Not the quiet of the farmhouse at night, or the hush that fell over the camp when something moved in the trees. This was worse. A sealed, swallowed quiet, like the room had been holding its breath for a very long time.

Carl opened his eyes.

He wasn't outside. He wasn't at the camp. He wasn't on the farm.

He was sitting in a chair.

Around him, dozens of chairs. Rows of them, soft and dark, all facing a screen on the far wall—a screen so big it made the wall look small. The light in the room was dim and sourceless. There were no windows. There were no doors. There was a carpet, and the carpet didn't matter.

Rick was several seats away, already on his feet. Lori stood beside him, one hand hovering at her chest like she'd forgotten what to do with it. Shane had his hands up, palms out, turning slow circles, scanning the walls. Dale looked lost, his hat in his hands. Daryl was already at the far wall, running his palm flat along it, knuckles brushing, feeling for a seam that wasn't there. Maggie and Hershel stood close together near the end of a row. Glenn stared up at the black screen, mouth slightly open. Carol had Sophia pressed against her side. Andrea and T-Dog flanked them, wary. And Merle was on his feet, loud as a busted engine, demanding answers from a room that didn't have any.

Carl looked to his left.

Someone was sitting directly beside him.

CLICK.

The television turned on. Everyone froze.

The screen was completely black. A few seconds passed. Then a voice filled the room. It came from everywhere at once, from the walls and the floor and the inside of their own skulls, and it was calm in a way that made Carl's skin crawl.

Carl looked at Evan. Evan leaned in close, voice barely a whisper.

A title appeared, white on black, and the whole room seemed to lean toward it.

THE WALKING DEAD

Carl leaned forward in his chair. Beside him, Evan's fingers curled around the armrest.

And none of them were prepared for what they were about to see.