden cover, glancing at Abel before cautiously leaning over to peer inside. Abel followed his lead, and the moment their heads crossed the edge of the opening, a deep, guttural growl echoed from within.
Both men recoiled immediately, their breaths catching in their throats.
"Dale," Abel said quietly, his voice taut with unease.
Dale didn't respond. Instead, he spun on his heel and strode back toward T-Dog, who was just about to raise a ladle of water to his lips.
"Wait—don't drink that!" Dale barked, his voice sharp.
Abel, meanwhile, stayed by the well. He knelt down, his fingers hooking under the edges of the wooden cover. With a grunt, he flipped it fully off the opening, exposing the dark pit below. The growls grew louder, reverberating up the stone walls of the well, and Abel's stomach churned at the sight that greeted him.
Minutes ticked by as Abel waited near the well, his arms crossed, his gaze never leaving the ominous hole in the ground. Soon, Dale and T-Dog returned, but they weren't alone. Glenn, Maggie, Shane, Lori, and Andrea followed close behind, their curiosity piqued by whatever had caused the commotion.
Shane switched on a flashlight, pointing the beam into the dark depths of the well. The light illuminated a grotesque sight—a bloated walker, its decaying body swelling unnaturally, standing chest-deep in the murky water. Its discolored skin was stretched tight, ready to burst, and its sunken eyes reflected the beam of light as it clawed uselessly at the stone walls, growling hungrily.
"Looks like we got us a swimmer," Dale muttered, his brows knitting together in concern.
Glenn leaned over the edge, craning his neck for a better look. The stench wafting up made him recoil slightly. "How long do you think it's been down there?" he asked, his voice tinged with disgust.
"Long enough to grow gills," Andrea quipped, holding the back of her hand to her nose as the smell intensified.
Abel tilted his head, studying the walker below. "Gotta do something to get it out. Can't just leave it in there, not with our water supply on the line."
"Easy," T-Dog said, stepping forward. "Put a bullet in its head, and I'll grab a rope to pull it out."
Abel raised an eyebrow, a small smirk forming as he shook his head. "Brain matter and walker guts in the water? Not exactly thirst-quenching, T."
T-Dog paused mid-step, glancing over his shoulder. "You got a better idea?"
Before Abel could answer, Maggie spoke up, her voice firm. "He's right. We can't risk contaminating the water."
Glenn looked between them, confused. "Why not? It's already a walker. What's a little more damage gonna do?"
Abel chuckled and leaned casually against the well. "Glenn, you're usually the smartest guy in the room, but that was dumb as hell. You mix that thing's brains in with the water, and we might as well drink straight from a graveyard."
Shane let out a heavy sigh, rubbing his hand over his buzzed head. "He's got a point. Can't risk it."
T-Dog groaned, gesturing toward the walker below. "So it's gotta come out alive? That what we're saying?"
"Alive, so to speak," Shane muttered.
"How do we do that?" Glenn asked, his tone skeptical.
A moment of silence followed as the group exchanged uncertain looks. Finally, T-Dog snapped his fingers, an idea forming. "What about bait? We could lure it out."
It didn't take long for Maggie to return with a canned ham, while T-Dog tied a length of rope around it. Shane worked quickly, securing the ham and ensuring the knot was tight before carefully lowering it into the well. The group crowded around, watching as the ham descended toward the bloated walker.
The walker growled faintly, its lifeless eyes locking briefly on the dangling ham, but it didn't move. It stood there, its swollen body motionless as if the bait didn't even register.
"He's not going for it," Dale said with a sigh, his disappointment evident.
"Maybe 'cause a canned ham don't kick and scream," T-Dog muttered, his flashlight beam illuminating the unmoving creature.
"We need live bait," Andrea said, her tone flat but serious.
One by one, the group's eyes shifted to Abel and Glenn. Abel noticed the stares first and let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. He turned to Glenn, who stared back at him with wide eyes.
"So, what? We're playing rock, paper, scissors to see who goes down there with Tubby?" Abel joked, though there was a playful edge to his voice.
Glenn sighed, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "You're kidding, right?"
Abel smirked and held out a fist. "I'll go easy on you."
Glenn hesitated, glancing at the group, who watched with varying degrees of amusement and horror. "Fine," he muttered, raising his own fist.
The two stood by the well, their fists bobbing in unison. "Rock, paper, scissors!" they chanted in sync.
Abel's hand flattened into paper, while Glenn's stayed in a rock. Glenn blinked, realization dawning.
"Ha! I win!" Glenn exclaimed, relief flooding his voice.
"Guess that means you're our live bait," Abel said with a grin, stepping back and motioning toward the well.
Glenn groaned loudly, glancing between the walker below and the eager faces of the group around him. "Why did I agree to this?" he muttered under his breath.
Glenn perched on the edge of the well, his legs dangling into the dark abyss below. His hands gripped the rough stone rim tightly as Shane and Abel worked behind him, securing the rope around his waist. Glenn glanced nervously over his shoulder at the two men.
"Have I mentioned that I really like your new haircut?" Glenn asked, his voice quivering as he tried to lighten the mood. "Seriously, Shane. You've got a nice shaved head. Very smooth."
Shane snorted and gave Abel a knowing smirk. Abel, focused on tightening the knot, chuckled and patted Glenn on the back. "Don't worry about it, bud," Shane said as Lori handed Glenn a flashlight.
"Hey," Shane added, locking eyes with Glenn, "we're gonna get you out of here in one piece."
Glenn gave a weak laugh and took the flashlight, his grip trembling slightly. "Living piece. That living part is important," he muttered, throwing the makeshift lasso over his shoulder.
Abel stood up and gave him a thumbs-up, trying to lift his spirits. "Don't worry, Glenn. If you end up as a stump, I'll still play rock-paper-scissors with you."
Glenn shot him a flat, half-hearted glare, but Abel's grin only widened.
The group gathered at the well, forming a line to hold the rope. Shane took the front, Abel right behind him, followed by T-Dog, Lori, Dale, and Andrea. Maggie hung back, her arms crossed, her lips pressed into a tight line.
"Nice and slow, people," Glenn said as he leaned over the edge, his heart hammering in his chest.
Andrea smiled reassuringly. "We got you, Glenn."
Maggie, clearly nervous, shook her head. "You people are crazy," she muttered, inching closer to the edge.
Shane glanced back at her with a smirk. "You wanna get it outta your well or not?"
Dale gestured for Maggie to take a closer look. "Give us an eye, Maggie."
Reluctantly, she moved to the edge, peering down into the well. Below, Glenn dangled like a worm on a hook, slowly descending into the dark, fetid hole.
"You doing okay?" Maggie called out, her voice laced with concern.
Glenn craned his neck to look up, forcing a nervous smile. "Oh yeah, doing great," he replied, his tone anything but convincing. He shined the flashlight below, muttering under his breath, "Living the dream..."
The walker below finally seemed to notice him. It growled, its bloated arms flailing as it clawed at the wall in a grotesque attempt to reach him. Glenn gulped, his grip tightening on the rope as he tried to keep his breathing steady.
"Little lower," Maggie called out, her eyes fixed on Glenn's descent. "Just a little lower..."
The group adjusted the rope, lowering Glenn inch by inch. But the old water pump serving as their anchor began to creak ominously.
The sound of tearing metal made everyone freeze.
The rusted bolts holding the pump gave way with a deafening screech, and the pump broke free from its base. Shane was the first to react, diving for the pump as it slid toward the well. He grabbed it but couldn't hold on.
"Shit!" Shane shouted, his grip slipping.
Abel lunged next, throwing himself on top of the pump just as it toppled over the edge. He braced his legs against the rim of the well, digging his heels into the dirt as the rope yanked him forward.
"Pull it back!" Abel shouted through gritted teeth, his entire body straining against the weight. His feet skidded slightly, but he planted them firmly, using every ounce of strength he had to stop the rope from slipping further.
Below, Glenn screamed as the rope loosened and he plummeted closer to the walker. "GET ME OUT OF HERE!"
"Hold it steady!" Shane barked, gripping the rope with both hands. Abel's hands burned as the rough fibers cut into his palms, but he didn't care. He clenched his jaw and hauled with all his might, his muscles screaming in protest.
The others scrambled to help. Shane, T-Dog, Lori, Dale, and Andrea all gripped the rope, pulling together as a team. Slowly but surely, the tension on the rope stabilized, and Glenn began to rise.
"Keep pulling!" Abel shouted, his voice raw. Blood trickled from his palms where the rope had torn at his skin, but he ignored the pain.
Glenn, now safely above the walker, kicked his legs frantically as he was hoisted back toward the surface. His breathing was ragged, and adrenaline coursed through him as the edge of the well came into view.
"Almost there!" Maggie called out, relief coloring her voice.
With one final heave, Glenn's feet cleared the rim, and he scrambled onto solid ground. He rolled onto his back, laughing breathlessly as the group collapsed around him.
"Back to the drawing board," Dale muttered, shaking his head as he wiped his hands on his pants.
Glenn sat up, still grinning as he handed Dale the end of the rope. "Says you," he replied, his voice shaky but triumphant. He staggered to his feet, wobbling slightly, and walked away, muttering, "Not doing that again..."
The group exchanged weary smiles, their relief palpable, as they turned their attention back to the well.
Abel eased back into the rocking chair, its gentle creak blending with the rustling of leaves in the warm breeze. He winced slightly as he adjusted his position, the dull ache in his side reminding him not to push himself too far. A blood-streaked rag was wrapped around his left hand, covering the worst of the cuts he'd gotten from grabbing the rope. He leaned back, letting the peacefulness of the porch wash over him.
The screen door creaked open behind him, and Abel turned to see Hershel step outside. The older man carried an air of quiet authority, his eyes briefly scanning Abel before landing on the rag.
"Been in my family for 160 years," Hershel said, his voice warm but tinged with pride as he gestured toward the farm stretching out before them.
Abel smiled sheepishly and raised his hand, showing the makeshift bandage. "Sorry about this, Hershel... Hope you don't mind me bleeding all over your rag."
Hershel waved his hand dismissively and settled into a stationary chair nearby. "Think nothing of it. We can always wash a rag." He leaned back, his gaze sweeping the horizon.
Abel followed his gaze, taking in the fields bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. A soft sigh escaped him. "It really is peaceful here. Feels like a little slice of paradise compared to what's out there."
Hershel nodded but didn't respond right away. His eyes grew distant, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet and heavy. "We weren't completely unscathed. Lost friends, neighbors… The epidemic took my wife, my step-son."
The weight of his words hung in the air, and Abel turned to look at him with a mixture of sympathy and understanding. "I'm sorry to hear that," Abel said softly, his tone matching the somberness of the moment. He hesitated before continuing, his own painful memories surfacing. "I uh—I lost my parents way before all this. I know what that pain feels like..."
Hershel looked at him curiously, his brow furrowing slightly. "Rick's not your father?"
Abel shook his head, the rocking chair creaking softly as he swayed back and forth. He paused, collecting his thoughts as he glanced out at the fields. "No. My dad was Rick's younger brother. Cain." His voice grew quieter as he delved into the memories. "I lost my mom when I was six or seven? She had bone cancer. I don't remember much of her, except her red hair. It smelled like strawberries."
Hershel's expression softened, his heart heavy for the young man.
Abel continued, his voice cracking slightly as the memories became harder to recount. "Four years later, I lost my dad too. A drunk driver crossed into his lane and hit him head-on. One second he's there, the next… he's just gone." He swallowed hard, his throat tightening. "The more time that passes, the more I forget their faces. I can barely remember what they sounded like."
A tear slipped down Abel's cheek, and he quickly wiped it away, embarrassed by the show of emotion. Hershel leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees as he regarded the young man.
"That's the cruel thing about time," Hershel said gently. "It can take away the sharpness of grief, but it dulls the edges of memories too. The faces, the voices… they fade." He paused, his gaze steady and kind. "But you never lose what they gave you. The way they shaped you, the lessons they taught you—that stays with you, Abel. Even when you think you've forgotten, they're still a part of you."
Abel nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the wooden planks beneath his feet. "It's hard sometimes," he admitted. "Not having them here. It feels like every decision I make, every mistake—it's on me. No one to guide me."
Hershel gave him a small, understanding smile. "That's part of growing up, son. You carry the weight, but you don't have to carry it alone. I know Rick, and I know he's been there for you. And from what I've seen, you're a good young man. That's a testament to the people who raised you, both here and gone."
Abel looked up at Hershel, his eyes glossy but grateful. "You really think so?"
"I know so," Hershel said firmly. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze returning to the horizon. "When I lost my wife and son, I didn't think I'd be able to go on. But I realized that even though they were gone, I was still here. And as long as I was, I had a responsibility to live a life they'd be proud of. You've got that same responsibility, Abel. To honor your parents, not by mourning them forever, but by living the life they would've wanted for you."
Abel let the words sink in, his chest tightening with emotion. He nodded, a small smile forming as he wiped his hands on his jeans. "Thanks, Hershel. That means a lot."
Hershel gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder as he stood, his cane tapping lightly against the porch. "Take it one day at a time, son. That's all any of us can do."
Abel watched as Hershel disappeared back into the house, his words echoing in his mind. For the first time in a while, the weight on Abel's shoulders felt just a little lighter. He leaned back in the rocking chair, closing his eyes and letting the breeze carry him into a rare moment of peace.
The dull rasp of the whetstone against steel echoed faintly through the warm, humid air of the Georgia afternoon. Abel sat hunched on the splintered surface of a weathered picnic table, his elbows braced against his knees, and his focus locked on the weapon in his hands. The axe blade caught the sunlight in glinting flashes as he drew the whetstone across it, slow and deliberate.
Shrrrk.
The sound was rhythmic, almost hypnotic—a gritty scrape that mingled with the distant buzz of cicadas and the occasional murmur of voices from the camp nearby. Tiny flecks of metal dust clung to the coarse stone, a faint shimmer on its dark, wet surface. Abel's hands, roughened by weeks of hard living, worked methodically. Each pass of the whetstone brought the edge of the blade closer to razor-sharp perfection.
The wood of the axe handle felt smooth and familiar beneath his grip, its surface polished by countless days of use. He'd carved a small notch near the base, a mark for every time it had saved him—or someone he cared about. There were too many notches now to count at a glance, but he never regretted a single one.
As the whetstone slid across the blade once more, the faint screeching sound carried a promise: this tool would protect him, keep him alive. Abel let his mind wander as he worked, his gaze drifting momentarily to the camp. Rick stood by the RV, talking in low, serious tones with Hershel. Lori lingered nearby, her expression pinched as she glanced in his direction.
Abel's jaw tightened, but he turned his focus back to the axe, dragging the whetstone across it with just a bit more force than necessary. The sound came sharper this time—shrrrkkk—like the blade itself shared his frustration.
The steady rhythm of the whetstone against the axe was broken by the crunch of boots on dry grass. Abel glanced up, his eyes catching the familiar sight of Maggie Greene striding toward him with purpose. She wore her signature cowboy hat tilted low to shield her eyes from the sun, but her determined expression was unmistakable. Her pace quickened as she closed the distance, her dark ponytail swaying with each step.
Abel straightened slightly, resting the axe across his lap, and offered her a friendly smile. "Need something?" he asked, his tone easy but curious.
Maggie gave a brisk nod and pulled a folded piece of paper from her back pocket, handing it to him without preamble. "I was going on a run into town," she said, her Southern drawl tinged with urgency. "Need someone to come with. You up for it?"
Abel unfolded the list and gave it a quick once-over, his eyes skimming the neatly written items: antibiotics, bandages, canned goods, tools. The usual essentials. He nodded, standing in one smooth motion. "Sure," he said, brushing his hands against his jeans. "I need something productive to do anyway." He glanced at her with a faint smirk. "Though I gotta admit, I'm curious—why not invite Glenn? Thought he was your go-to guy for these runs."
Maggie shrugged, the corner of her mouth quirking upward. "Went with him last time. I need brawn this time, not speed." Her words were light but edged with a teasing challenge, and she didn't wait for a response before turning on her heel and heading back toward the camp.
Abel lingered for a moment, tucking the list into his back pocket as his gaze followed her retreating figure. Just as she neared the edge of the clearing, she stopped and glanced over her shoulder, her smirk widening.
"You comin'?" she called, her tone laced with amusement.
Abel grinned, shaking his head slightly as he set the whetstone down on the table. With a sharp motion, he slammed the axe into the wood next to it, the blade sinking deep with a satisfying thunk. "Yeah, yeah," he muttered, striding after her.
The sun hung high in the sky, relentless and unyielding, its heat radiating down on the cracked pavement below. Abel rode alongside Maggie, his posture relaxed as he patted the neck of the horse beneath him. The animal huffed softly, its ears flicking as they continued down the empty road. Maggie glanced over at him, squinting against the glare of the sunlight reflecting off the faded asphalt.
"We'll take a good look at the list when we get to the pharmacy," Maggie said, her voice steady but laced with a no-nonsense tone.
Abel nodded, shifting slightly in the saddle to ease the dull ache in his side. His eyes wandered down the road, where a cluster of abandoned buildings loomed in the distance, their windows dark and hollow like watching eyes.
After a moment of quiet, Abel broke the silence. "I've been curious. What do you think about the whole world ending?" His voice was casual, but there was a weight to the question that lingered in the air.
Maggie didn't answer right away. Her expression turned thoughtful, her brows furrowing slightly beneath the brim of her cowboy hat. "I think it's God's wrath," she said finally, her tone measured. "Or it's a plague, like my daddy says."
Abel tilted his head, considering her words. "I ain't much of a doctor," he said, his voice low and reflective, "but… I've never heard of a sickness that revives the dead and makes them start eating the living."
Maggie's head snapped toward him, her eyes narrowing as her jaw tightened. "They're just sick people," she said sharply, her voice rising with a defensive edge. "That's all they are!"
Her outburst was sudden, cutting through the stillness of the ride, and Abel blinked in surprise. For a moment, the tension hung heavy between them, but then Maggie's shoulders slumped, and her face softened into something sadder.
Abel shifted in his saddle, his voice quiet and sincere. "It wasn't my intention to upset you. I'm sorry."
Maggie didn't respond. Her gaze had already shifted to the buildings ahead, and she focused on the pharmacy sign hanging above the dusty storefront. The words "Williams' Drugstore" were faded but still legible.
"Here we are," Maggie said, her tone clipped. She swung her leg over her horse and dismounted with practiced ease, grabbing the reins and tying them securely around the base of an old newspaper stand.
Abel followed her lead, careful as he slid off his own horse, his hand instinctively brushing his side to make sure he hadn't strained his stitches. He tied his reins around the rusted metal frame of a long-abandoned pay phone and cast a wary glance at their surroundings before following Maggie toward the door.
The pharmacy was dim inside, the sunlight filtering through the dust-caked windows casting golden streaks across the rows of shelves. Abel stepped in behind Maggie, his eyes widening as he took in the scene.
"Holy shit," he muttered, his lips curving into a small, incredulous smile. "I haven't seen this much stuff since before…" He trailed off, letting the enormity of it all sink in.
Maggie smirked at his reaction but didn't let herself dwell on it. Instead, she held out her hand, palm up. "There's a few more shops down the block—a hardware store and a local gun shop. Also, may I please have the list?"
Abel nodded, digging into his pocket to retrieve the folded paper. He handed it to her, watching as she unfolded it and scanned the contents.
Her face shifted as she read, her brows furrowing in confusion. "What the hell…?" Maggie said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Abel frowned, stepping closer. "What's up?"
She didn't answer right away, instead handing the paper to him with a slow, uncertain motion. Abel took it, his confusion growing as his eyes roamed over the items:
Laundry Soap
Canned Goods (Beans, Veggies, etc.)
Containers for Water (Need extra just in case)
A Blanket (Carl's started to rip)
Batteries
He glanced back at her. "Am I missing something here?"
Maggie didn't speak. Instead, she leaned over his shoulder and pointed toward the bottom of the page, her fingertip hovering over the final item. Abel's eyes followed her gesture, and when he saw it, his breath caught.
"Plan-B?" he asked, his voice almost a whisper, the disbelief clear in his tone.
Maggie nodded slowly, her expression a mixture of sadness and unease.
"Yeah," she said, her voice soft but firm. "It's there."
Abel looked back down at the handwriting on the page, familiar in a way that made his stomach tighten. His mind raced, trying to make sense of what this meant, while Maggie crossed her arms, her expression darkening.
"Who gave you this list?" Abel asked, his voice steady but probing.
"Glenn," Maggie answered, her brow furrowing as she thought back. "Why?"
Abel's gaze lingered on the paper, the wheels in his mind turning as realization dawned. He didn't have to say it out loud—Maggie's face fell as the pieces clicked together for her, too.
"You have got to be kidding me," she muttered under her breath, her eyes widening in shock. Without another word, she turned on her heel and disappeared down one of the pharmacy aisles, leaving Abel standing near the entrance.
Abel let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair. Shaking his head, he grabbed a nearby shopping basket and started down another aisle, his thoughts still spinning as he tried to make sense of what they'd just uncovered.
It took Abel a handful of minutes to collect everything on Maggie's list, each item loosely piled into the basket dangling from his hand. His boots scuffed softly against the linoleum floor as he wandered aimlessly down one of the store's aisles, scanning the shelves for anything they might've missed.
Mid-step, something caught his eye—a bright yellow and orange label sitting in pristine rows on the shelf to his left. He stopped, turning his gaze toward the neatly stacked cans of peaches. A cartoonish girl with twin pigtails and a beaming smile stood in front of a golden sun holding a peach in her hands. Above her head, the name "Sunny Pals Peaches" was scrawled in cheerful, looping letters.
Abel's fingers reached for one of the cans almost instinctively. He held it up, his thumb brushing over the smooth label as memories washed over him. His lips curled into a bittersweet smile as a name came to mind, one that carried with it both joy and pain.
"Clementine…" he whispered, the edges of his voice fraying with emotion.
The faint hum of the store seemed to fade as the memory pulled him under.
A younger Abel, barely six years old, sat cross-legged on a worn plaid blanket in the middle of a sunny park. His childhood friend, Clementine, sat beside him with a wide grin, her pigtails bouncing as she laughed. The two of them shared a can of peaches, sticky juice dripping down their small fingers as they tried to balance the slippery fruit on plastic forks.
"Stop hogging all the peaches, Clem!" Abel protested, a playful pout on his face as he nudged her shoulder.
Clementine giggled, holding up a fork with a perfectly intact slice of peach. "You snooze, you lose! Besides, you're too slow."
Before Abel could retort, his father, Cain, strode over to them with a knowing smile, carrying a second can of peaches in one hand. Abel's mother, Emily, trailed close behind, her face soft but pale, a handkerchief clutched in her hand.
"Don't worry, Abel," Cain said, kneeling down and ruffling his son's hair. "I brought reinforcements."
Abel beamed as Cain handed him the can and a fresh fork. Emily, suppressing a light cough, knelt beside Clementine and gently wiped the girl's sticky fingers with a damp napkin.
"You two are a handful," Emily said with a chuckle, her voice warm but tired.
Clementine grinned up at her. "We're just having fun!"
"Fun or not, no more sticky handprints on my blanket," Emily teased, her red hair catching the sunlight as she patted Clementine's cheek.
The memory blurred, the laughter fading into the background as the image of Clementine's smiling face lingered.
Back in the present, Abel's grip on the can of peaches tightened as he blinked away the haze of nostalgia. His voice was soft, almost hopeful. "I wonder if you're still alive, Clem..."
A sudden, blood-curdling scream shattered the quiet of the store, yanking him from his thoughts. Abel's heart leapt as the scream echoed through the aisles. Dropping the basket without a second thought, he bolted toward the source of the sound.
The screaming grew louder as he rounded a corner, his boots skidding slightly on the tiled floor. His stomach dropped at the sight before him—Maggie thrashing wildly, her arm caught in the grasp of a snarling walker. Its rotting fingers clawed at her wrist, trying to drag her closer through the gaps of a metal shelf.
Abel vaulted over the counter with a burst of adrenaline, the can of peaches still clutched tightly in his hand.
Maggie's wrist slipped free as the walker fell backward, toppling into a lower shelf. Maggie stumbled back, her sobs echoing in the store as she hugged herself, trembling.
Without hesitation, Abel rushed toward the fallen walker. He didn't think, didn't hesitate—his instincts took over. The can in his hand became a weapon as he swung it down with all his strength.
CRACK. The metal connected with the walker's skull, sending a sickening splatter of blood and decaying flesh against the nearby shelf. The walker snarled and gurgled, its movements slowing as Abel brought the can down again. And again. And again.
The lid of the can burst open, sticky peach juice mixing with the walker's dark, oozing blood. Slices of fruit scattered across the floor, crushed beneath Abel's boots as he kept swinging. The walker's growls faded to faint gurgles, and finally, silence.
Abel dropped the mangled can from his trembling hand, his chest heaving as he stared at the mess before him—a caved-in skull, a puddle of blood and brain matter, and sticky chunks of peach.
He turned quickly, his concern snapping back to Maggie.
"Did it bite you?" Abel asked urgently, his hands gently gripping her shoulders as he searched her for any signs of injury.
Through her sobs, Maggie shook her head, her tear-streaked face crumpling with relief. Without warning, she lunged forward, throwing her arms around Abel and clutching him tightly.
Abel froze for a moment before wrapping his arms around her, his hand resting on the back of her head as she cried into his chest.
"It's okay. You're okay. I've got you," he murmured, his voice soft and soothing.
After a moment, Maggie pulled back slightly, her breaths still ragged.
"Did you find it?" Abel asked gently, referring to the item Maggie had come to retrieve.
She nodded against his chest, not trusting herself to speak.
"Okay," Abel said, his tone calm and steady. "Let's get out of here."
Maggie clung tightly to his arm as they made their way back toward the entrance. Abel grabbed the basket he'd dropped earlier, then led her out of the store and into the fresh air.
Abel led Maggie toward the horses tied to the weathered wooden posts. The tension in the air still lingered after their close call, but the sound of the horses snorting and pawing at the dirt helped ground them both. Abel set the basket of supplies down carefully, then reached for the reins of Maggie's horse.
"Here, let me help you up," he said softly.
Maggie's hands trembled slightly as she let go of his arm. Taking the reins from him, she positioned her foot into the stirrup. Abel moved behind her, steadying her as she climbed into the saddle. She settled herself with a quiet sigh, wiping her face with her sleeve to brush away stray hairs and leftover tears.
Abel quickly untied his own horse from the post, carefully unraveling the reins from the rusted newspaper stand. He slung the supply basket over the rear of the saddle, using a coil of rope to secure it tightly before mounting up. His muscles tensed briefly as the strain in his healing side reminded him of his limits, but he ignored it.
"Which way to that gun store?" Abel asked, gently nudging his horse forward.
Maggie glanced over her shoulder, still visibly shaken. Her voice wavered slightly as she guided her horse ahead. "D-Down this way. I'll lead you."
The two moved slowly down the street, their horses' hooves clopping softly against the cracked pavement. Nature had reclaimed the road, with tufts of grass and wildflowers sprouting through the fractures. A distant bird call echoed through the empty buildings, filling the silence between them. Abel occasionally glanced around, keeping an eye out for anything moving in the shadows.
After a few minutes, they rounded a corner, and Maggie motioned toward a squat, battered building a few doors down. Faded letters on a weathered sign above the storefront read "Battle Ready Paradise: Guns, Ammo, and Tactical Supplies."
Abel chuckled lightly, shaking his head. "Well, that's a name that inspires confidence."
He pulled his horse to a stop, hopping off with practiced ease. Handing the reins to Maggie, he asked, "I'm gonna check it out real quick. You coming in, or staying out here?"
Maggie hesitated, glancing nervously toward the building. The encounter at the pharmacy still weighed heavily on her. "I'll stay out here," she said finally. "I've had enough of dark buildings for one day."
Abel nodded, understanding. "Fair enough."
He approached the store cautiously, his boots crunching softly on broken glass and gravel. Peering through the dusty glass door, he scanned the interior for any signs of movement. The dim light revealed a ransacked space, shelves overturned, and shattered display cases scattered across the floor.
Pushing the door open, he winced as the bell above jingled sharply, the sound cutting through the stillness. Abel froze, his hand instinctively gripping the handle of his axe, listening intently for any response. When nothing stirred, he stepped inside, the air stale and heavy with dust.
The floor was littered with debris—shell casings, empty boxes, and shards of glass reflecting faint sunlight filtering through the broken windows. Abel's eyes drifted to the main counter, hoping for something useful. As he approached, something beneath the broken display glass caught his attention.
Kneeling carefully, he brushed aside the glass with the edge of his boot, revealing the smooth, brown grip of a handgun. He reached down and pulled it free, inspecting the weapon with a satisfied grin.
"A CZ 75," he muttered to himself, running his fingers over the textured grip. "You're coming with me."
Ejecting the magazine, Abel counted a few bullets left inside before sliding it back into place. He tucked the handgun into the waistband at the small of his back and turned his attention to the wall behind the counter, where rows of rifles and shotguns had once been displayed. Now, only the empty hooks and a faint outline of dust where the weapons had hung remained.
Letting out a disappointed sigh, Abel scanned the rest of the room and spotted a shelf near the back. A faint spark of hope flickered as he moved closer and found several untouched boxes of ammunition—9mm, .45 ACP, shotgun shells, and a box of rifle rounds.
"Jackpot," Abel said with a grin, quickly gathering the boxes into his arms.
He made his way back to the door, the bell ringing again as he stepped outside. Maggie looked up from her horse, her expression brightening slightly when she saw the small stack of ammo in his hands.
"Find anything?" she asked.
Abel shook one of the ammo boxes playfully, his smirk returning. "Found these beauties—and a little surprise," he added, tapping the handle of the CZ 75 peeking out from behind his back.
Maggie smiled faintly, some of the tension leaving her face. "Good. Let's head back to the farm."
"Lead the way," Abel said, securing the ammo in the basket tied to his horse before mounting up.
As they rode side by side back toward the farm, the quiet companionship between them settled in like a balm, the horrors of the day receding—if only for a little while.
Maggie and Abel returned to the farm just as the sun began to dip lower in the sky. While Maggie led the horses to the barn to tend to their stalls, Abel took on the task of delivering the supplies they'd scavenged. With a basket hanging from his arm, he strolled toward the group's makeshift camp near the farmhouse.
The quiet hum of conversation and the occasional clink of tools being handled filled the air. Abel's eyes caught Shane sitting at one of the wooden picnic tables. The deputy had a serious expression as he carefully reassembled a handgun he'd just cleaned, its parts gleaming under the afternoon light.
"Perfect timing," Abel said as he approached, a sly grin spreading across his face.
Shane looked up from the weapon in his hands, squinting slightly at the basket Abel was carrying. A smirk tugged at the corner of Shane's mouth.
"Hey, what 'cha got there?" Shane asked, setting the gun down.
Abel set the basket on the table with a bit of flair, brushing his hands together as if presenting a prize. "Some goodies for my pretties," he teased.
Shane let out a sharp snort of laughter, shaking his head. "You've been spending too much time with Daryl," he muttered, but his attention quickly shifted to the contents of the basket as Abel began unloading it.
One by one, Abel laid out the ammo boxes—9mm, .45 ACP, shotgun shells, and rifle rounds—lining them up in neat rows. Shane's eyes widened as the boxes hit the table with satisfying little thuds.
"Where the hell'd you find all this?" Shane asked, already cracking open one of the 9mm boxes to inspect the contents.
"Gun shop," Abel replied, leaning back in the chair opposite Shane. He picked up a box of shotgun shells and turned it over in his hands, checking the label. "Me and Maggie hit up a nearby town. The place was mostly cleaned out, but the owner must've been living above the shop. Didn't bother checking upstairs, figured we already hit the jackpot with this haul."
Shane nodded as he poured a few bullets from the box onto the table, letting them clatter against the wood. "You more than outdid yourself. We were managing with what we had, but this? This is a damn good haul."
Abel slid the box of shotgun shells toward Shane with a smirk. "Figured these would be for you. Didn't want you walking around with an empty boomstick."
Shane grinned and gave a nod of appreciation. "Was running low on shells. You just made my day, kid. Thanks."
"No problem," Abel replied, casually picking up a handgun from the table and inspecting it. "These cleaned already?"
"Yeah," Shane said, gesturing to the open gun bag nearby. "Most of 'em, at least. I was about to start organizing the ammo, see what we're working with."
Abel glanced at the stack of ammo boxes on the table. "All right, here's what I brought: three boxes of 9mm, three of .45 ACP, one box of shells, and a box of rifle ammo. Fifty rounds each for the handguns, twenty-five for the shells, and thirty-five for the rifle."
Shane furrowed his brow, doing a quick mental calculation as he stacked the boxes. "So that's... one fifty for the 9mm and .45, total. I had about twenty-five shells left, so now we've got, what, forty-five?"
"Sounds about right," Abel said with a nod. He tapped the table with his knuckles and stood, brushing dust off his jeans. "Anyway, I'll let you handle the math. I've got rounds to make—seems I'm the guy to see these days."
Shane chuckled, shaking his head as he began stacking the boxes neatly to one side. "Appreciate it, Abel. Seriously."
Abel gave him a casual salute and strolled toward the cluster of tents where the group had set up camp. His steps slowed as he neared his next stop, dread creeping into his chest. This wasn't a conversation he was looking forward to.
Waiting for him was his aunt, Lori.
Abel walked toward Lori's tent with slow, deliberate steps, the basket of supplies hanging loosely in his hand. Lori stood in front of the tent, her arms crossed, her face a mixture of worry and simmering anger as she watched him approach.
When he stopped a few feet away, Abel held the basket out to her, his expression unreadable.
"I got you your things. Here," he said simply.
Lori blinked, confusion flickering across her face. She hesitated before taking the basket. "I thought Glenn was—"
"Maggie asked me to go along this time," Abel cut her off, his tone clipped. Then, without missing a beat, he asked, "Let me ask you something. Are you pregnant?"
Lori froze, her eyes widening at the sudden and deeply personal question. Her expression quickly twisted into one of offense and disbelief.
"Jesus! I—I'm your aunt, for crying out loud! You shouldn't ask me something like that!" Lori sputtered, her voice rising.
Abel's gaze hardened, his patience already wearing thin. "Answer the question," he said, his voice low but edged with anger. "Are you pregnant?"
Lori stepped back, stunned by his shift in tone. "It's none of your damn business if I am or not!" she snapped, her voice laced with fury.
Abel reached into his pocket and pulled something out. He held it up for her to see: a small box of pills. His face was a mixture of frustration and disappointment.
"It is when you send us off to do your errands," Abel shot back, shaking the box lightly.
Lori's eyes widened as recognition dawned on her. She snatched the pills from his hand, clutching them tightly. "Like I said," she hissed, "it's none of your damn business!"
Abel nodded slowly, his lips curling into a bitter smirk. His anger was no longer hidden. "Who's is it?" he asked, his voice calm, almost quiet, but laced with barely restrained emotion.
Lori's face went pale, her hand trembling slightly as she clutched the pills. She tried to swallow the lump forming in her throat, but her voice came out shaky.
"W-What do you mean? It—It's Rick's," she stammered, her words unconvincing even to herself.
Abel let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "No," he said, his voice low and cutting. "I don't think it is. 'Cause, you see, I know about you and Shane. I have since before all this shit started."
Lori's eyes widened in horror before narrowing into a glare. Her hand shot out, and she slapped Abel across the face, the sharp sound echoing across the camp.
"You don't know what I felt!" Lori shouted, her voice trembling with rage and guilt. "Rick was in a coma, fighting for his life! I had to raise Carl all alone, terrified every day that I'd lose my husband. And in a moment of vulnerability, Shane and I—we..." She trailed off, unable to finish, tears welling up in her eyes.
Abel rubbed the side of his face where she had struck him, his expression unreadable. A small, humorless laugh escaped him as he shook his head.
"So, I'll ask again," he said, leaning in slightly, his voice sharp and deliberate. "Who's baby is it? Is it Uncle Rick's? Or Shane's?"
Lori's fury boiled over, and she shoved Abel hard, making him stumble back a step.
"Shut up!" she screamed, her voice cracking as tears streamed down her face. She slapped him again, but this time, Abel didn't even flinch. He simply stood there, glaring at her with a mixture of anger and disgust.
"Hitting me won't change the fact you slept with your husband's best friend," Abel said, his voice cold and accusatory. "And now, you're really gonna give up on this kid before it even has a chance to live? That's pathetic."
"Why?!" Lori shouted, her voice breaking. "So it can live a short and miserable life in this sick, twisted world?! Tell me, Abel—would you bring a child into this world?!"
Abel's jaw clenched as he held her gaze. For a moment, the camp seemed to fall silent around them. A few members of the group—Dale and Carol—glanced over, drawn by the commotion. Shane, sitting at the picnic table, looked up sharply at Lori's raised voice.
Abel's eyes softened slightly, but his voice remained firm. "That's not your decision to make. Not for this kid," he said quietly.
Lori stared at him, her chest heaving with emotion. She opened her mouth to respond, but the words wouldn't come. Her frustration and guilt finally overwhelmed her, and she turned on her heel, storming back into her tent.
As the screen door slammed shut, Shane approached, his brows furrowed with concern. "Is everything okay?" he asked, looking between Abel and the tent.
Abel glanced at him, his expression unreadable now, and rubbed his cheek where Lori had slapped him. "Yeah," he said flatly. "Just a slight disagreement. You know how me and her don't get along."
Without waiting for Shane's response, Abel turned and walked off toward the edge of the camp, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
Shane stared after him for a moment before turning his attention to Lori's tent. He took a hesitant step toward it but stopped when he heard muffled sobs from inside.
Abel grabbed his freshly sharpened axe from the wooden table, where it still sat embedded in the surface from earlier. The blade gleamed in the afternoon sunlight as he slung it over his shoulder and made his way toward a tree far from the farmhouse, where the sounds of the group bustling around the camp faded into the distance.
As he reached the tree, a peaceful quiet surrounded him, broken only by the occasional chirp of birds and the rustle of leaves in the breeze. He dropped his pack at the base of the tree, resting his axe against the trunk. Kneeling, Abel reached inside the bag and carefully pulled out the leather journal, its corners worn from time and use. The soft, aged leather felt familiar and comforting beneath his fingers.
Opening the hard cover, he let the journal rest on his lap, flipping through pages filled with his father's neat, deliberate handwriting. He stopped on an entry near the middle, the date at the top catching his eye: December 24th.
Abel began to read, his father's words pulling him into a moment in time that felt almost tangible:
"Emily's belly seems to grow bigger by the day, and I can hardly believe it. Every time I look at her, I'm struck by the realization that there's a tiny life inside her—a life we made together. My God, I don't deserve this kind of happiness."
"We've decided to stay in Australia while we wait for Emily's citizenship to go through, and I couldn't be happier. I want her to be as comfortable as possible, and she loves it here—the open skies, the beaches, the quiet. But the best part? Watching her laugh when she feels the baby kick. She's radiant, and she'll be an incredible mother."
Abel's eyes softened as he continued to read, his heart aching as if his father were speaking directly to him.
"The day she told me she was pregnant, I wept. I don't mean a few tears, I mean I wept, right there in front of her. For the first time in my life, I let all my walls come down, and she didn't just see me—she held me. And in that moment, I knew I'd do anything to protect her and our child. I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her, so I asked her to marry me."
"If this child turns out to be a boy, I hope he knows how much he's already loved. I can't wait to teach him about the world, to share with him the things my own father taught me—how to fish, how to tie a knot, how to never take life for granted. I hope he grows up to be a better man than I ever could be."
Abel's breath hitched as his eyes fell to a sketch beneath the words. It was a simple yet detailed drawing of a beautiful woman with flowing red hair. Her face was illuminated with a radiant smile, and her hands were resting gently on her round belly.
"Mom..." Abel whispered, his voice trembling.
For years, the only memories he'd had of his mother were flashes—the scent of strawberries and the way her hair caught the light. But now, seeing her face again, etched lovingly onto the page by his father's hand, something inside him cracked open.
A tear rolled down his cheek, falling onto the paper. He wiped it away gently, careful not to smudge the delicate lines of the drawing. His hand trembled as he reached into his bag and pulled out a pen, flipping through the journal to find a blank page.
For a moment, he stared at the empty space, unsure of where to begin. Then, letting his emotions guide him, Abel began to write:
"I saw her today, Dad. For the first time in years, I finally saw her face. You drew her so perfectly—the way her smile lights up a room, the way her hair flows like fire in the wind. I've held on to the memory of her smell, the way she'd tuck me in at night, but her face... I thought I'd lost it forever. Seeing her again feels like a gift I never expected to have."
"Was that why you wrote all of this down? So we wouldn't forget? So that when the memories started to fade, we could come back to these pages and remember the love that built us? I like to think that's the reason. And if it is, thank you. Thank you for giving me this piece of you and her."
"I'm not as good at writing as you were, but I hope, wherever you and Mom are, you can read this. I hope you know that I carry both of you with me every single day. And I promise, no matter what, I'll try to be the man you hoped I'd become. I'll live by your example, Dad. I'll make you both proud."
Abel's hand stilled as he finished the last line. He let out a shaky breath, closing the pen and setting it down beside him. Slowly, he closed the heavy cover of the journal, his fingers tracing over the worn leather.
Leaning back against the tree, Abel tilted his face toward the sky. The breeze carried the scent of earth and pine, and for a moment, he let himself feel at peace.
"Thanks for this," he murmured softly, as if his parents could hear him.
The weight in his chest lightened ever so slightly, and he sat there in the quiet, savoring the connection he'd felt with his mom and dad—two people who lived on in his heart, even if they were long gone.
