"Stop!"
Guillermo slammed on the brakes at Rick's command, glancing around nervously, thinking he had stumbled into some unseen danger.
"To the right—look, there are survivors up there." Rick pointed toward a small building ahead, signaling Guillermo to drive in that direction. Guillermo let out a secret sigh of relief, having thought it was some kind of ambush. Soon, the car slowed down. Rick took the lead, rifle in hand, and stepped out, scanning the second floor of the building carefully.
Morgan also got out silently, standing beside Rick as he asked, "Are you sure there are survivors here?"
Rick pointed at a second-floor window and said firmly, "They're upstairs. I saw a little girl in a white dress."
Morgan squinted at the building: a three-story structure made of red brick, with white wooden window frames. A large tree grew right by the front entrance, blocking part of the façade. Its trunk leaned almost against the doorway of the small building. As the three men approached the pale yellow-white door, they realized it was only shut, not locked. They pushed it open and slipped inside.
When Rick mentioned the little girl, Guillermo shivered for no reason. The scene felt oddly familiar—the girl in the window! Wasn't this a classic shot from ghost movies?
But the thought quickly passed through his restless mind. He drew the gun at his waist and followed closely behind the two braver men in front.
At that moment, the sun was still hidden behind clouds. The dim light streaming through the windows made the room look even darker. Rick had first assumed the three floors belonged to one family, but upon entering he realized the building was divided between two households.
"Watch the doors!"
"Got it!"
Rick led the way up the stairs to the second floor, gripping his Colt Python. Once there, he was certain—someone had to be here.
Signs of human activity were everywhere. Trash was piled in the hallway, fresh enough to suggest someone had just dumped it out of a room. Rick crouched to check, confirming it hadn't been there long.
He couldn't be sure of the situation inside, but since there were children, he figured a family must be living here. That meant the risk was relatively low.
Boom, boom, boom!
Rick finally chose the simplest, most direct method—knocking on the door.
Both Morgan and Guillermo tightened their grip on their weapons, listening intently. Soon, a faint female voice responded from inside, tinged with both anxiety and curiosity:
"Who are you?"
Rick knew she must have seen him through the door. He stepped back slightly, tapped the sheriff's badge on his chest, and said:
"Look! My name is Rick Grimes! Yes, the Sheriff of King County in Atlanta. I just came up the stairs and saw a little girl, so I thought there might be survivors here. I came to check and see if you needed help!"
The woman inside was silent for a moment before the door slowly creaked open. A thin, middle-aged woman appeared, her eyes wary as she glanced at Rick's gun, but she pressed on with her question:
"King County? Why would the police be here?"
Rick noticed her gaze, holstered his weapon, and shook his head helplessly.
"Ma'am, the entire system of law and order has collapsed. I'm no longer officially a cop. Right now, all of us—including you—are just survivors."
Just as Rick finished, a young woman with long hair rushed to the woman's side. She was strikingly beautiful, her straight dark hair flowing loosely over her shoulders. In her hands, she clutched a pistol—aimed directly at Rick. Her sharp eyes locked on him.
"Don't move!"
Rick froze. He gave Morgan and Guillermo a subtle shake of his head, signaling them not to act rashly. Then he raised his hands slowly and said:
"I told you—I'm a cop!"
The young woman stared at him and snapped: "You can lie to my sister, but you can't lie to me. I'm telling you—I'm an officer with the Atlanta Police Department!"
Rick chuckled lightly, shaking his head. "No, you're not."
"What?"
"I said, you're not a cop."
"I am a cop! I can tell at a glance whether someone's the real thing or not!" Her face hardened. She hadn't expected him to see through her so quickly, but she stubbornly insisted: "I've only been on the job a short time, but I scored top marks in every police academy exam. Look!"
Rick slowly extended one hand, pressing the air gently to calm her.
"Listen, I don't mean you any harm. Otherwise, there'd already be two dead bodies on this floor."
The disbelief on her face was evident. Rick murmured, "Guillermo, Morgan, let's go."
The young woman's eyes flicked to the figures flanking the doorway—two men in military uniforms, armed to the teeth.
If they had meant to attack, they would've done so long ago. But she still wasn't reassured. Instead of inviting them in, she eyed the uniforms and asked suspiciously:
"Are you military?"
Rick shook his head. "We're survivors too. We just found some weapons and gear. The uniforms make it easier to go outside, so we wear them."
The girl's eyes narrowed. She hesitated, then glanced at the woman beside her before saying in a threatening tone:
"I've got enough guns and ammo in this house to hold out for twenty years and kill you all ten times over. So be straight with me—understand?"
"Of course. We're only here to help." Rick's voice was steady, his tone deliberate, the cadence almost hypnotic. It made the girl want—against her will—to believe him.
Finally, she lowered her weapon, stepped back into the room, and gestured toward the sofa.
"Sit down. Let's talk."
Rick glanced back at Morgan and Guillermo. Both looked uneasy, but Rick gave a subtle shake of his head, leading them into the room.
The house wasn't large, but it was warm and homely. The late afternoon sun was weak, so a candle burned in the living room. An elderly man sat on the sofa with a book in hand.
There were two others present, and Rick caught a glimpse of what they were reading as they entered.
The old man seemed to have been telling a story to a young girl. When Rick and the others came in, he looked up and greeted them with a kind smile.
Rick nodded in return, then sat down on the sofa with Morgan and Guillermo. The young woman who had held the gun still looked hesitant, but said nonetheless:
"Can you put your weapons on the table?"