You'd been walking for days. Maybe longer. The sun had become your only clock, a merciless eye that tracked your every step. Your throat was sandpaper, your boots worn thin. The silence was the worst part. No birdsong. No distant engines. Just the buzz of flies drawn to things you tried not to look at.

Then, a sound. A distant rumble of an engine, straining and coughing. A vehicle approaching. You had seconds to decide: hide, or risk revealing yourself. Behind a rusted dumpster, you crouched low, heart hammering against your ribs.

The truck lurched into view, a battered pickup with a faded Confederate flag decal on the rear window. Its bed was piled high with supplies — tarps, gas cans, a crossbow. Two men were in the cab. The driver was lean and sharp-featured, with long dark hair and a scowl etched into his face. The passenger was larger, his right arm wrapped in a blood-stained bandage, one sleeve of his jacket tied off in a knot below the elbow.

The truck slowed as it neared your hiding spot. The passenger leaned out the window, squinting into the sun. "I'm tellin' you, Daryl, I heard somethin'. Could be one of them walkers."