05 .ᐟ
the dead feast, painting the world in crimson decay

"YEAH, THERE'S NO WAY GLENN IS GOING."

Selma's voice cut through the group like a whip.

She crossed her arms tightly, planting herself squarely in front of Glenn, her eyes daring anyone to challenge her.

Rick sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He'd expected this reaction but still wasn't ready for the wall of resistance she always threw up.

He took a step forward, his voice firm but measured. "Selma, listen to me — "

"No, you bloody listen," she interrupted, her finger jabbing toward him. "We're not risking him. Not for this, not for any of it. Glenn's done enough, and I'm not about to stand here and let you play the self-sacrificing sheriff again while dragging him into your mess!"

Rick's patience was visibly wearing thin, but he kept his tone steady.

"Look," he said, turning to Glenn and pointedly ignoring the seething redhead in front of him. The poor young man stared at the ground, shifting his weight nervously, clearly uncomfortable with the sudden attention and the commotion surrounding him. "You've been there before. You know the layout. Quick in, quick out. It'll be fine — "

"Yeah? And what if it is a problem this time?" Selma interjected, voice rising. "What if it's not 'quick' or 'easy,' huh? What then, Rick? You gonna shoulder that responsibility too?"

Glenn shifted his weight, his arms crossed, eyes fixed on the dirt. He looked less confident now than when he'd told the sheriff about the route.

Rick's jaw tightened.

He turned fully to face her now, tone sharp as he tried to keep control of the situation. "It's not fair of me to ask, I know that. But I'd feel a hell of a lot better with him along. You might not trust me, but I trust Glenn. And you know Lori would, too."

Glenn's eyes flicked to Lori and Carl, standing close together.

Then he turned to Selma, bristling beside him, and Jenna, who sat perched on a log nearby, absently tracing patterns in the dirt with a stick. The Asian man, silent until now, glanced up briefly, his gaze flicking between Rick and Selma. His lips parted as if to speak, but the nurse cut him off.

Selma tossed her head back in exasperation, fixing Rick with a glare that could have cut glass.

"It's your choice," she muttered, her jaw tightening in resignation. Shaking her head, a frustrated growl escaped her as she spun on her heel.

Her ponytail snapped behind her like a whip as she stormed off. "Have fun saving that racist pig!"

"Watch your damn mouth, you little brat," Daryl barked after her, not even bothering to lift his eyes from the arrow he was meticulously cleaning near the smoldering remains of the fire.

Selma didn't break stride.

She didn't glance back. She just shot a middle finger over her shoulder, her pace steady and unyielding.

Jenna, still lounging on the log, chuckled quietly. Her attention drifted between the rocks scattered at her feet and the spectacle unraveling before her, amusement dancing in her eyes.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

"You're mad," Glenn said, stepping into the tent.

His voice was light, almost teasing, but the weight behind his words was clear.

Selma sat cross-legged on a pile of blankets, holding a book. Or rather, pretending to hold a book. Her eyes hadn't moved from the same spot on the page for minutes.

"I'm not mad," she muttered without looking up, her tone clipped.

"Yes, you are." Glenn crouched beside her, flicking her arm playfully. She finally looked up, shooting him a sharp glare.

"I'm not mad," she repeated, setting the book down, her voice firm this time. "I'm just ... astonished that you'd actually agree to this."

"Look," Glenn began, his voice soft but insistent, "we're not just going for Merle, okay? There's a stash of guns and ammo Rick left behind in Atlanta. Stuff he didn't get a chance to grab before he got attacked. We need it. For the camp. For safety."

Selma studied him for a long moment, her brow furrowing. "I get it," she said finally, her voice quieter now. "I do. I just — " She hesitated, the words catching in her throat. "I'm just worried about you, that's all."

Glenn smiled, a small, reassuring curve of his lips. "Don't worry," he said, his voice warm but light enough to ease the tension. "We'll be careful. I'll try not to get myself killed, at least."

"It's not funny," she snapped, her glare returning. But there was no real bite to her words this time.

His smile softened, and for a moment, the tent felt quieter, the chaos of the camp outside fading away. "Thank you," he said sincerely, his eyes meeting hers. "For always having my back."

Selma's expression softened, too, her shoulders relaxing as she let out a breath. "I'll always have your back, Glenn. That's what friends are for."

She shut the book in her lap with a decisive thud, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. "But enough emotional sap for one week. You need to pack, and I'm not letting you go out there unprepared."

"Alright," Glenn said with a chuckle, standing and offering her a hand. She took it, letting him pull her to her feet.

"Let's make sure you have everything," she added, stepping out of the tent with him. Her tone carried a quiet determination now, masking the worry still flickering in her eyes.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Rick wasn't sure what to make of her, if he was being honest.

The moment he first saw her in Atlanta, something about her struck a chord—something oddly familiar.

Her fiery red hair caught his eye, but it wasn't just that. It was her face, too. Like she was a fragment of an old memory he couldn't quite piece together.

Turned out, he was right.

They did know each other — not in a personal, meaningful way, but enough to remember.

Before the world fell apart, their paths had crossed. He'd seen her from a distance during his visits to the hospital for work. Escorting prisoners, following up on case files, interviewing suspects admitted to the ER, it wasn't uncommon for his duties as a cop to bring him there.

Even if they'd never exchanged words, she had been impossible to miss.

Rick wondered if Shane remembered her. Probably. Shane had a knack for noticing pretty women, and if he did recall her, he hadn't said a word about it.

Rick hadn't mentioned her to Lori either. I'll tell her when we get back, he told himself. But another, darker voice at the back of his mind snarked, If we come back.

When we come back, he corrected firmly, holding onto the thought like a lifeline. He had to. For Carl. For Lori. For all of them.

The bitter irony wasn't lost on him — he'd just made it back to them, and now he was already leaving again. The sting of it settled deep in his chest, but he couldn't ignore the man waiting up there. 

His conscience wouldn't let him. 

And they needed the guns too. 

They needed them to keep the group safe.

He was loading the truck with T-Dog when she appeared.

She placed a gentle hand on T-Dog's back, offering him that familiar, almost shy smile that Rick had started to recognize as her signature. 

The faint scent of lemons followed her as she walked up; a strange, almost comforting contrast to the stench of decay that always seem to hung heavy in the air.

"You doing okay?" she asked, tone casual but laced with concern.

"Don't worry about me, Sel," T-Dog said with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm good as new!"

She gave a small nod, watching him as he moved off to find something. 

That left just Rick and Selma, an awkward silence settling between them.

She tucked her hands into the pockets of her light jacket, absentmindedly kicking at the rocks scattered on the ground.

"So — "

"Look — "

They spoke over each other, then both broke into easy smiles, tension finally easing.

"I wanted to apologize for my behavior," Selma said, voice quieter than usual. "I shouldn't have been such a brat."

"It's fine," Rick replied, his hands on his waist, purposefully avoiding her gaze. "I understand," he added, trying to ease the tension.

"You knew Glenn from before?" he then asks, shifting the subject.

"Nope," she said, popping the "p" for emphasis. 

"Me and Jenna met him at the camps. He's just — " she paused, taking a deep breath. "He's young, and he always puts himself in danger. He doesn't have anyone, just like me and Jenna. His family's caught up in all this mess, so you know, we... kind of..." She trailed off, searching for the right words. "Stick with each other I guess ? You know, as lonely wolves and all. It sounds dramatic— "

"Selma, stop overthinking everything you say," Rick interrupted, tone softening. "I understand, and that's what matters."

"Right," she said, her voice dropping slightly, embarrassed.

She looked down at the ground, her cheeks coloring.

"It'll be fine. Everything will be," Rick reassured her.

"You be careful too. Remember: no heroics," the nurse said, smirk on her lips, clearly teasing.

"I can't promise that," Rick replied with a half-smile.

She nodded, then glanced over as Shane approached, prompting her to make her way to Glenn one last time.

The Asian man was sitting behind the wheel, while Jenna hovered near him, whispering something sharply.

Glenn, looking uncomfortable, awkwardly waved her off.

"Jenna, leave him alone," Selma said with a sight as she walked over.

"He's gonna get himself killed for that stupid racist redneck."

"I'm also going for the guns, Jenn!" Their friend shot back, rolling his eyes.

"It'll be fine. Everyone will come back," Selma added quickly, then threw in, "Hopefully."

"Well, aren't you optimistic?" Glenn raised an eyebrow. "What made you change your mind all of a sudden?"

"Officer friendly." And the moment Selma gave her cheeky reply, Rick appeared next to Glenn.

Selma and Jenna stepped back, and Glenn rolled the window up, giving a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Rick glanced at Selma through the window, giving a subtle nod.

She nodded back, and then the truck started up, rumbling as it began to pull away.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

For the rest of the evening, Selma kept to herself in the RV, meticulously cleaning her guns and knives before jotting down a few sparse notes in her journal.

She had already taken care of her laundry earlier that morning and even lent a hand to others around camp, so this quiet time felt well-earned.

It was her ritual, a daily practice that helped her hold onto some semblance of sanity.

Cleaning, writing, and staying productive gave her a sense of control, a way to keep the chaos at bay. Her journal entries were brief, often nothing more than the date and a few disjointed sentences.

They didn't say much, but they served their purpose: grounding her in the present, reminding her she was still here.

When her hand grew tired of scribbling, she turned her attention back to her weapons.

The steps to clean her gun were familiar, almost second nature.

First, she unloaded it, carefully checking the chamber and magazine for any remaining rounds. Then, she took it apart piece by piece, laying each component out on a towel spread across the RV's narrow table.

A small brush, oil, and cleaning cloth became her tools of focus. She scrubbed away residue from the barrel and wiped every surface until it gleamed. Each click and snap as she reassembled it brought a strange comfort, like piecing together something much larger than herself.

Once the guns were set aside, Selma picked up her dagger.

Though it didn't need cleaning ( it was already spotless ) she couldn't resist. The blade was a work of art, slightly longer than most and etched with delicate floral patterns. Gold glinted along its edge, and the hilt felt solid and reassuring in her hand.

Her father had given it to her as a surprise during his last visit from England, claiming he'd found it in a market in Turkey. And it was stunning, no doubt about it.

Selma ran a cloth along the blade, the faint sheen of oil enhancing the intricate engravings. She sharpened it with slow, deliberate strokes, the rhythmic sound of metal against stone filling the small space.

Her hair, now untied, swayed gently in the evening breeze filtering through the open RV windows. As she worked, sunlight streamed in, catching the blade's edge until it practically glowed.

Perfect.

Her moment of peace was interrupted by raised voices outside.

She heard cries, followed by muffled apologies, and turned to see Carol struggling to haul Ed into camp. He was slumped over her shoulder, his body a dead weight as she shuffled toward their tent. Her brow furrowed in concern as she watched them disappear behind a cluster of trees.

What the hell happened?

Selma moved to call out to Carol but stopped short when Carl climbed into the RV.

He looked out of breath, his wide eyes darting toward her.

"Hey, lad," she asked, setting her dagger down. "You know what that was about?"

Blocking the sun with the flat of his hand, Carl squinted up at Selma, his freckled face scrunched in confusion. "No idea," he said, glancing briefly toward the direction of the commotion.

Selma nodded, the noise fading into the background as she returned to her work.

She'd go ask Carol after, she knew that the woman didnt like it when people were prying too much on her terrible husband.

The rhythmic swiping of the blade against the sharpening stone filled the air, a metallic song that blended with the faint rustle of leaves outside.

"What are you doing?" Carl asked, curiosity gleaming in his wide, bright eyes.

Without looking up, she replied, "Sharpening my knives."

The boy nodded, suddenly awkward.

Was it because of the fight she had with his father? Or maybe he was just too shy to ask if he could help. Either way, she didn't want him to feel that way.

A beat of silence passed before she glanced at him through her lashes, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. "Wanna help? But you have to be careful."

"Hell yeah!" The boy's face lit up, his enthusiasm clear as he eagerly stepped into the RV.

His small hands immediately reached for the large dagger sitting at the center of the table, but Selma was quicker.

She tapped the back of his pale hand with her fingers, her voice firm but kind. "Op, op little man! Not so fast, love. You've got to listen to me first before you touch these. Got it?"

"Okay," Carl said, pulling his hands back into his lap, his gaze fixed on her with rapt attention.

Selma smiled softly.

Carl was a good kid — curious, eager to learn, and always looking for ways to be helpful.

She liked having him around.

He reminded her of her nephews, those bright, carefree kids who hadn't yet seen the harshness of the world.

His innocence was the kind the world used to have, before it had been twisted, darkened, and ravaged by chaos. It was the kind of innocence that now felt so fragile, so easily lost.

Her chest tightened at the thought of him growing up in all this madness, wondering if he'd even get the chance to grow up at all.

But one thing was certain: Carl was a fast learner.

And so, she showed Carl how to hold the blade just right, tilting it so the light reflected off the edge to check its sharpness.

Her hands guided his small fingers to grip the hilt properly, adjusting his stance so he wouldn't accidentally nick himself. "See? Keep your knuckles clear of the stone," she said, demonstrating the careful, deliberate motions.

Carl's brow furrowed in concentration, his tongue sticking out slightly as he mimicked her actions.

"You're a quick learner," Selma said with a faint smile.

Encouraged, the pale boy began chatting as they worked.

He told her about fishing for frogs with Shane down by the river, how they'd caught two but let them go when Lori said they couldn't keep them.

Selma chuckled, asking him questions to keep the conversation going.

"What about school?" she asked. "You've got a best mate, yeah?"

"Arthur," Carl said immediately, his face lighting up. "He's my best friend. We used to sit together at lunch and trade snacks. He liked those fruit roll-ups, but I'd always want the pretzels."

Selma laughed softly. "Sounds like a good deal. What about your teachers? Who's the worst?"

"Mr. Delaware," Carl said with exaggerated exasperation. "He teaches math, and he's so boring. Plus, he gives way too much homework. Everyone hates him."

Selma grinned. "Math teachers are always the worst. I had one like that too—Mrs. Patel. She'd hand out problems so tough even she couldn't solve them."

Carl laughed at that, his giggles filling the small space of the RV.

The hour passed easily, the sun rising higher into the sky and casting a warm glow through the open windows.

By now, the two of them were sitting by the RV, legs dangling off the step as they talked and laughed. The work was forgotten for the moment, replaced by the comfort of conversation.

"Carl! Come on! Time to help with dinner!" Lori's voice called from the camp.

He sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes in mock annoyance, but Selma could see the smile tugging at his lips. "Coming, Mom!" he shouted back, hopping to his feet.

"Thanks for letting me help," he said to Selma, his tone sincere.

She gave him a warm smile. "Anytime, kiddo. Go on now, don't keep your mom waiting."

Carl ran off toward the campfire, his small figure disappearing among the tents.

Selma leaned back in her chair, the edges of her lips curving into a faint smile as she watched Carl disappear into the camp.

It had been nice to have his company, like a brief escape from the solitude that hung over her most days. Back when the world hadn't gone to hell, she'd had colleagues at the hospital her own age to talk to.

There were friends from home she could call on the phone, their voices bringing comfort as they laughed about old school memories.

Now, those connections felt like relics from another life, almost distant and unreachable.

The loneliness was relentless, but it wasn't just that — it was the thoughts that came with it.

The intrusive, heavy thoughts she could never quite silence.

It wasn't just the absence of companionship; it was the constant, oppressive shadow of survival that tainted every interaction.

How could she sit down, share a real conversation, or even laugh with someone, knowing that tomorrow, one of them might be bitten by those flesh-eating monsters, forced to turn on the other?

That dark truth loomed over everything, a silent, crushing weight.

It pressed into her chest like an iron brand, a reminder of the fragile, unpredictable nature of life now.

That's why she struggled so much to let anyone in — why she kept her walls high and her interactions fleeting.

She couldn't afford to grow too attached, not when every day felt like a countdown to inevitable loss.

Even with Glenn and Jenna, she wasn't an easy person to crack. And she knew she'd always been like this, even before the world fell apart.

But now? Now it was worse.

So much worse.

It felt safer to stay isolated, to avoid the unbearable pain of losing someone she cared about. She told herself it was the smart choice, that it was the only way to protect herself from the heartbreak that waited around every corner.

Isolation was its own kind of suffering, but at least it was a suffering she could control.

Or so she told herself.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Jim had lost it.

There was something frantic in his eyes as he dug into the dirt, his hands raw from the effort. Despite everyone telling him to stop — especially with the kids around, scared and confused —he wouldn't. He couldn't.

Selma had tried to reason with him, tried to get him to understand the danger of overexerting himself under the blazing sun without proper water.

She told him he could continue tomorrow, but he wouldn't listen. "I don't care," he had said, his voice shaky, almost desperate.

When she asked why he was doing this, he simply muttered something about a dream, a vision, something that had driven him to this madness.

He was determined, but not in a way that made sense.

Shane had enough.

With a firm hand, he tied the crazed man to a tree, a warning that they weren't going to entertain his madness anymore.

The camp went about its business, but no one approached Jim.

They gave him water every so often, just enough to keep him from collapsing entirely, but no one spoke to him, and no one made any effort to soothe him. He was left to stew in his thoughts, his body tense but his mind still caught in whatever strange fever dream had taken hold of him.

Selma had tried to offer him medication, a dose to help him relax, but he had refused, his voice distant, as if detached from the present. "We need it for later," he'd muttered, his gaze wild.

She didn't understand, but she didn't press him on it either.

Something about the way he said it made her hesitate, as if he knew something they didn't — or maybe just feared something that hadn't yet come to pass.

She left the pills beside him, within reach but not forced upon him. She watched him for a moment longer, her brows furrowing in confusion and concern. She could only guess what was going through his mind, but she wasn't about to push him further. Not now.

As the hours passed and the sun dipped below the horizon, a cold breeze crept in, and the chill of the night settled over the camp like a heavy blanket.

The firelight flickered, casting long, flickering shadows across the gathered group, but there was something different about Jim when he finally rejoined them.

His movements were slower, more deliberate, as he approached the warmth of the fire. His eyes, though, still carried that haunted look : the kind of look that made a person question whether they were truly there or still lost somewhere in their mind.

He sat quietly, not engaging with anyone right away, but it was clear to Selma that he was more lucid than he had been.

There was still a palpable tension in the air, an unease that hadn't completely dissipated, but for now, Jim was back with them.

For now, he was among the living, not lost to the madness he'd teetered on the edge of.

Something was off — something wasn't right — but for the moment, they had to push forward.

All they could do was wait and see what the night brought.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Selma didn't bother checking on Ed; and honestly ? she didn't care to.

When she'd casually asked Carol earlier if she should, Carol had waved it off, saying she'd already handled it herself.

Good riddance, Selma thought, her lip curling in disdain.

If she had to see that idiot's face again, she'd have more than a few sharp words for him.

Jenna and Andrea had filled her in on what had gone down, and for once, she was genuinely grateful for Shane. She just wished she'd been there to witness every satisfying moment of his fists connecting with Ed's piggish face.

Now, Selma sat around the fire with her usual group, trying to let the faint warmth of the flames distract her from the ever-present tension in her chest.

She tried to focus on Dale's story, his calm, steady voice weaving a rambling tale about his old watch.

She was halfway through a chuckle when a bloodcurdling scream pierced the night.

Amy.

Selma's head snapped toward the RV, her eyes locking on the horrifying scene.

The girl was struggling, a walker latched onto her neck, its rotted teeth buried deep into her flesh as it moaned hungrily. Blood gushed from the wound, dark and glistening in the firelight.

Before Selma could react, more screams and guttural moans erupted throughout the camp. Chaos unfolded in an instant, fear rippling through the air like a thunderclap.

The nurse was already on her feet, adrenaline coursing through her veins as her mind shifted into survival mode.

Shane shoved a shotgun into her hands, his expression grim and focused. She didn't hesitate, gripping the weapon tightly, the worn stock pressing firmly into her shoulder.

She curled her body into position, feet planted firmly on the ground, her mind shutting out everything but the immediate threat.

Her eyes scanned the dark shapes moving erratically in the flickering light, and she steadied her breathing, ready to face the nightmare head-on.

She took aim at the closest walker, her eyes narrowing as she steadied herself against the recoil.

The shotgun's blast shattered the quiet night, and the first walker's head exploded like a rotten melon, chunks of flesh and bone spraying the others as its body crumpled to the ground.

Gore streaked the dirt, and the scent of death thickened in the air.

Selma pumped the shotgun, the satisfying clack-chunk noise echoing around her.

"Jenna, be careful!" Selma called over her shoulder.

She risked a quick glance back to see the younger woman fumbling with her small handgun, her hands trembling as she tried to steady her aim.

"I'm trying!" Jenna snapped, her voice tight with fear and frustration.

The second walker lurched closer, its rotted face contorting into a grotesque snarl.

Selma didn't hesitate.

She squeezed the trigger, and the buckshot tore through its skull, spraying putrid remains everywhere. The blast was powerful enough to hit another walker just behind it, taking both out in one clean shot.

Their bodies dropped to the ground in grotesque heaps, but the others weren't deterred.

They kept coming, an endless tide, tripping over the fallen corpses in their ravenous desperation. Clawing and groaning, they pressed forward, drawn to the flickering firelight and the promise of warm, living flesh.

They moved like a swarm of ants, mindless and relentless, fixated on the slightest movement. But instead of food, they were now the ones to be devoured.

Flesh became prey, consumed by the hunger they could never satisfy.

The ground beneath them became a graveyard of bodies; victims who had been just as desperate to survive, now reduced to nothing more than another offering to the endless tide of death.

Selma gritted her teeth, fingers working swiftly to pump the shotgun, the sharp metallic sound echoing in the night air.

Her heart pounded in her chest, but her hands were steady, her focus razor-sharp. She couldn't let them get through.

Not tonight.

Not when there was so much at stake.

She pulled spare shells from her pocket, glancing quickly over her shoulder to make sure Jenna was right beside her, staying close and keeping pace.

The advancing corpses were getting closer, their moans rising like a tide of death.

The scent — God, the scent was enough to choke her. It never got easier.

How could it? They were walking, rotting corpses, their flesh torn and decomposing, yet they still moved, still hunted. Instead of being buried, they were up and stumbling around, eating human flesh like it was all that mattered in this twisted, new world. She could never get used to it.

With her index finger and thumb, she pressed the bullets into the chamber, locking and loading, the familiar motion giving her a momentary sense of control.

Then, spinning around, she fired. The loud crack of the shotgun pierced the night, sending a spray of gore as she took down the closest one.

But there were more, always more.

She gritted her teeth again, firing again, her eyes never leaving the advancing wave.

They couldn't get through. I won't let them.

Lori ushered the children and the unarmed into the van, her voice frantic as she tried to hurry them along.

Meanwhile, Dale, Morales, and Shane did their best to hold back the relentless horde, each shot ringing out as they fought to keep the walkers at bay.

But the walkers just kept coming, an unyielding tide that wouldn't slow down, let alone stop.

Their guttural moans filled the air, mingling with the terrified screams of the living and the grisly wet sounds of flesh being ripped from bone.

The stench of rot hung in the air, thick and suffocating, clawing at Selma's throat, threatening to make her gag. The world seemed to shrink to the sounds of the chaos around her, the screams, the shots, the sickening noise of death.

Selma's grip on the shotgun tightened, her eyes scanning the madness. She could see the fear in Jenna's face, the younger woman fumbling to reload her gun, her hands shaking.

"Go with them, fast!" Selma shouted, her voice harsh, cutting through the noise.

Jenna's gun was empty, and the nurse knew they couldn't waste any more time.

Jenna hesitated for a moment, fear flashing in her eyes, but Sel's voice snapped her back to reality. "Now!"

Jenna bolted, weaving through the chaos, her small frame disappearing into the mass of panic. Selma's gaze followed her for a brief moment, making sure she was headed in the right direction before turning back to face the advancing walkers.

There was no time to waste.

One of them, a bloated figure with skin hanging in tattered ribbons, stumbled alarmingly close while she fumbled to reload the shotgun.

Her hands were trembling too much, her fingers slipping clumsily over the cartridges. Panic rose in her chest like a wave.

When she glanced up, the walker was nearly upon her, its milky eyes fixed on her, teeth bared in a grotesque snarl.

The shotgun was useless now, so Selma dropped it and yanked the dagger from behind her jeans, her fingers gripping the hilt with white-knuckled determination.

She prepared to lunge, aiming to bury the blade into the decaying woman's skull, but before she could strike, a shot rang out.

The walker's head snapped back as a bullet tore through its temple. Dark, viscous blood sprayed, and the corpse crumpled forward, forcing Selma to stumble back to avoid being dragged down with it.

She wiped a fleck of blood from her cheek with the back of her hand and turned sharply toward the source of the shot.

Rick stood a few paces away, his six-shooter raised, smoke curling lazily from the barrel. His eyes met hers, steady and determined.

"Keep moving!" he shouted, voice cutting through the chaos like a beacon, his arm waving to guide them forward.

She nodded, breathing heavily.

The walkers were still coming, and there was no time to waste. She tightened her grip on the dagger, her resolve hardening.

This wasn't over yet.

Selma's chest heaved, her breath ragged from the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

The world felt off-kilter, her head swimming as she tried to process what had just happened. Rick's timely shot had saved her, but she didn't have time to dwell on it.

A guttural wail pierced the air, dragging her attention forward. The walker coming at her looked disturbingly familiar.

And for a moment, she froze.

The grotesque features, once human, mirrored Naomie — her colleague from Harrison. Memories flooded her vision, vivid and overwhelming.

Screams echoed in her mind, the chaos of the hospital during the outbreak.

Soldiers mowing down civilians in blind panic, and the walker in the basement... the one she couldn't save herself from seeing.

"Selma, in front of you!"

Rick's voice snapped her back.

Her head whipped toward the decaying figure now just inches from her.

With a sharp cry, she drove the dagger into its skull, feeling the sickening resistance as it pierced rotten flesh and bone. The walker collapsed at her feet with a thud.

Selma drew a shaky breath, her grip tightening on the hilt of the blade for a moment before she wrenched it free.

Her mind reeling as she took a moment to steady herself.

When she looked up, it hit her : the campground was a cemetery.

Bodies were strewn across the ground, some twisted grotesquely in death, others lifeless in ways that made her throat tighten.

At least twenty people, maybe even more.

The only sound cutting through the horror was Andrea's sobs.

She was cradling her sister Amy's body, blood smeared over her hands and arms as she rocked back and forth. The sight was too gut-wrenching, a reminder of the cost they all paid.

Selma clenched her eyes shut, the heaviness of the carnage pressing down on her.

She wiped at her face again, smearing blood across her cheek as she tried to push away the despair threatening to swallow her.

And she could feel Rick's eyes on her.

It was like an invisible weight pressing on her back, that steady, unwavering gaze. It wasn't just a glance, no, it was like he was dissecting her with his thoughts, peeling her open and trying to make sense of what he saw. But why? Why did he look at her like that amid all this chaos, this bloodshed? Was it pity? Curiosity? Or something else entirely?

Selma's skin crawled.

She wiped the blood from her dagger onto her jeans, sliding it back into its sheath with a smooth motion, like she was trying to wash the tension away.

She decided she didn't like that look.

Didn't like the way his gaze made her feel like there was something too fragile, too hidden inside her that he could somehow see. Was it concern? Fear? Wonder? Whatever it was, it was suffocating.

Her breath came out in uneven bursts, her body still trembling from the exertion.

Blood ( hers, others' ) was smeared across her hands, staining her skin a dull, sickly red. She noticed the grime on Rick's face, the dirt streaking across his nose, and the way his chest rose and fell, a steady rhythm that didn't match the chaos around him.

It almost felt like he was calm, like he wasn't rattled by all of this, and yet there was something in the way he moved, the way his eyes followed her, that told her he was just as shaken as she was.

Swallowing hard, Selma forced herself to break eye contact.

She couldn't handle it anymore. Her jaw tightened, a knot forming in her stomach as she turned away, unwilling to meet his gaze for a second longer.

She needed to move.

She needed to focus on something else, anything else, before she let herself crack open. From what ? Selma didn't know.

Then Jim's voice shattered the fragile silence. "I remember my dream now," he said, tone low and unsettlingly calm. "Why I dug the holes."

The words hit her like a cold shower.

A sharp chill ran down her spine, her breath hitching as if the air itself had turned solid.

God.

For a moment, everything else, the camp, the fire, Jim's words, faded into a blur. His frantic digging, his cryptic dream, the manic way he had worked earlier all came rushing back in fragments that pieced themselves together with horrifying clarity.

Had he seen this ? Dreamed it ? The walkers storming the camp, tearing through their fragile peace, devouring everyone they had fought so hard to protect ?

Is that why he'd been digging ? Was it some desperate attempt to prepare, to warn them ? Or was it just madness clawing at the edges of his mind ?

The questions churned in her head, all relentless and unanswerable.

She looked at him, her gaze drawn to the blood smeared across his arms, his face.

A trembling hand rose to her own forehead as though trying to steady herself.

And then, Selma moved.

Slowly, carefully, she stepped through the wreckage of what had once been their sanctuary.

The bodies of people she had known — people she had talked with, argued with, survived with — lay scattered like broken lifeless dolls, their lives extinguished in moments.

The campfire's glow, once a source of comfort, now flickered over faces she would never see alive again.

They were gone.

All of them.

She didn't look back.

She couldn't.

Because if she did, she might see Rick's face again — etched with guilt, grief, and the heaviness of impossible decisions.

And that was the last thing she needed right now.

A/N : The plot is moving forward !! Feel free to drop a comment or two, they really keep me motivated :)