In Seattle, Shane woke up in the middle of the night to an empty bed. They had three days in the city because the game had been postponed due to a lot of the players, on both teams, testing positive for Covid. They had spent the first day exploring the city, seeing Pike Place, the Space Needle, visiting the Chihuly museum. The bathroom door was slightly ajar with light peeking out into the dark hotel room. Shane pushed back the blankets and called out, “Ilya?”
There’s a low grunt from the bathroom. Shane knocked of the door, but didn’t wait for an answer before stepping inside. His husband was curled in a ball on the floor and Shane’s heart sank. Was he sick? Was it something they ate at dinner? Did he have Covid or the flu? Or was it something with his medication? Had he forgotten—
Ilya cracked an eye open before reaching a hand out to Shane who knelt down beside him on the cold tile.
“Shane. I am dying. Leave me here. Tell Anya I love her.”
“What’s going on?”
“Stomach cramps. Vomit. Sick,” Ilya moaned. He tightened his hold on Shane’s hand and his face scrunched up. He was shivering and Shane put a hand to his forehead. He wasn’t warm, but he was sweaty.
“You were fine when we went to bed,” Shane mused mostly to himself.
“Shane. I am dying. Did you not hear?” Ilya groaned a little louder. “Save yourself.”
“What else do you feel?”
“Awful. I feel awful. I never want to eat again. I am never leaving bathroom. You will have to leave me here. We will have to live in separate countries. Like long lost lovers.”
“Okay, now you’re being dramatic,” Shane said smiling despite the situation. Ilya was always so dramatic when he was sick. Last year he’d gotten a little cold and had moaned on the couch for three days as Shane waited on him hand and foot. He was like a Victorian woman from one of those novels his mother would read (and sometimes Shane would sneak a peek at to know what the fuss was about).
“No! Shane. You do not understand. I went to bed fine and now is like my stomach is fire.”
Shane sat down on the tile floor and Ilya immediately put his head in his lap. Shane ran a hand through Ilya’s sweaty curls. “I think you have food poisoning.”
“How? Who would do this?”
“Haven’t you ever had food poisoning?”
Ilya paused. “Maybe. Once. Or twice.”
“Did it feel like you feel now?”
Ilya sighed heavily and smooshed his face into Shane’s thigh. “Maybe. I guess. But this is awful. Is like I’m dying of fire and cramps. When will it end?”
“I think it usually lasts 24 hours,” Shane guessed and he wished he brought his phone in with him so he could Google Ilya’s symptoms and give a more accurate diagnosis.
“It might depend on how much you ate of whatever made you sick,” Shane added.
“I think it was little bread shrimps. Is the only thing you didn’t eat too. You are fine, yes?”
Ilya’s English always got a little more…rustic when he was tired, and Shane knew he was tired and sick, so it was harder to form full sentences. But ‘little bread shrimps’ was honestly the most adorable thing Shane had heard when describing a) something that may have given his husband food poisoning and b) popcorn shrimp. Shane might need to start calling popcorn shrimp ‘little bread shrimps’ even if the name was far cuter than the dish.
“I’m fine.”
Ilya huffed, “The little bread shrimps were so good! It should not have harmed me this way!”
For dinner, Ilya begged to go to some fish and chip place he had read about and Shane, while very diligent with his food, couldn’t resist Ilya’s pleading eyes. He had gotten fries – and shared them of course – a salad, and grilled salmon. Ilya had gotten the popcorn shrimp, which Shane was pretty sure he was never going to eat again. Shane didn’t particularly care for popcorn shrimp, but he indulged his husband because he’d always indulge his husband. Even when it came to his concerning diet.
“Shane, when I am dead—”
“You’re not going to die. Stop saying that.”
“Please give Anya brother or sister. This is my last wish. Also do not remarry. I know is selfish, but this is my last dying wish.”
Shane rubbed Ilya’s back, hoping it was soothing. “I thought giving Anya a sibling was your last dying wish.”
“I can have more than one dying wish, Shane. Do not be asshole when your husband is on fire.”
“Ilya, you’re going to be fine. I promise. We just have to wait it out.”
Ilya groaned. “I am never eating tiny shrimp with breading again. Fuck popcorn shrimp. Fuck fish. Maybe I will become vegetarian. Maybe vegan. Will you still love me if I was vegan, Shane? Or would you love me more because I would stop eating McDonald’s? Wait can vegans eat McDonalds?”
“I love you regardless of your diet. I think I’ve proven that with the way you eat,” Shane kissed Ilya’s curls. “You’ll be okay. Maybe we just take a break from fish for awhile.”
“I am never eating again.”
“Promises, promises,” Shane carefully got off the floor.
“Do not leave me! I don’t want to die alone, shanezhki.”
Shane wasn’t even going to try to figure that out right now. Instead, he hurried into the hotel room, grabbed a sweatshirt for Ilya, a pillow, and his water bottle that was still on the bedside table. When he came back into the bathroom, Ilya was back to groaning in pain.
“I hate this,” Ilya exclaimed when Shane came back into the bathroom.
Shane gently put Ilya’s head back in his lap and wrapped the sweatshirt around him like a blanket. He doubted he’d be able to coax Ilya to sit up long enough to put the sweatshirt on. He placed the water bottle down beside them in case Ilya needed it. Shane ran a hand through Ilya’s hair and down over his back.
“Do you want a pillow?” Shane asked.
“No. I just want you.”
Shane smiled and placed a kiss to Ilya’s shoulder. He put the pillow behind his back as he leaned against the tub. He tried not to think about the last time the bathroom was clean. Hopefully between visits. At some point when Ilya was feeling well enough to stand, they should take a shower.
“We were supposed to have fun day out,” Ilya pouted. “I have ruined it.”
“You haven’t ruined anything.”
“If I hadn’t—”
“Shh, I just want you to feel better. Try to get some sleep.”
“What will you do?”
Shane ran a hand through his hair, “Watch over you.”
“Shanezhki?”
“Is that supposed to be me?”
“If I die—.”
“Stop joking about that.”
“Would you remarry?”
Shane was tempted to tease him, but Ilya was in no mood to hear that right now. He looked so pathetic curled up on the floor, his skin pale, his eyes squeezed shut. Shane wasn't heartless.
“Of course not. No one annoys me as much as you do.”
Ilya let that sink in. “I would never find someone as boring as you.”
Shane rolled his eyes and said quietly, “You’re such an asshole.”
“Yes, but I am your asshole.”
“Of course. And you are mine. Now try to sleep. I’ll be right here.”
“Shane?”
“Yes?”
“Do not ever let me eat tiny bread shrimps again.”
“Deal.”
Ilya fell asleep soon after and Shane stayed awake, running a hand through his hair making sure that his husband was alright.
Summary: In the aftermath of the funeral, the survivors leave the quarry behind and head for the CDC. On the road, bonds begin to shift — Shane grows closer to the reader, sparks flickering between them, while Daryl’s quiet protectiveness plants the seeds of an unexpected friendship. At the CDC, the group experiences a brief moment of safety, but Dr. Jenner’s secrets and the looming lockdown threaten to shatter their fragile hope. As the building explodes, the group escapes into an uncertain future, grief and tension still heavy on their shoulders.
Warnings: Death, Grief, Violence (guns, walkers), Gore (zombies, blood, explosions), Mentions of suicide/hopelessness, Romantic tension, Threat of entrapment
This is a work of fanfiction based on The Walking Dead. I do not own The Walking Dead or any related characters or settings; all original material belongs to their respective creators.
You stand amidst the somber aftermath of the attack, the acrid scent of smoke and death still hanging in the air. The survivors have just finished saying their goodbyes to the fallen; simple graves mark the resting place of loved ones like Amy, whose loss weighs heavily on Andrea’s slumped shoulders. Everyone is drained and silent, grief etched on each face. Rick finally breaks the quiet, voice hoarse but determined. The camp isn’t safe anymore, he insists. He proposes that the group head to the CDC facility in Atlanta, hoping they might find answers or even a cure there. Shane immediately voices doubts – the CDC could be a dead end or a trap, for all we know – and he doesn’t like the idea of venturing deeper into the city. A brief, tense debate ensues among the group. Shane mentions an alternative: Fort Benning, a military base he believes could offer shelter and supplies. But Rick counters that Fort Benning might be overrun like everywhere else, and the CDC is Jim’s best chance since he’s been bitten. Lori sides firmly with Rick, trusting his gut. Ultimately, the others exchange uncertain glances but relent – the CDC it is. The decision is made. The plan: leave immediately and make it by nightfall.
Not everyone will come along. Morales and his family announce they won’t be joining the trip – they have relatives in Birmingham and choose to take their chances heading there instead. It’s a bittersweet parting as you hug them goodbye. “Stay safe,” you whisper, blinking back tears as the Morales family’s taillights fade down the road. With that farewell, the remaining survivors gather what little gear they have and prepare the caravan. Dale’s old RV coughs to life, set to lead the way. Glenn double-checks the map that will guide you. Jim, feverish and pale, is carefully helped into the RV; his walker bite has worsened, and a sheen of sweat covers his brow. Space is made for him to lie down on the bed in the back. Given the crowded RV and other full cars, you find yourself in need of a different ride.
Shane catches your eye and gives a small nod toward his vehicle – a beat-up Jeep Wrangler he’s commandeered. “Ride with me,” he offers, attempting a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach his tired eyes. You agree with a grateful nod, climbing into the passenger side as the convoy starts rolling out. The remnants of the camp shrink in the side mirror. You can’t help a lingering glance back at the graves, silently vowing to remember those you lost.
As the caravan snakes onto the highway, an uneasy quiet falls. You sit beside Shane, the hum of the Jeep engine and crunch of debris under the tires the only sounds for a while. The world beyond the windows is a blur of abandoned cars and overgrown roads. Eventually, Shane breaks the silence. “You holding up OK?” he asks gruffly. In profile, his face is hardened by days of stress – stubble, dark circles under his eyes – but there’s concern in his voice. You shrug faintly. “I guess… as well as anyone.” You pause, picking at a loose thread on your shirt. “It’s just a lot. Amy, the others…,” you trail off, images of the funeral flashing in your mind. Shane’s jaw flexes. “Yeah.” A heavy silence follows that one word. Amy’s death, the other empty places in your group now – none of it is easy to accept.
Shane clears his throat. “Rick’s hell-bent on the CDC,” he says, changing the subject. His tone makes it clear he’s sceptical. “I get why – he wants to help Jim – but I’m not so sure walking into a government lab is the smart move.” He taps a finger anxiously on the steering wheel. “If it were up to me, we’d head for Fort Benning. Could be troops there, structure… safety.” He glances at you to gauge your reaction. You remember the brief argument back at camp – Shane warning about the CDC, Rick insisting on it. “Fort Benning’s a hundred miles in the opposite direction,” you recall aloud, offering a slight, rueful smile. “Besides, we’d never make it that far with the fuel we’ve got.” It’s the same point Andrea had raised earlier when Shane brought it up. Shane snorts, conceding the point with a nod. “True. We’re running on fumes and prayers as is.” His grip on the wheel tightens. “I just… I don’t like unknowns. Walking into that city again, it’s risky.” The memory of Atlanta’s streets – how overrun they were – hangs unspoken between you. You bite your lip. “I hear you. But what choice do we have? Maybe the CDC will have something. Medicine, information… maybe even a cure for Jim.” Your voice is quiet, hopeful. Shane doesn’t reply immediately. His brow furrows as he focuses on the road.
After a moment, he sighs. “For what it’s worth, I hope Rick’s right,” he mutters, almost reluctantly. “Man could use a win.” There’s a hint of bitterness beneath his words. You remember that Shane led the group while Rick was gone – and that Rick’s return changed everything. Shane hasn’t quite been the same since. He catches you studying him and gives a crooked smirk. “Sorry. Don’t mean to dump my doubts on you.” You shake your head. “It’s okay. I’d rather know what we’re driving into, even if it’s not great.” You hesitate, then add softly, “We’ll get through this. All of us, together.” The conviction in your own voice surprises you. Shane glances at you, and for a fleeting second, the hardness in his expression softens. “Together,” he echoes, as if tasting the word. His eyes meet yours – dark, searching – and you feel a spark of understanding pass between you. In that moment, you’re not just two people thrown together by circumstance; you’re two survivors sharing the same fears, the same fragile hope.
He manages a real smile this time, however small. The sight of it sends a warm flutter through your chest. When did I start noticing his smile? You wonder. Outside, the afternoon sun beats down on the broken highway, but inside the cab of Shane’s truck, you almost feel… comfortable. Safe, even. It’s startling, realising that the tension that once always radiated off Shane now seems to ease when he talks to you. Your friendship with him has deepened through the struggles of the past days. Now, something else subtle and unspoken flickers under the surface. You’re not sure either of you is ready to name it, but it hums in the air between you with each shared glance. You turn your face to the open window, letting the wind cool your warmed cheeks, and can’t help a tiny smile.
A sudden blare of a horn from the RV ahead snaps both of you back to the present. Smoke is billowing from the RV’s hood, and it lurches to a halt on the side of the highway. “What now?” Shane mutters, pulling over. Up ahead, Dale climbs out of the driver’s seat, waving for help. The radiator hose of the old RV has burst, steam hissing out. The caravan grinds to a halt as everyone disembarks to assess the situation. Shane kills the engine and is out in a flash, cursing under his breath about lousy timing. You follow, and the heat hits you in waves – from the sun above and the overheating engine in front of you.
Rick and Dale pry open the RV’s hood. T-Dog and Glenn rummage for tools and spare parts, but it’s clear you’ll need a replacement hose or some creative patch job to get moving again. “I saw an auto shop a couple of miles back,” T-Dog says. Shane nods decisively, already jogging to his truck. “Let’s go. We’ll scavenge what we need.” As T-Dog hops in the jeep with him, Shane turns to you, resting a hand on your shoulder. “Stay here. Keep an eye on things.” His tone is protective, and the gesture – his warm, steady hand – lingers a second longer than expected. You find yourself wanting to cover his hand with yours, to ask him to be careful, but the words catch in your throat. Instead, you just nod. “Alright.” Shane squeezes your shoulder gently, then he and T-Dog roar off down the road in search of parts, leaving you and the others to wait.
The pause in travel brings Jim’s condition back into sharp focus. You climb into the stifling RV where Jim is sprawled on the mattress in back. He’s shivering despite a blanket covering him. His skin is ashen, and his shirt is soaked through with sweat. Jacqui sits beside him, dabbing his forehead with a damp cloth. “Hey Jim,” you say softly. He blinks up at you, eyes glassy with fever. For a moment, it’s like he doesn’t recognise you. Then he breathes your name and manages a weak smile. “How you doin’, kid?” he rasps. The forced lightness in his tone breaks your heart. “I’m… fine,” you answer, failing to muster any cheer. “Don’t worry about me.” You kneel beside him. “We’re fixing the RV. We’ll get you to the CDC soon, okay? They might… they might have doctors there.” The words spill out in a rush of forced optimism. Jim just closes his eyes, pain creasing his face. “Don’t,” he whispers. “Don’t make false promises.” His hand gropes out from under the blanket, and you take it, your thumb brushing over his clammy skin.
Outside, through the RV’s open door, you hear Dale and Rick speaking in low tones about the radiator. Inside, Jim musters his strength and looks at you with startling clarity. “Listen,” he croaks, squeezing your hand. “I want you to do something for me.” You swallow the lump in your throat. “Anything.” Jim’s dry, cracked lips twitch in a sad half-smile. “When I… when I’m gone, don’t you guys risk yourselves for me. Promise me.” A spike of fear goes through you. “Don’t talk like that,” you protest softly. “We’re not leaving you behind.” But even as you say it, tears blur your vision because you both know the truth. Jim’s fever is sky-high; he’s been bitten. Unless the CDC truly holds a miracle cure, it’s only a matter of time.
A scrape of boots on metal makes you turn. Rick has climbed into the RV, face grim. Jacqui stands as Rick kneels opposite you by Jim’s side. “How is he?” Rick asks, though Jim’s deteriorating state speaks for itself. Jim’s eyes flutter open again. Gathering whatever lucidity he has left, Jim gently pulls his hand from yours and reaches for Rick’s sleeve. “Rick… you gotta listen,” Jim says slowly. Rick leans closer. “I’m listening.” Jim swallows, then speaks with a steadiness that sends chills through you: “I want to be left behind.” For a second, the only sound is the rattling wheeze of the RV’s generator. You feel as if you imagined it. Rick’s brow furrows. “Don’t say that. Once we get moving—” Jim shakes his head feebly. “No. I know what’s coming. I can feel it… inside.” His voice quavers, but there is conviction there. “I’m not getting any better. I’ll turn, we all know it. I – I don’t want to hurt any of you.” A tear escapes down the side of his face. “And I don’t want one of you to have to… to stop me after.” His meaning is clear: he doesn’t want to become a walker, and he doesn’t want any of his friends to be the one to put him down when he does.
Rick’s eyes shine with tears now. He grips Jim’s shoulder. “Jim, you’re delirious. We’re not just leaving you to die out here,” Rick insists, voice thick. You bite your lip hard, trying to steady your breathing. Jacqui has a trembling hand over her mouth. Jim musters a weak chuckle that turns into a cough. “Delirious? No, man… my head’s clearer than it’s been all day.” He pauses to catch his breath. Each word is an effort now. “This is what I want. Please. Just leave me… by the road. I’ll be fine. I’ll be with my family.” A sob catches in your chest. Jim’s wife and children died in the early days of the outbreak – he told you that story once around a campfire. The fever must be giving him visions; maybe he believes he’ll be reunited with them if he dies here. Rick looks anguished, torn between his principles and the man begging him for release. Outside the RV, voices are gathering – others have noticed something’s happening.
Rick presses a hand over his face, struggling. After a long beat, he nods, barely perceptible. He won’t outright say yes, but he won’t fight Jim’s wish either. The decision settles like lead in your stomach. By the time Shane and T-Dog return with a salvaged hose and the RV is patched up, a quiet consensus has spread: Jim will be left here, as he asked. The group moves as if in a funeral march. Together, Rick and Shane carry Jim from the RV, one arm over each of their shoulders. You follow alongside with the others, feet like stone. A short distance from the road, beneath the shade of a broad pine tree, they ease Jim down to sit against the trunk. The afternoon light is dappled on his face. Jim’s breathing is shallow, but he’s still conscious, eyes roaming over each of you in silent gratitude. One by one, the group says goodbye. The moment is almost unbearable. When you step forward, your throat locks up. What can you possibly say? In the end, you simply take Jim’s hand one last time. It’s cooling rapidly. “Thank you… for everything,” you choke out. Jim had been a quiet pillar of your camp – digging graves for strangers, sharing his meagre rations. A better man than most. He blinks slowly, and you’re not sure he even heard. But his fingers twitch in a semblance of a squeeze. That’s more than enough.
Daryl stands apart, his crossbow slung over his shoulder and a conflicted look on his face. You notice him gripping the handle of an arrow. Daryl was the first to insist on “ending it quick” for Jim back at camp; now, confronted with Jim’s composed resolve, even Daryl seems subdued. For a heartbeat, it seems like Daryl might step forward and offer a swift mercy-kill. But Rick catches Daryl’s eye and subtly shakes his head – no. They will honor Jim’s last request to be left alive. Daryl exhales and turns away, jamming the arrow back into its quiver. It’s a show of respect as much as restraint.
It’s time. One by one, people turn back toward the road. Glenn wipes at his eyes, lingering a moment before following the others. You are one of the last to leave. As the group shuffles away, Jim’s voice calls out weakly, stopping you in your tracks: “Hey… don’t… don’t you all be gone when I turn around.” It’s an echo of what he joked earlier in camp, before the bite – a feeble attempt at humour. It breaks what’s left of your heart. “We’re still here,” Rick assures him gently, though he’s now a dozen paces off. Jim’s head tilts back against the bark of the tree. His eyes slide closed, whether from peace or exhaustion, you can’t tell. The rest of you retreat, leaving Jim under that tree by the road, as requested. He appears to fall asleep, a slight smile on his lips as though dreaming of a reunion with the family he lost. The sight blurs through your tears as you climb back into Shane’s truck. The engine starts, and the caravan pulls away, moving forward while leaving a piece of itself behind.
The next few miles are travelled in heavy silence. Shane hasn’t said a word since the goodbye. He drives with a white-knuckled grip, jaw clenched tight. You sit close to the door, face turned toward the window so he won’t see the tears slipping down your cheeks. When you finally glance at him, his eyes are hard, focused on the road, but there’s a telltale shine in them. Shane Walsh, the man who prides himself on being tough as nails, is fighting back tears. Without thinking, you reach over and lay your hand atop his, where it rests on the gearshift. His hand turns under yours, fingers interlacing tightly. Nothing is said – nothing needs to be said. In the silence, grief binds you together. You squeeze his hand; he squeezes back. A silent promise passes between you: We keep going. We live, for those who can’t anymore. The sun sinks lower on the horizon as you drive on.
By the time you reach the outskirts of the CDC facility, dusk is settling in. The sky over Atlanta is painted in hues of orange and purple, shadows growing long. Rick’s caravan slows as you approach. The sight before you sends a chill through your exhausted bones: hundreds of decomposing corpses litter the grounds outside a large, bunker-like CDC building. Most look long-dead (perhaps military or civilian victims from the early days of the outbreak), but it’s a grim welcome. “Stay sharp,” Shane warns, peering out the windshield. He’s been on high alert since you neared the city, and your own hand has been resting on your weapon nervously. The group parks and dismounts cautiously, weapons drawn. No walkers in sight yet, just the eerie stillness of death all around. The CDC’s windows are shuttered with steel blast shields, and no lights are visible inside.
As you all approach the main entrance, a motion-sensor alarm inside the building begins to flash. Dr. Edwin Jenner, concealed within, jolts awake at his monitors – though you don’t know that yet. From your perspective, the CDC appears as lifeless as everything else. Rick tries the main doors; they’re sealed tight. He knocks and yells, but there’s no response. Glenn pans a flashlight over the carnage around you uneasily. “This… this is a bad idea,” someone mutters. The faint moan of a walker carries on the air from somewhere behind the wreckage of parked cars. Your heart kicks in your chest. If a horde corners you here…
Shane’s eyes dart anxiously. “We can’t stay out here. Maybe we should turn back, find someplace else,” he whispers harshly. Fear edges his voice; he’s considering retreat already. “Fort Benning’s still an option,” Shane adds under his breath, half to himself. You bite down panic. “We’re almost out of gas. Where would we even go?” Andrea interjects sharply, echoing your thoughts. Indeed, the vehicles are running on fumes, and everyone is low on food and water. Lori steps forward, voice high with urgency: “Rick, do something! We need a plan!” The sun is nearly gone now, and long shadows twist through the sea of bodies. Walkers are beginning to notice the group – here and there you spot silhouettes shuffling in your direction, drawn by the sound of your voices. They are slow, but there are many. A distant snarl sends adrenaline surging through your veins.
Rick looks up at the dark building, desperation etched on his face. “Hello? Is there anybody in there?!” he hollers at the fortress-like structure. No answer. His eyes suddenly catch on something – a surveillance camera, perched above the door, panning to observe the lot. Rick’s expression changes; he steps forward, hope and fury blurring together. He waves his arms frantically at the camera. “You! I know you’re watching! Please, we’re human – living people! Let us in!” he shouts. Behind you, a chorus of guttural groans grows louder as more walkers lurch into view between wrecked cars. They’re closing in. You instinctively back up closer to Shane, and he moves in front of you without a word, shotgun raised. Daryl and Glenn pivot to cover the flanks, weapons ready. Everyone’s breathing quickens. Rick slams his fists on the heavy metal shutters covering the door. “If you’re in there, you’re killing us!” Rick bellows, pounding until his fists are surely bruised. “Let us in, damn it!” In the rising panic, Shane mutters a curse – the idea of fleeing is fading; there’s nowhere to go. Beside him, you see Andrea trembling as she clutches her pistol, eyes darting at the advancing dead. This is it – either that door opens, or this may be your last stand.
Suddenly, a loud clunk echoes from the steel door. With a hydraulic hiss, the fortified shutters begin to roll up. A blinding flood of bright white light pours out from inside, momentarily stunning both you and the encroaching walkers. “Get inside, go!” Rick yells, waving everyone in as soon as there’s an opening. You don’t need to be told twice. As the door yawns open fully, Rick leads the charge into the light, and the rest of you dash after him, practically diving through the threshold. Shane’s hand finds yours in the chaos, gripping tightly as he half-pulls you in. You stumble into blessed cool air. Glenn hauls the door shut from the inside, and with another mechanical thud, it seals you in. You’re safe. For a moment, none of you move – a dozen survivors stand in a high-tech entry bay, panting, wide-eyed and disoriented by the sudden change of fortune.
Inside stands a single man, his posture wary and a bit disbelieving. He’s clad in rumpled civilian clothes – notably pyjamas and a lab coat – and is holding a shotgun levelled nervously in your direction. “Close the door, damn it!” he snaps, and Glenn hastily finishes sealing the entrance. The man’s voice is strained, like he hasn’t used it in a long time. Rick steps forward, hands spread placatingly. “We’re not infected,” Rick says, chest heaving. The man’s eyes land on the two children (Carl and Sophia), and the state of you all: dirty, exhausted, tear-streaked. Something in his expression softens slightly. “Anybody bitten?” Jenner asks curtly. Rick quickly shakes his head. “No. One of ours was, but… he didn’t make it here.” Your throat tightens thinking of Jim out under his tree. Jenner nods once, lowering the barrel of his gun. “Then you can come inside. But you all have to submit to a blood test first,” he warns. He indicates a scanner by the inner door. It seems the CDC has protocols – he won’t risk contamination. Desperate for safety, everyone readily agrees. One by one, you pass through an ID gate; Jenner pricks each of your thumbs to scan your blood for infection. Only when the computer voice (“Test subject clean”) chimes for the final person does Jenner breathe out and sling his shotgun over his shoulder. “Welcome… I guess,” he says, almost incredulous that there are living visitors. He presses a button, and an inner security door slides open, granting access to the facility beyond.
Jenner leads your group down pristine, brightly lit corridors. It feels surreal to be in a place with electricity, humming air conditioning, even running computers – a stark contrast to the grim, primitive life you’ve been living. “This is the CDC?” Glenn whispers, eyes wide at the high-tech surroundings. Jenner nods. “What’s left of it,” he replies, his tone flat. As you descend deeper via an elevator, he explains he’s the only person left here; all the other scientists and staff evacuated or… worse. It’s a sobering revelation – this massive complex, meant to combat the plague, reduced to one weary man. Still, he’s offering refuge, and right now that’s everything.
When the elevator opens into the main living area, Jenner flicks on the lights to a cafeteria/mess hall. The sudden illumination reveals something glorious: a stocked dining area and gleaming kitchen. He gestures vaguely. “You all look like you could use a meal… and a shower,” he notes. It’s true – days of grime and blood cover each of you. A few people actually laugh at that, a much-needed bubble of levity. Relief sweeps through you like a wave. Carol touches her matted hair self-consciously; Glenn rubs at his sticky, sweat-stained shirt and grins. “I never thought I’d be so happy to see fluorescent lighting and bad cafeteria food,” he jokes.
Jenner cracks the barest smile at Glenn’s comment, then grows serious. “Fuel is low, so we have to conserve power. Hot water’s a luxury – short showers,” he instructs, wagging a finger. “I’m shutting down non-essential electricity after we get you settled.” None of you are inclined to argue after nearly starving on the road. “Yes, sir, whatever you say,” Dale responds gratefully. Jenner adds, “I have some wine left too. I think we all deserve a drink.” At that, even Shane exhales a small chuckle of surprise.
Soon enough, hot water is running, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you get to wash off the dirt and blood. The survivors cycle through the showers, shedding tattered clothes and days of hardship under streams of blessedly warm water. Soap, shampoo – even the institutional stuff feels like pure heaven. You close your eyes under the spray, letting weeks of stress and gore swirl down the drain. It’s almost possible to imagine you’re a normal person in a normal world again, if only for a few minutes. Others are laughing in disbelief, reacting to the simple joy of cleanliness. Glenn whoops as he sticks his head under a faucet, and even reserved people like T-Dog break into smiles. Modesty is an afterthought; you’re all just human beings rejoicing in being clean and alive in that moment.
After the showers, Jenner provides fresh clothes – plain t-shirts and scrub pants from the facility’s supplies – and everyone gathers in the mess hall. True to his word, Jenner sets out food and several bottles of wine. The dinner that follows feels almost festive, a stark contrast to the despair of a few hours ago. Plates of steaming pasta, canned vegetables, even some canned fruit cocktail for dessert – it’s a feast by your recent standards. You savour each bite, stomach finally full and warm. Around the long table, people start to look like their old selves. Laughter, genuine and healing, bubbles up as the group partakes in the wine a little too eagerly. After so long on edge, the alcohol goes straight to your heads. Glenn ends up hiccupping and giggling over a dumb joke T-Dog makes. Carol blushes as Dale gallantly pours her a second glass. Carl, wrinkling his nose after a sip of diluted wine Rick allowed him, declares it “gross,” causing the adults to burst into laughter. A sense of camaraderie rekindles, the family you’ve chosen finding light in the darkest of times.
Seated between Shane and Daryl, you finally feel the knots in your chest loosening. Shane, having shed his body armour and donned a clean shirt, appears far more relaxed than you’ve seen him in days – cheeks flushed slightly from the wine. He keeps your glass filled and shoots you soft smiles. You find yourself leaning into him occasionally as you both laugh at one of Glenn’s hungover predictions that he’ll “never drink again after tomorrow morning.” Each casual brush of Shane’s arm against yours sends a little jolt through your stomach. More and more, you’re acutely aware of his presence, of the warmth radiating off him in the cool air-conditioned room.
On your other side, Daryl is characteristically quiet but notably more at ease. With the immediate dangers at bay, his hard edges have smoothed a touch. At one point, you catch him casting furtive glances your way. Finally, over the remains of dinner, Daryl murmurs something to you, low enough that only you hear. “Ya look a hell of a lot better clean,” he says, eyes flicking up to meet yours before darting away. It’s almost shy – a Daryl Dixon version of a compliment. You’re so startled (Daryl rarely makes small talk, let alone a kind observation) that it takes you a second to respond. “I… well, I could say the same to you,” you reply softly. A hint of colour touches Daryl’s face, and he huffs a short laugh. Was that a smile? It was, albeit a tiny one at the corner of his mouth. You realise this is the first real conversation you’ve had with Daryl beyond curt survival exchanges. A warm friendship tentatively begins to form in that simple, genuine moment. You ask if he’s had enough to eat, and he nods, mentioning how squirrel isn’t as filling as this canned spaghetti. The remark is so wry and unexpected that you laugh, and Daryl’s eyes crinkle in subtle amusement. Across the table, Rick watches this exchange with quiet intrigue; it hasn’t escaped him that the gruff hunter is actually talking (almost comfortably) with you – something he does with virtually no one else.
As the evening wears on, Rick rises, wine glass in hand, to thank Dr. Jenner for his hospitality. “You don’t know what it’s like out there,” Rick says to Jenner with emotion. “We were… we were at the end of our rope. I’m grateful.” Jenner gives a stiff nod, replying simply that he “did what he could.” There’s a haunted look in Jenner’s eyes that you notice – something he’s holding back. But for now, nobody pries. The mood is too celebratory, too relieved. Rick’s gaze then drifts over the group and lingers on you, Shane, and Daryl specifically. He takes in how Shane has positioned himself protectively close at your side, and how Daryl, of all people, seems drawn into your orbit, engaging you with a quiet remark here or there. Rick’s eyebrows lift just a fraction, a knowing look passing over his face. It’s as if he’s piecing together a puzzle: his best friend and the reserved tracker, both showing unexpected attentiveness toward you. Rick says nothing about it, merely hiding a small smile behind a sip of wine. It’s a dynamic he notes – perhaps with a bit of surprise – but he wisely keeps that observation to himself.
Eventually, Jenner informs everyone that he’s turning off lights in non-essential areas to conserve fuel. He shows the children and families to a couple of private rooms (one for Rick, Lori, and Carl; another for Carol and Sophia). The rest of you are given cots and couches in an open common lounge to bunk down for the night. Bedrolls and pillows are distributed. The weariness of constant travel is catching up, especially with full bellies and wine making many pleasantly drowsy. One by one, people drift off to claim a sleeping spot. Glenn sprawls on a couch and is snoring within minutes, an arm flung over his eyes. Dale tucks Andrea under a blanket on a cot, hovering protectively before finally lying down himself. Andrea lies stiffly, eyes open – you suspect sleep won’t come easily for her tonight, not with the fresh grief of Amy’s death still raw despite the safety here. Shane seems restless too; you notice him pacing the length of the room as others settle, the faint scratches on his neck (did he get those in the woods?) stark against his skin. He’s wound up, as if he can’t quite let his guard down even in this fortress.
Your mind is a whirl. Safe behind secure walls for the first time in forever, your body ought to crave sleep. But after washing off the dirt and fear, and with the wine still warming your veins, you find yourself too wired to rest. You volunteer to collect the empty plates and cups from dinner, anything to occupy your hands. Stacking dishes, you carry them to the small kitchen alcove. The others have dimmed the lights in the common area, and soft snores or coughs punctuate the silence. In the kitchenette, the light is still bright. You run a bit of water to start rinsing dishes, not wanting to leave a mess for your gracious host. It’s here, in the quiet clink of plates, that Shane finds you.
He steps into the doorway, his broad frame outlined by the dim hall light. “Playing housekeeper now?” he teases gently. The corners of your mouth tug upward. “Figured I’d earn my keep,” you reply. “Old habits die hard.” Shane wanders in and takes a towel, joining you in drying without being asked. For a few minutes, the two of you stand shoulder to shoulder at the sink, working in companionable silence. The only sounds are the running water and the distant hum of the facility’s generators. It feels… normal. Comforting. You hand Shane a wet plate; he wipes it dry and sets it aside. With each pass, your hands occasionally brush. Every time it happens, a little spark zings up your arm. You wonder if he feels it too; judging by the way his drying slows each time and he sneaks a glance at you, he does.
“All this,” Shane finally says, gesturing vaguely around the pristine kitchen, “it’s almost like the world’s not gone to hell.” He laughs under his breath, but there’s a hollowness to it. You shut off the faucet, wiping your hands. “It’s a nice illusion,” you agree softly. Plates done, you both lean against the counter, neither quite ready to leave the quiet cocoon of the kitchen. In the gentle light, you study Shane’s face. He looks younger when he’s not scowling in worry – but there’s an unmistakable sadness in his eyes tonight. “What is it?” you ask, keeping your voice low. Shane rubs a hand over his close-cropped hair and exhales. “I’m just thinking… how long can this last? A hot meal, a roof… feeling safe.” He shakes his head. “Part of me is waiting for the other shoe to drop.” His candid admission lays his vulnerability bare. You realize that you’re one of the only people he’d share this with – a fear he’d never confess to Rick or the others, lest he show weakness.
Your heart twists. On impulse, you reach out and touch his forearm lightly. “I know,” you murmur. “Me too. It’s like if we get too comfortable, it’ll all be snatched away.” Shane meets your eyes. “Exactly.” The word is almost a breath. The kitchen’s soft light casts shadows on his strong features. You notice faint stubble now neatly trimmed, the fresh shirt that brings out the hazel of his eyes. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The air feels charged again, humming with that unspoken thing between you. “Still,” you continue gently, “maybe we should take the good moments while we have them. This,” you gesture around at the clean dishes, the full stomach you now have, “this was a good moment. We deserve that much, right?” Shane’s lips curve in a small smile. “Yeah. We do.” His hand moves to rest over yours, where it still lies on his forearm. He doesn’t squeeze or pull away; he just covers your hand, the warmth of his palm seeping into your skin.
Your heart beats a little faster. You’re suddenly acutely aware of how alone you are with him – the others out of earshot, presumably asleep or close to it. The distant mechanical thrum of the CDC is the only backdrop to the silence between you. Shane’s thumb absently strokes the back of your hand, a tender gesture that sends your pulse racing. You search his eyes and find them already fixed on you, filled with a softness and uncertainty you haven’t seen before. “I meant to say,” Shane begins quietly, “back at the road… with Jim…” He pauses, brow furrowing as he gathers his thoughts. “I’m glad you were there… with me. I don’t think I could’ve handled all that alone.” The admission seems to cost him; Shane, the strong one, admitting he needed someone. Your throat feels thick. “You don’t have to handle things alone,” you whisper. “Not while I’m around.” Your attempt at lightness comes out more earnest than you intended. But it’s true – you want to be there for him.
His eyes flicker over your face, searching. When he speaks again, his voice has dipped into a lower, husky register. “I appreciate that. More than you know.” A charged pause. “You… you mean a lot to this group.” There’s a faint quiver in his tone, as if that wasn’t what he initially meant to say. Maybe he lost the nerve to say something more personal. Still, the intensity in his gaze betrays deeper feelings. The air between you feels thick with possibilities. You could cut the tension with a knife – or perhaps with a bold move. The two of you are standing so close now that you can see the flutter of his pulse at his neck. You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly the space between you shrinks. Shane’s free hand rises hesitantly toward your face. His fingertips ghost along a strand of your hair, tucking it behind your ear. It’s such a gentle, unexpected gesture that you freeze, breath catching. Shane’s eyes drop to your lips, just for a second, and your heart nearly jumps out of your chest.
Is this really happening? The pragmatic part of your brain shrieks that this is dangerous – attachments complicate survival. But that voice is drowned out by the blood rushing in your ears as Shane inches closer. You can feel the warmth of his breath. Time seems to slow. Your hand, still beneath his on his arm, travels up to rest against his chest. His heart is thudding as wildly as yours. The realisation sends a thrill through you. Slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, Shane leans in. Your eyes flutter closed as you tilt your face up toward him. The moment his lips just barely graze yours, a spark ignites in your veins –
“Ahem.” A sudden throat-clearing shatters the moment like glass. You and Shane jolt apart, hearts hammering in tandem. Your eyes fly open to see Daryl standing in the kitchen doorway, one hand awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. He looks between you and Shane, clearly realising he’s interrupted something intimate. Daryl’s cheeks tint a shade redder (whether from the residual wine or embarrassment, it’s hard to tell in the fluorescent light). He averts his gaze, focusing intently on a point on the floor. “Sorry,” Daryl mumbles, voice gruff. “Just… gettin’ some water.” Indeed, he holds an empty canteen loosely in one hand. It appears he couldn’t sleep either and wandered here for a drink, only to stumble onto… this.
Shane takes a step back, clearing his throat and trying to mask frustration. He runs a hand down his face, the earlier tenderness now cloaked under a guarded expression. “It’s fine,” he says shortly, though his voice has a slight edge. You swallow, heat flooding your face. “We were just—” you start, then clamp your mouth shut, because honestly what were you just doing? Almost kissing? Pouring your hearts out? Your mind reels. Daryl gives a quick, dismissive nod, keen to defuse the tension. “Ain’t my business,” he mutters. He moves to the sink, keeping a respectful distance, and starts filling his canteen from the tap. An uncomfortable silence hangs in the air. You step further from Shane, instinctively crossing your arms as if to hide the vulnerable position Daryl caught you in.
Shane’s jaw is clenched; he looks like he’s biting back the urge to say something biting. Perhaps to Daryl for the interruption, or to you, you’re not sure. Ultimately, he just exhales sharply. “We should all try to get some sleep,” Shane says, the soft warmth from a minute ago now replaced by his familiar authoritative tone. He avoids looking directly at you, likely to keep Daryl from reading anything on his face. You feel a pang of regret as the moment slips away. “Yeah,” you whisper, not trusting your voice beyond that. With a curt nod to both of you, Shane turns on his heel and exits the kitchen, his footsteps echoing down the hall back toward the sleeping quarters.
In the aftermath, you’re left fiddling nervously with the dish towel, heart still pounding. Daryl finishes filling his canteen and caps it. He hasn’t said another word, but he doesn’t leave either. He lingers there, glancing up at you under the brim of his hair. There’s an awkwardness, yes, but also a flicker of concern in Daryl’s blue eyes as they meet yours. You wonder if he’ll tease you or scold you – you can’t read him. But this is Daryl, and gentle tact is more his style in personal matters. He simply nods toward the hallway. “You alright?” he asks quietly. The question carries weight. Are you alright? With nearly being kissed? With the complicated feelings that stirred up? You give a small, forced laugh and manage a half-smile. “Yeah. Fine. Just… a lot on my mind.” Daryl studies you for a moment, then grunts softly. “Ain’t no surprise there.” He pauses, then adds, “Try’n get some rest. Big day and all… what with not runnin’ for our lives for once.” It’s the closest thing to a joke you’ve heard from him, and you appreciate the attempt. You nod. “You should get some sleep too.” Daryl shrugs one shoulder, looking off toward the dark corridor. “I will. Jus’ gonna keep an ear open for a bit. Can’t turn it off.” By “it,” you know he means his instinct to stand watch. Even in a secure building, Daryl is compelled to be on guard, if only out of habit.
He turns to go, but not before giving you one more of those lingering looks. Daryl’s gaze, steady and unreadable, passes over you as though reassuring himself you’re truly okay. It lasts only a second, but you feel it – a quiet protectiveness in the way he nods goodnight. When he slips out, silence falls again. You press trembling fingers to your lips, your mind replaying that almost-kiss with Shane on a loop. So close… and yet. With a sigh, you finish tidying up and head back to the lounge to sleep. Shane is already stretched out on a cot, turned away from the room. You’re not sure if he’s awake. As you settle onto your own cot, your emotions churn. The sparks with Shane, the deepening camaraderie with Daryl – even in this safe haven, your heart seems to be finding new ways to complicate your life. You catch Rick watching from across the room; he must be checking in. He doesn’t say a word, but in the low light you see a hint of knowing concern on his face. You give him a faint, reassuring smile. Rick simply nods once, as if to say we’ll talk later, then leaves. Hugging the thin pillow, you will yourself to rest. Your last thought before sleep claims you is a mix of gratitude and dread: gratitude for a peaceful night under a secure roof, and dread at how long this sanctuary can possibly last.
Morning comes sooner than anyone would like. You awaken to the sound of someone retching in a nearby restroom – apparently Glenn’s prediction about a hangover was spot on, and it sounds like Andrea is similarly sick after drowning her sorrows last night. You rub your bleary eyes. For a precious second, waking up in an actual bed (well, cot) with sheets and knowing you’re safe, you had forgotten the nightmare outside. The illusion shatters as soon as you sit up and see the drawn, solemn faces around you. Reality rushes back: you’re still in the apocalypse, even if you got one night of reprieve.
You gather with the others in the main control room at Jenner’s request; he mentioned he had something important to show and discuss. The mood over breakfast is subdued, a few dry remarks about headaches and Glenn groaning that he’ll never drink again as he pokes at a bowl of oatmeal. Shane is quiet, throwing back black coffee like it’s water. He meets your eyes briefly across the table, offering a tight, unreadable smile – clearly still thinking about last night’s almost-kiss, though with everyone around, neither of you addresses it. Daryl stands off to the side with arms crossed, head down but eyes observant. Andrea sits rigidly with Dale hovering near; she hasn’t spoken all morning, face puffy from crying. The reason becomes clear as Jenner begins to speak.
At a large monitor, Dr. Jenner plays back recorded footage of what he calls “Test Subject 19.” Onscreen, a high-resolution brain scan flickers to life. Jenner narrates in a weary monotone: TS-19 was the last subject Jenner had from the early outbreak – his own wife, as he later reveals in a hushed confession. On the video, you watch with a mix of horror and fascination as the infection’s process is visualized. “The lights you see here, that’s the brain,” Jenner explains as glowing points on the scan begin to dim one by one. “This is death.” The room is deathly silent as everyone watches the representation of a person’s life wink out. Your stomach knots; it’s like watching Jim’s fate, Amy’s fate, all over again in cold scientific terms. The scan flatlines, all lights gone. Jenner fast-forwards slightly – then points as a faint light ignites in the brain’s centre. “Here, the second event. The resurrection.” Lori leans forward. “It restarts… the brain?” she asks, voice trembling with both hope and revulsion. Jenner shakes his head. “Not all of it. Just the brain stem.” He taps the screen where only the brain stem shows activity. “The ‘you’ – the person – is gone. All that remains are motor functions. Essentially, it reanimates a body with no soul,” he says gravely. A chill creeps over you. The enormity of it hits like a truck: there truly is no cure, no coming back from becoming one of them. Andrea’s face crumples; she whispers Amy’s name and turns away. For her, and for all of you who have lost loved ones, this confirmation is like losing them all over again. You feel tears in your eyes, remembering how hopeful some of you had been for answers here. The ugly truth is laid bare: the CDC has no solution, only a stark explanation that the person you were dies, and only a mindless shell continues.
Jenner, almost apologetically, ends the playback as it shows a bright flash – the point at which TS-19 (his wife) was permanently killed by a bullet to prevent reanimation. He admits quietly that he doesn’t even know what the plague is – could be viral, microbial, hell, maybe “the wrath of God,” as some have suggested. The world went down too fast. He’s lost contact with every other facility; the last he heard was the French holding out until they ran out of power. “There is no cure,” Jenner reiterates hollowly. The weight of his words presses down on your chest like a vise. Around you, despair settles on every face. It’s worse than if Jenner had been gone and the building empty; hearing the scientist confirm humanity’s defeat makes hope feel truly dead.
Dale, ever observant, notices something else: on the far wall, a digital clock is steadily counting down, now well under an hour. “What happens at zero?” Dale asks, dread in his voice. Jenner’s gaze flicks to the clock and then away. He mumbles something about how that’s “when the fuel runs out.” Rick steps forward, tense. “Then what?” he urges. Jenner hesitates, then answers with a single ominous word: “Decontamination.” Your blood runs cold. The group exchanges alarmed looks. “Define decontamination,” Shane demands, stepping closer to Jenner. The doctor sighs and finally spells it out: the CDC lab is filled with extremely dangerous pathogens – weaponised smallpox, Ebola, stuff that could wipe out half the country if let loose. If the power dies, the building’s safety protocol will trigger self-destruct measures to incinerate everything inside. The clock is a countdown to high-impulse thermobaric explosives – fuel-air bombs – igniting and blowing the entire CDC sky high, destroying all traces of the diseases (and anyone present) to prevent outbreak. Jenner delivers this information with disturbing calm, as if it were a mundane weather report.
There’s a beat of stunned silence as his words sink in. Then pandemonium. “You knew this and you let us stay?!” Lori screams, grabbing Carl and pulling him close. Carol gasps, covering Sophia’s ears as if it could protect the girl from this horror. Shane’s face contorts in fury; he marches up to Jenner and jabs a finger into the man’s chest. “You son of a—! You locked us in here?!” Indeed, Jenner had sealed the outer doors last night, a fact he casually confirms. “Once that front door closed, it wasn’t going to open again,” he says emotionlessly. The realisation hits: Jenner never intended for any of you to leave alive. To him, a quick, painless death in a fireball is a mercy compared to the fate outside.
Shane loses it. He grabs Jenner by the collar, yelling in his face. T-Dog and Rick pull at Shane, trying to separate them. In a flash, Daryl comes up with his axe (you hadn’t even noticed him snatch it up in the chaos) and he slams the blade against one of the thick plexiglass windows that separates the control room from the hallway. Crash! He hacks with all his might, snarl of determination on his lips. Beside him, Shane, having thrown Jenner roughly to the ground, turns his shotgun on the same glass. BOOM! The gunshot reverberates painfully in the enclosed space as he fires at the window. But the reinforced pane barely spiderwebs with cracks. You flinch at the deafening noise, ears ringing, and grab Carl to pull him back from the men’s frenzy. Panic has seized everyone – yelling, crying, desperate moves. Glenn repeatedly slams the butt of his rifle against the door seam to no effect. Jacqui sinks into a chair, stunned into silence. Andrea stands stock-still, almost eerily calm now, as if resigned. The whole room feels like a cage of terrified animals, scrambling uselessly for an escape.
“It’s bulletproof glass!” Jenner shouts over the chaos, still slumped on the floor where Shane left him. “You can’t get through. I’m sorry.” His apology ignites Shane’s rage anew. Shane whirls, chambering another round. He points the barrel directly at Jenner’s head where the man sits. “You’re sorry?!” Shane’s voice cracks. “Open that door now, or so help me God—” Rick intervenes, stepping in front of Jenner with hands up. “Shane, enough!” he says sharply. Shane’s eyes are wild, chest heaving, finger tight on the trigger. For a heart-stopping second, you think Shane might actually shoot Dr. Jenner in his fury. Carefully, Rick places a hand on Shane’s rifle and gently pushes the barrel aside. “This isn’t the way,” Rick says, more calmly than he likely feels. Shane’s nostrils flare, but he allows Rick to lower his weapon. With a ragged breath, Shane backs off, leaving Jenner trembling but unharmed.
Rick crouches to Jenner’s level, speaking with the deadly calm of a man with nothing left to lose. “You don’t get to decide how we die,” Rick says quietly to Jenner. “Maybe you’ve given up, but we haven’t. We’re still breathing. We deserve a chance – no matter how slim – to keep trying.” Lori steps forward, voice pleading now instead of angry. “Our kids deserve that chance,” she says, hugging Carl and motioning to Sophia in Carol’s lap. Jenner’s resolve falters as he looks at the terrified children. He glances at a framed photograph on his desk – his wife, you realise. Jaw tightening, Jenner stands and approaches the computer. With a few keystrokes and a swipe of his keycard, he disengages the door locks for the control room. “I’ll open the main doors upstairs,” he announces, voice flat. “You won’t have much time once they’re open.” The digital clock on the wall ticks down past 5 minutes.
The control room door clicks and swings open. There’s a collective gasp of relief, but it’s short-lived. Five minutes until detonation – and they still have to break through the lobby doors above. Everyone rushes out into the hallway, propelling toward the exit route Jenner indicated. Rick lingers just long enough to grab Jenner’s arm. “Come with us,” Rick urges. Jenner only shakes his head. “No. My work is done. I’m staying.” Before Rick can protest, Jenner pulls him into a brief hug and whispers something in Rick’s ear – too low for you to catch. Rick’s eyes widen in surprise at whatever secret was shared. Then Jenner gently pushes him away. “Go,” the scientist says firmly. Rick hesitates, sorrow and respect passing over his face. He gives Jenner a final nod, then spins and sprints to catch up with the group.
Up in the ground-floor lobby, another obstacle greets you: the exterior shutters are still down. The main glass doors are locked tight as well, red lights blinking. Carol desperately pulls on them to no avail. “It’s still locked!” she cries. Behind you, a computerised voice drones a countdown: “Five minutes to detonation…” Everyone spreads out, searching for any way out. Shane doesn’t hesitate – he raises his rifle and fires repeatedly at the thick glass. Bullet holes pit the window but do not penetrate. Daryl joins, using the butt of his axe as a battering ram. The glass groans but holds. Carol suddenly freezes, a thought striking her. “Wait! I have something.” She fumbles in her canvas bag and astonishingly pulls out a hand grenade. Your eyes widen in shock. Carol turns apologetic eyes to Rick. “I found it in your pocket the other day when I was doing laundry,” she explains hurriedly – it’s the very grenade Rick had found in the tank back in Atlanta.
Rick doesn’t waste a second. “Everyone, get back!” he orders. You all scramble behind pillars and upturn a heavy table for cover. Rick pulls the grenade’s pin and plants it at the base of the door. “Fire in the hole!” he shouts, diving behind a desk. The explosion is earsplitting in the confined space. The pressure makes your ears ring. Shattered glass sprays everywhere as the lobby windows blow outward. A rush of fresh air pours in, along with blinding morning sunlight. The exit is open.
“Go, go, go!” Daryl hollers. There’s no time to even cheer – the countdown voice droning “four minutes…” motivates you more than enough. Holding hands and ushering those with shorter legs, the group sprints outside into the parking lot. Immediately, the sight of walkers shuffling nearby greets you – drawn by the alarms and noise, a few dozen are wandering dangerously close. Gunshots ring out as Daryl and Shane instinctively move to the front, taking down the nearest walkers in your path. Daryl plants a crossbow bolt through a walker in a lab coat (likely once a CDC staff member) that lunges from behind a vehicle, clearing your way. Shane unloads a round into another walker's chest, then his head, clearing a second path. “Keep moving!” he barks, glancing back to make sure you’re following. You stick close behind Shane, one hand gripping the back of his shirt so you don’t lose him amid parked cars.
As your group races for your respective rides, you risk a glance over your shoulder. In the distance, near the CDC entrance, Dale is still inside the building, standing with Andrea. Your heart lurches – they haven’t come out yet. Dale had refused to leave Andrea’s side when she initially gave up. You can see them now emerging through the smashed window, Andrea practically dragging Dale, who looks relieved and emotionally drained. They must have resolved it at the last second – Andrea choosing to live after all, likely thanks to Dale’s pressure. “There they are!” Lori shouts from the RV’s passenger seat, tears of relief in her eyes. Andrea and Dale sprint across the pavement, heading for the RV as Glenn frantically waves them over.
The clock is nearly at zero. “Come on!” you scream, though they can’t hear you from where you’re already climbing into Shane’s truck. Daryl has just hopped into the back of the truck bed, slamming his fist on the roof. “Drive!” he yells. But Shane is waiting, eyes glued on Andrea and Dale until they dive behind an abandoned military Humvee for cover just a stone’s throw from the RV. Only then does Shane throw the truck into gear. You barely have the passenger door shut when a monstrous boom and bright flash of light erupts behind you. The ground shakes violently as the air itself ignites. The CDC building explodes, blossoming into a massive fireball that reaches into the sky. The blast wave hits the convoy like a physical force.
Shane’s truck is rocked by the shock; he slams the brakes as a searing hot wind whooshes over you both. You throw your arms up in reflex. Before you can blink, Shane is halfway over the console, pushing you down in the seat. “Get down!” he roars, wrapping an arm around your head and shoulders to shield you. You duck, and Shane’s body covers yours as the truck’s windows buffet from the force. Outside, debris rains – chunks of flaming material, ash, and dust. The roar is deafening. The heat is intense even inside the cab. Through the ringing in your ears, you hear a thud as something lands in the truck bed near Daryl. You peek up to see Daryl hunkered low in the bed, arms over his head as he’s peppered with bits of concrete and embers. Instinctively, you reach back and push open the little rear cab window. “Daryl! You okay?!” you shout. He coughs and waves a hand, looking dazed but uninjured. “I’m fine!” he hollers back, though his eyes are wide with shock as he stares at the inferno that was the CDC.
A second later, the pressure wave passes and the world returns in a rush of sound and motion. Shane releases you, his hand lingering on your shoulder a moment. “You alright?” he asks urgently, eyes scanning you for injury. You nod, voice shaky. “I’m okay.” He had taken the brunt of any debris on his back – a few smudges of soot mark his shirt. Without thinking, you reach and brush a piece of charred ash from his hair. Shane’s eyes lock onto yours; in them is a mixture of relief and fierce protectiveness that sends warmth flooding through you despite the chaos. He gives your shoulder a final squeeze, then shifts back into the driver’s seat, mission not over yet.
Through the dusty haze, you see figures emerging from behind the concrete road barriers – Andrea and Dale, miraculously alive, scramble toward the RV. Glenn yanks the RV door open for them and they tumble in, soot-covered and shaken but safe. One by one, the others signal they’re intact. Carol has Sophia clutched to her in their car, both crying tears of fright and relief. T-Dog’s vehicle is pelted with debris, but he waves from cracked windows that he’s fine. Rick, Lori, and Carl are already in the car with Carol and Sophia; Rick leans out the window, making eye contact with Shane and you in the truck. Soot streaks Rick’s face, and his expression is a blend of sorrow and gratitude that everyone made it out alive. Jacqui’s loss hits you then – she chose to die in the blast with Jenner. A pang goes through you, but you have scant time to process it now.
Rick gives a curt nod – time to move. Shane nods back. He slams the truck into drive, and the convoy starts rolling out, fleeing the billowing mushroom cloud of smoke rising where the CDC once stood. You stick your head out the window for one last glance. Flames lick hungrily at the remains of the structure. The heat distorts the air, making the city skyline waver in a hellish mirage. Black smoke coils upward, a dark promise that no safe haven remains. Your heart aches with the loss of what little hope the CDC had embodied. But you also feel a swell of grim resolve – you’re still alive, all of you, and that has to count for something.
As the caravan speeds away, you notice movement in the truck’s side mirror. A few surviving walkers, now behind you, stumble aimlessly through the wreckage, soon disappearing from view. The living have escaped; the dead are left to wander amid the ashes. You lean back in your seat and exhale a long, unsteady breath. It’s over. In a span of minutes, you gained sanctuary and lost it, like sand slipping through your fingers.
Shane drives on, eyes on the road, but one hand reaching over to find yours. Silently, you interlace your fingers with his, both of you staring ahead at the unknown road. In the rear bed, Daryl pounds twice on the cab roof – the signal that everyone’s accounted for and they’re following close. You twist around to see Daryl through the back window. He catches your eye and offers the slightest nod, his expression unreadable, but his gaze lingering on you a moment before he turns to watch behind for threats. Despite everything, a tiny flicker of something like hope lights inside you. You made it out. And not alone – you have people who care, who will fight for you, as you will for them. Shane’s strong hand in yours, Daryl’s vigilant presence guarding your back, Rick and the others forging ahead – this ragtag family will carry on.
The highway unfolds ahead, leading you all away from the ruins of Atlanta and into uncertainty. The morning sun breaks through the lingering smoke, shining on the convoy as it leaves the city limits. You don’t know what comes next – perhaps Fort Benning as originally debated, or some new plan Rick cooks up on the fly. But as you gently squeeze Shane’s hand and glance back to exchange a faint, understanding smile with Daryl, you feel a cautious optimism.
“I was wondering if i could ask for a Shane being protective if they run into bullies from the farmers past?” - Submitted by tabbithetressym
Hey, thanks for the request <3 Always love a protective Shane and this was nice to write. Hope I did your idea justice!
(Notable tags: Fluff, minor violence, minor injuries)
(As usual this is also posted on AO3)
The farmer was walking back with Shane from town, a little book in their hands. Clutching it tight and talking to Shane who Marnie had sent to help set up their coops. They were new to this and wanted to do their best, fiddling with the book a little as they walked. Fingers gently rubbing over the cover, trying to push the unease from their mind.
The chickens were being delivered in a few days and they was grateful to have any help at all. Learning to grow things had been hard enough, especially with such little guidance left over from their grandfather. Failed crops racked up more than the farmer would care to admit, especially the few times they had planted seeds too late into the season. It was rookie mistakes they knew they was destined to make. It still didn’t take the sting off when pulling up parsnips doomed to fail when the realisation hit.
Coming back to the chickens, they couldn’t risk such fatal flaws. Throwing away unfinished cauliflowers hurt, they didn’t want to let down lives that were on their hands.
Shane thankfully seemed to clock their panic as they walked down the path, the bus stop not to far away in the distance. Talking about chickens seemed to make him come out of his shell and they couldn’t help but smile at him as he talked their ears off about the well being of the latest edition to their farm.
“Trust me, you’ll need more space for them than you think. The little things love their time outdoors, the eggs always taste better too”. Shane keeps going, throwing in tidbits as they walk together.
The bus then pulls up and a few tourists seem to stumble out of it. Smiling at Shane, engrossed in what he is saying till they notice a familiar sight of hair and freeze in their tracks. The book actually falling to the ground and Shane looks at the farmer confused.
“Hey, what’s up-“.
Before they could come up with an answer, the farmer seemed to be intercepted. Footsteps followed by a taunting laugh.
“Oh look, we wondered where you were dragged off too-“ They sneered, with far more confidence than Shane would have liked.
“I guess you came to this poxy place to hide, hmm? Too embarrassed to be seen by civilisation. No shockers there-“. This time it was the guy and Shane looked just as perplexed. Without really thinking, he places himself slightly in front of the farmer. The farmer doesn’t speak though, doesn’t seem to defend themselves like he would expect. He turns back and see’s them almost retreat to their own world, eyes almost glazed over.
“Oh, don’t like hearing the truth hmm, always the same-“.
They snigger and Shane see’s red. A flash of anger ripples inside him and he suddenly remembers why he dislikes people.
“Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?”
The strangers seem to pause and he can tell he caught them off guard.
Clearly used to picking on a weaker target and not used to getting a piece of their own medicine.
How typical.
“Obviously them-“. One of them replies with another laugh as they attempt to recover.
“Trust us, you would agree if you saw them in high school”. Another chuckle from the group and he saw red again. He didn’t see himself as an aggressive man but it took an awful lot to not punch one of them in the face. He took a slight step forward, his fist showing white knuckle, clenched at his side.
Then the farmer touched his arm and he took a breath.
He knew it was not what they wanted, but he wasn’t about to let this go. He loosened his fist and took another breath.
“I have a feeling I wouldn’t-“ Shane decides to retort instead. “It doesn’t matter anyway, says more about you holding onto teen grudges as an adult. Screams peaked in high school-“
A scowl in return.
“Aww look, he’s defending them. How cute-“.
“You know I think I’ve been too kind with you here. Why don’t you fuck off and bother someone else”.
This seems to amuse them more and they laugh in his face again. The farmer seems to stand back, face flush with embarrassment but doesn’t utter a single word. This only pushes his anger further and he would have lost it sooner had the farmer not touched his arm. Still that wasn’t enough.
“I warned you-“.
No one has time to react, fist hitting face and the wretched sound of a crunch. Blood, a crack and everyone is dumbfounded. The reaction gets shouts and anger, but the farmer quickly tows him away without truly waiting to see the result. He feels anger, guilt with a twinge of shame. He knew deep down this wasn’t what the farmer had wanted, especially his knuckle all bloody with the evidence. The sound of gravel beneath feet meant no one was following them, yet he could still hear them in the distance a lot longer than he would have liked.
It was an odd experience, the farmers care. They tended to him so gently, wiped off the blood and gave him something to soothe the ache that stormed in after the initial adrenaline.
He couldn’t speak, felt like he fucked up. The farmer deserved better after all and it was clear they wanted to prevent such things.
He needed to apologise.
“Thank you-“, the farmer tells him, sitting on the steps of the farm with him.
“What?” The words stumble out and his mouth seems to hang open. Nothing but confusion and he didn’t get it.
“Oh um, thank you. For that-“.
He still looked confused, using his uninjured hand to rub the back of his neck.
“Are you sure?” He couldn’t fathom it, he didn’t understand any of it.
“Well, yeah. You stood up for me-“.
They smile at him and this catches him off guard. He didn’t expect them to be so understanding. Then the feeling struck, how cruel the others must have been to the Farmer if seeing them years later brought nothing but vitriol. He understood, knew the feeling of being treated so lowly, so cruelly.
“Don’t thank me”, he finally tells them, a gentle smile now on his features. “No one should ever talk to you like that. Ever”.
He reaches out, a gentle touch to their shoulder. “I promise, no one will ever talk to you like that again.”
The farmers blushes a little and Shane’s breath hitches
“Knight in shining armour, huh?” The farmer teases and Shane can’t help but laugh.
“More like Chicken man in a ripped Joja jacket”, he tells them with a laugh.
“That is much better”, the farmer quickly agrees, giving him a gentle nudge to the arm.
Can you help me find a fic, please? Ryan works in a coffee shop and Shane often comes there to take his coffee. Ryan got yelled at by a customer (probably by something he didn't do) and Shane stands out to defend him. I remember the line 'Ryan looks like he was close to crying'. Thank you for all of your help in the fandom!
the customer is never right by rycnbergara
Summary: Shane is tired. Ryan is a barista. Shane snaps at a rude customer.
Rated: G
Word Count: 549
Commentary: I’m happy someone remembers this little cute fic, it was a pleasure to re-read it when I searched for it and man, it’s still one of the best things in the world. A total feel better and certainly a great Shane to read. Lovely fic!
