03 .ᐟ
survival is the human pulse.

SELMA WOULD ALWAYS REMEMBER THE DAY THE WORLD CAME TO AN END.

Every night since, it replayed in brutal clarity.

The patient abandoned in the basement of Harrison Hospital, the man whose neck and clavicle were gnawed away, Jenna's father torn apart as the creatures stripped the flesh from his stomach—an endless cycle of horror.

Then there was Atlanta, swallowed by fire and chaos, the napalm bombs turning the city into an apocalyptic inferno.

Selma would wake drenched in sweat, her heart hammering against her ribs. She'd try to push it away, force herself back to sleep, but it was useless. The images lingered, unrelenting. It was like trying to outrun her own shadow.

And the hospital... she couldn't escape the guilt of leaving. The faces haunted her : Dr. Bryan, Naomie, all the patients who'd clung to hope only to meet the same grim end. A single bullet had ended them. She still couldn't make sense of it. Why? The military had executed innocent civilians.

There were no bites, no infections — just terrified people.

Protocol. Orders.

The soldiers had repeated those words like a mantra as they gunned down anything that moved. It wasn't survival.

It was slaughter.

After the chaos on the highway, they had no choice but to leave.

Selma, Jenna, Shane, Lori, Carl, and the Peletiers had banded together, adrenaline and fear propelling them into action. The road was blocked, so they'd veered into the forest, forcing their vehicles through narrow paths and dense underbrush. It was treacherous, the tension palpable, but somehow, they managed.

Eventually, they found a quarry—a temporary reprieve from the madness. For the first day, it was just them, trying to regroup and catch their breath. The quiet felt fragile, like the calm before another storm.

But then, another small group arrived.

Strangers, wary but desperate.

Their faces mirrored Selma's own—a mix of exhaustion, fear, and cautious hope.

The quarry wasn't much, but it felt like a lifeline. A place to pause, to pretend they weren't trapped in a waking nightmare.

Yet, even here, Selma knew the truth.

The dead wouldn't stay away for long.

The first new faces to arrive at the quarry were an old man named Dale and the two blonde sisters he had taken under his wing—Andrea and Amy.

Dale came with his old RV, a rolling relic of better days, and the quiet, fatherly demeanor of someone who had seen more than he cared to say. He'd found Andrea and Amy just in time, pulling them out of Atlanta's fiery collapse before the napalm consumed it. The sisters were opposites in almost every way. Andrea was sharp, eyes constantly scanning the horizon like she could will away the danger. Amy, younger and more carefree, had an openness to her that reminded Selma of what it meant to hope.

Then there was Jim. He had made it out of Atlanta, but not without scars—emotional ones, the kind that didn't heal. His family hadn't made it, and though he rarely spoke of them, the grief lingered in his every move. He had a nervous energy about him, a way of pacing like he didn't trust his own feet to stay in one place for too long. But when the camp needed him, he stepped up. A mechanic before the world ended, Jim had a knack for fixing things, even when he seemed broken himself.

Jacqui showed up not long after—a woman who moved carefully but had this quiet, steady strength about her. She didn't talk much, but when she did, people listened because her words mattered.

The Morales family joined soon after. They had been on the highway too, camping in the woods until the dangers became too great.

Then came Glenn and T-Dog.

Glenn was all youthful energy, cracking jokes that didn't always land but somehow made you smile anyway. He was quick on his feet and even quicker with his wit. Selma learned he'd been a pizza delivery boy in Atlanta, and the skill of navigating the city streets had made him the group's de facto supply runner. Still, there was something in his eyes—a flicker of pain. Losing his family had hit him hard, but he was trying. He kept moving forward because standing still wasn't an option anymore.

T-Dog was the opposite in many ways. Quiet and steady, he was the kind of person who would help without being asked. There was a calm about him, rooted in a faith that hadn't wavered despite the horrors around them. He had apparently worked for his local church before the world fell apart, and despite everything, his faith remained unshaken.

And then there were the Dixons.

Merle and Daryl.

Two brothers who were as different as night and day.

Merle was trouble the moment he opened his mouth. Loud, crass, and unapologetically offensive, he had a way of getting under everyone's skin, especially Selma's. She couldn't stand him, and she made sure he knew that too. If he wasn't mocking her accent, he was throwing around crude comments that made her want to knock him flat. Still, he was a survivor, and that made him dangerous.

But Daryl... Daryl was a puzzle.

Daryl kept to himself, always the shadow to his brother's chaos. He didn't talk much—quieter, harder to read—but when he did, there was a roughness to his words, a hint of Merle in his mannerisms. Sometimes Selma couldn't even make out what he was saying, his words tumbling out in that low drawl.

He stuck to the edges of the group, lingering like a shadow. He was the one who put food on the table, slipping into the woods with his crossbow and returning with enough to keep everyone going. There was a quiet loneliness about him, something that caught Selma's attention. She didn't trust him, not yet, but she couldn't ignore the effort he put into keeping the group alive. That had to mean something.

The camp grew quickly after that.

Survivors stumbled in from the highway, the woods, or what little was left of Atlanta. Each new arrival brought something to the group—a skill, a story, or just the will to keep going. Some stayed only a day or two, moving on in search of family or more safety.

Either way, they were welcome to stay at the camp, but only on one condition—they had to be free of bites or any sign of infection.

That was the first step to being accepted into the group, then came all sorts of rules—like keeping the fire low at night to avoid drawing walkers, staying within sight of the camp during the day, and never wandering off alone except for a few people which were most of the time Daryl and his brother when they went hunting.

At the center of it all was Shane.

A former sheriff's deputy, Shane had taken on the role of leader out of necessity. He was good at it, too—organizing the group, assigning roles, and keeping things running as smoothly as they could in a world gone mad. But there was a hardness to him, a simmering tension that made Selma uneasy. She could see the weight of responsibility pressing down on him, the cracks forming under the strain.

She doesn't say anything, of course. She barely talks to the man anyway. Truthfully, she barely knows him, and honestly, she doesn't care all that much.

They were all strangers.

It used to be such an innocent word, but now it felt dangerous. Strangers weren't just unfamiliar faces anymore—they were unpredictable, a risk. Because when it came down to it, if the camp got overrun, everyone would do what humans always do: fight to survive. You couldn't control it; survival was instinct. People would save their own first—their families, the ones who mattered to them.

That thought settled heavy in Selma's mind. If it came to that, who would save her? She didn't have anyone. No family like most of the others at camp. And that realization—that she'd be on her own—was terrifying in a way she hadn't let herself think about before.

Everyone had their roles, their part to play in keeping the camp alive. It wasn't perfect, not by a long shot. But it was something—a fragile thread of humanity holding them together in the face of the unthinkable.

And for now, that was enough.

As for Selma—she was the camp's nurse. Not that there were any other nurses or medical personnel around, so by default, the role fell to her. British-born, with a clipped accent and a no-nonsense demeanor, she carried herself like someone who had long ago decided that the world could throw whatever it wanted at her, and she'd handle it. That didn't mean she liked attention, though. Quite the opposite. She preferred to keep to herself, working quietly in the background, doing what needed to be done without expecting so much as a thank-you.

It was easier this way.

Her days were a blur of tending to the camp's needs. Bandaging scrapes, checking on fevers, reminding people—more often than she should've had to—that just because the world ended didn't mean you could ignore basic hygiene. If she wasn't helping with the injured, she was looking after the kids who scampered around the camp like they didn't have a care in the world. At least someone could be that carefree, she thought.

She didn't smile much, but she wasn't cold. There was a softness to her, hidden under layers of practicality and a sharp tongue. She remembered birthdays, made sure Glenn and T-Dog ate something other than canned beans, and had a knack for quietly slipping into a conversation just when someone needed reassurance. She was kind and gentle, offering warm smiles and words of reassurance whenever they were needed.

But opening up? That wasn't her style.

When it came to supply runs, though, she didn't hesitate. Always volunteering.

Medicine was running low—always—and Selma knew better than anyone what they needed. Antibiotics, insulin, bandages. These weren't optional; they were survival. But Shane had made a fuss when she volunteered.

"You're too valuable," he said, arms crossed as if that could hold her back. From his post in Dale's RV, he stood against the sun, forcing Selma to squint just to make him out. "We can't risk losing you."

She had stared him, unflinching. "And I'm the only one who knows what we need. Unless you've suddenly become a pharmacist, Shane, I'm going."

It had been a small victory when he'd sighed and relented, though she wasn't one to gloat. He didn't know the half of it anyway. She wasn't just a nurse; she'd been a military nurse once upon a time. She'd learned how to patch someone up while bullets whizzed by, how to keep a cool head when everything around her was falling apart. She knew how to handle a gun, how to fight.

Not that she liked to advertise it.

Still, she could see Shane's point.

The camp needed her. People were already looking to her for answers, for a calm voice in the chaos. But Selma had never been one to sit still when there was work to be done. And if the others couldn't handle the risk, she'd shoulder it herself.

She'd told herself she was doing it for the group, for the people who relied on her. And maybe she was. But deep down, there was another reason—a quiet, gnawing need to keep moving, to stay busy, to avoid the moments of stillness when her mind would start to wander.

Because in those moments, she couldn't stop thinking about what she'd lost. The faces she'd left behind. The ones she couldn't save.

So, she moved through the camp like a ghost—always there, always helping, but always holding something back. It was easier this way. Or at least that's what she told herself.

Gossip was as much a part of the camp as canned food and mosquito bites. It kept people's minds busy, a distraction from the constant fear that clung to them like a bad smell. Amy and Andrea were the main culprits, always whispering to each other in corners or around the campfire. Selma didn't mind; their chatter was harmless, and it kept her from dwelling too much on her own thoughts.

The latest topic of interest? Shane and Lori.

"Do you think they're... you know?" Amy would giggle, glancing toward where Shane was barking out orders or Lori was tending to Carl.

Andrea, ever the big sister, would roll her eyes and hiss, "Amy, stop. It's not our business." But it didn't take a genius to see that everyone else in the camp had put two and two together. The looks exchanged, the lingering touches.

It wasn't exactly subtle.

Selma kept her mouth shut about it. She had more pressing concerns than who was sharing whose bed, but she couldn't deny it was mildly entertaining. A little drama to break up the monotony of survival.

Jenna, on the other hand, avoided the gossip entirely. She spent most of her time with Glenn, the two of them drawn together by their similar ages and a mutual shyness. Because Jenna was around Glenn so much, Selma often found herself tagging along too. Not that Jenna said much; she rarely did. Glenn did the talking most of the time.

But overall, Selma didn't really mind the quiet.

And so the days bled into weeks, and the weeks into a month. The rhythms of camp life became almost predictable—if anything in a world full of walking corpses could be called that. Autumn had arrived, though the air was still stiflingly hot. The leaves turned crisp and golden, a stark contrast to the oppressive heat that clung to the afternoons.

Then came the next supply run.

Selma volunteered without hesitation. The camp's medical supplies were running dangerously low, and it wasn't like they could afford to wait for some miracle. She'd already patched together too many wounds with makeshift solutions, and the thought of running out of antibiotics or bandages altogether kept her up at night.

Selma pulled her red hair back into a tight ponytail, tucking it under her green cap before sliding on her sunglasses. She glanced at herself briefly in the mirror of the RV before grabbing her notepad.

Time to make the rounds.

Moving through the camp, she stopped to check in with everyone, jotting down notes in her well-worn pad. Clothes, supplies, special requests—whatever they needed, she'd try her best to find it.

"Can you bring us some candies again?" Carl asked, his wide, hopeful eyes looking up at her.

She smiled, ruffling his hair gently. "I'll try, kiddo. No promises, though."

Carl beamed, and she made a mental note to keep an eye out for anything sweet. Moments like these reminded her why she kept going—why she volunteered for these dangerous runs.

Back at her tent, Selma strapped her dagger securely to her thigh and checked the two pistols she carried—one tucked into her waistband, the other in her bag. She double-checked her supplies: water, a flashlight, and a first-aid kit. Prepared as she could be, she headed to the front of the camp where the group was gathering.

Andrea was hugging her sister goodbye, Morales was saying a few words to his family, and Selma found her usual spot beside Glenn, who was fiddling nervously with his gear.

T-Dog and Jacqui were already by the truck, loading up what they could. But as Selma scanned the group, her stomach sank when she spotted a familiar figure swaggering toward them.

"This must be a bloody joke right?" she muttered under her breath to Glenn, who winced in response.

"I know," he whispered back, not bothering to hide his grimace.

Merle Dixon strode up, a cocky grin plastered across his face, his gun slung over his shoulder. His teeth, yellow and partially metal, glinted in the sunlight as he adjusted his weapon.

"What? You're not happy to see me coming along, sugartits?" he drawled, his tone oozing with smugness.

Selma rolled her eyes, biting back a retort. She didn't trust herself not to say something that would start a fight, and the last thing anyone needed was to give Merle more of an audience. Without a word, she turned on her heel and climbed into the car.

The others followed, and soon they were on their way, heading back to Atlanta. The drive was tense, filled with the kind of heavy silence that hung between people who were too aware of the danger ahead. Merle, as always, was either muttering to himself or tossing out questions designed to rile people up. Most of the time, though, everyone just ignored him.

Selma stared out the window, bracing herself for whatever lay in store. She had no way of knowing that this trip wasn't just another supply run.

It was the beginning of something that would shift everything.

Because waiting for them in Atlanta was a certain Officer Friendly, and their lives were about to collide in ways none of them could have predicted.

A/N : don't hesitate to drop a comment or two !!!