Duane lay on the cold concrete. Rat's boots had left bruises that would turn purple-black by morning, if he lived that long.
The gun in Carl's trembling hands looked enormous.
He was going to die. Adults always said everything would be okay, but that was a lie. The dead walked the earth. People turned on each other. And now his friend was being forced to put a bullet in his head.
A memory pierced through the fear.
He was back at Harrison Memorial Hospital. Lucien stood in the corner of the recovery ward, practicing again and again with that strange steel spike. His expression had been calm. It was as if Lucien existed somewhere else entirely, concentrating on something far more important than the world around him.
He had asked why Lucien never seemed afraid when killing walkers. Why he kept practicing simple things like bandaging wounds and stitching cuts when he already knew so much.
Lucien had not given a real answer.
"Surviving is not easy for kids like us, Duane. Walkers are not the only threat out there. Sometimes living people are worse. Right now, we have adults protecting us. But they will not always be around. In the end, the only person you can truly depend on is yourself."
Duane had not understood those words at the time.
Now he did.
He lay on the ground with Rat's spit drying on his face while Carl cried nearby. In that moment, everything became clear.
It was his turn.
His hand remained inside his pocket. The cord was wrapped tightly around his fingers, and the solid weight of the steel spike rested against his palm.
Lucien had given it to him before they left the CDC. He had shown him how to grip it, how to let it swing naturally, and where to aim if he ever found himself with no other choice.
"Alright, quit stalling!" The scar-faced man's voice snapped Duane out of his thoughts. "You gonna shoot him or not, you little piece of shit?"
"You..." Duane's voice came out as a muffled sound.
"Huh?" Rat crouched down, grabbing Duane's collar with one hand. "You still running your mouth? You got something to say, you little—"
Every ounce of strength Duane had left went into his arm as he ripped the spike from his pocket and drove it forward.
The spike tore through the soft meat of Rat's throat just below his Adam's apple.
Blood sprayed.
Rat's eyes went wide. His hands flew to his neck, trying to pull the spike free, but his fingers were slippery with blood and he could not get a grip.
"Ghk... ghk..."
He staggered backward, swaying as he tried to steady himself. Then his legs gave out beneath him, and he collapsed onto the concrete.
No one moved.
Duane looked down at his hand. It was red and trembling, still wrapped tightly around the cord connected to the spike lodged in Rat's throat.
He had killed someone.
The thought should have made him sick. But all he felt was a strange, hollow numbness.
"Rat!" One of the other cult kids finally found his voice. He rushed forward, dropping to his knees beside the body. "Rat! Rat, get up!"
But Rat was not getting up. His eyes were already glazing over, fixed on nothing. Blood pooled under his head, spreading across the concrete in a dark puddle that reflected the overhead lights.
The kid touched Rat's neck, fingers coming away red. He jerked back like he had been burned.
"He is... he is dead! Rat is dead!"
The scar-faced man stood frozen. He looked at the body on the ground. Then at Duane, covered in blood and gasping like he could not get enough air.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then his face twitched.
"Well," he said slowly, "that was unexpected."
He raised one hand, stopping the guards who were starting to move forward. "No need to get worked up over this."
He holstered his pistol and walked toward Duane.
"You know what?" He crouched down. "You got more spine than I gave you credit for. Maybe you are worth keeping around after all."
Then his expression shifted. The smile vanished like someone had flipped a switch.
"Too bad. I fucking hate having more than one of you people around."
His boot slammed into Duane's chest. He flew backward, hit the chain-link fence, and crumpled. Pain exploded through his ribs and for a moment his vision went white.
"So you can die too!"
"NO!"
Jenny threw herself against the fence, hands clawing through the links, shaking the whole structure.
"Kill me! Kill me instead! He does not know anything! Please, I am begging you!"
The scar-faced man drew his pistol again and raised it toward Duane's head.
Duane tried to move, but his body refused to respond. His chest burned, and sharp pain stabbed through his ribs whenever he inhaled. He stared at the dark circle of the barrel and waited for the end.
"Wait."
An old woman stepped forward. She reached out with one hand and pressed down on the scar-faced man's arm, lowering the gun.
Jenny's screaming stopped. Her eyes locked onto the old woman, tears still streaming down her face. She held her breath.
The old woman reached into her apron pocket with her other hand and pulled out a kitchen knife. The blade was rusty, stained with old discolorations.
"For blasphemers this is more appropriate."
The last flicker of hope in Jenny's eyes died.
She stopped screaming. Her hands fell away from the fence. Something changed in her face.
The scar-faced man took the knife with a chuckle. He tested the edge against his thumb, nodded in approval, and turned back to Duane.
"Let me show you how we deal with devil worshippers," he said, grabbing a handful of Duane's hair and yanking his head back to expose his throat.
The rusty blade touched Duane's skin. He could feel how dull it was. It would not be a clean cut.
"STOP!"
The scar-faced man paused. He did not let go of Duane, but he did look up, and when he saw who it was, his expression shifted.
But he did not lower the knife. Instead, he pressed it lightly against Duane's throat, just enough to dimple the skin without breaking it. "If it is not Maggie. Come to grace us with your presence?"
"I can see you are busy," Maggie said. "It looks like you are about to execute a prisoner. Funny, I do not remember the Shepherd authorizing any executions today."
"This bastard killed Rat," the scar-faced man said, tapping Duane's cheek with the flat of the blade. "That makes it a judgment. And judgments do not need authorization."
"Actually, they do," Maggie took three steps into the room, her hand still hovering near her weapon. "The Shepherd is very specific about chain of command. You want to kill someone, you go through him first."
The scar-faced man's jaw tightened.
"Rat was one of ours. This is internal discipline."
"Rat's death will be reported to the Shepherd," Maggie replied, not backing down an inch. "And he will decide what happens next. Not you."
For a moment, they stared at each other. Then the man laughed.
"Fine." He stood up, pulling the knife away from Duane's throat but not putting it away. "You are right. Something this important should go straight to the Shepherd."
He jerked his head at the guards. "Get these brats back in line. We are done here."
The guards stepped forward, seizing the cult children and dragging them away. One of them nudged Rat's body aside with his boot, smearing blood across the concrete floor.
The scar-faced man walked up to Maggie.
"You know, the Shepherd has been very patient with you. But patience runs out eventually. You would do well to remember that."
Maggie met his eyes.
"I will keep that in mind," she said evenly.
The man held her gaze for another beat, then turned and swaggered toward the exit. His guards followed, dragging the protesting cult kids with them.
The door slammed shut.
Maggie stood in the middle of the room, her hand finally dropping away from her pistol. She took a long breath.
The Shepherd's patience?
She would have laughed if the situation was not so fucked.