Rick POV
The morning came with the smell of food, rich, savory, and shockingly normal. Rick sat at the wooden table inside the farmhouse, staring at the plate before him like it was a miracle. Fried eggs, potatoes, a slice of ham—it wasn't a feast, but after weeks of nothing but IV fluids and delirium, it might as well have been heaven. Dr. Gale sat nearby, watching him with that half-smile she wore when she was pleased with her patient but too tired to say it out loud. "Eat slowly, Rick. Your stomach's got to remember how to be useful again."
Rick nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
He took a careful bite, the warmth grounding him in a way the words couldn't. The memories of his first waking moments—the panic, the disbelief, the anger—came back like a punch to the gut: the way he'd shouted, accused, demanded answers no one could give. And Zephyr… that man hadn't flinched once, calm, unshaken, unjudging, just a wall of quiet strength. Rick swallowed another bite and looked around the farmhouse. People moved with purpose. Everyone was tending to their chores with order and discipline. Zephyr's touch was everywhere. He felt a weight of guilt settle in his chest. He shouldn't have shouted at the man. He shouldn't have done what he did. "I will apologize to him later," Rick thought to himself in determination.
Later that evening, when the chores had slowed, he found Zephyr sitting by the porch, cleaning his rifle while Ghost rested beside him. Rick stepped outside. "Mind if I sit?"
Zephyr didn't look up. "You're walking better. That's a good sign."
Rick sat down on the step. "Yeah… feels strange. Like I'm borrowing my own legs." He paused, running a hand through his hair. "About the other day, when I woke up… I wasn't myself. Said things I shouldn't have."
Zephyr finally looked his way, one brow raised slightly. "You were half-starved, half-dead, and just found out the world was gone. I've seen worse reactions."
Rick huffed a weak laugh. "Still, you didn't deserve the way I came at you."
"Apology accepted," Zephyr said simply, setting the rifle aside. "You're here and you're alive. That's what matters."
Rick studied him silently for a moment before letting a quiet sigh.
"Doc said I'm healing up faster than she expected," Rick said after a pause. "I can start pulling my weight."
Zephyr nodded. "Good. We can use another steady hand here."
"I want to come with you," Rick said suddenly. "Next time you go out."
Zephyr turned to him, eyes narrowing slightly. "That's not a sightseeing trip, Sheriff. I don't go out for fun."
"I know," Rick replied. "But my family's out there. I can't just sit here waiting for a miracle. I've got to start looking. I can handle myself, you know that."
The silence stretched long enough for wind to rustle the trees. Then Zephyr gave a slow, measured nod. "Alright," he said at last. "You can come, but you follow my lead. You don't break formation. You don't let emotion call your shots. If I tell you to fall back, you fall back. No exceptions."
Rick met his gaze and saw no room for negotiation. He respected that. "Understood," he said. "You're in charge."
Zephyr gave a faint, approving grunt. "Good. We're heading out in two days. Make sure you're ready."
Zephyr POV
From the porch, I watched Rick head back inside, shoulders straighter than they've been before. The man had fire, a good heart, strong hands, and a leader's instincts. But he's fragile right now, cracked by loss and grief.
I leaned back in the chair, lighting a cigarette as the sun dipped behind the tree line. Over the past week, the farm had grown quieter, steadier. Training had turned chaos into rhythm. The newcomers had purpose now: guard rotation, scavenging schedules, basic defense drills. Even Dale had lost some of his naïve optimism after seeing what is beyond these fences. But peace was always temporary. I knew that too well. The world outside was decaying by the day, and soon the storm will find us too.
I flickered the ash off the porch rail and muttered, "A cop, a doctor, a mechanic, a few farmers, and a handful of civilians… hell of a squad, huh?" Ghost wagged his tail once, and I chuckled softly. "Yeah, boy. Let's see if we can make something out of them."
Maggie POV
Earlier that day, Maggie stood at the fence line, her rifle resting against the post, staring at the two walkers laying in the dirt just beyond the property edge. Hershel stood beside her, jaw tight, gripping his worn hat like a man trying to hold something solid in a world that was falling apart.
"They wandered in from the woods again," Maggie said softly. "That's the third time this week."
"Too many bodies moving lately," Hershel muttered. "They're drawn by sound, smell… or maybe just bad luck."
Beth, clutching a broom handle like it could ward the dead off, peeked from the porch. "You think we should have taken his offer, Daddy, about joining them?"
Hershel exhaled, voice heavy with a stubborn pride and a hint of doubt. "That man means well, I'll grant him that. But he's a soldier. Men like that… they live by the gun. I spent my life saving souls and raising crops, not digging graves."
"World's changing," Maggie murmured. "Maybe it ain't the same one made anymore."
Hershel looked at her sharply, but the fire in his eyes softened almost immediately. "Maybe so. But as long as there's breath in our lungs, we hold onto what we are. If we lose that, we're no better than these things."
Maggie didn't argue, but her gaze lingered on the broken fence and the blood-soaked soil, her hand tightening on the little walkie-talkie Zephyr had given her until her knuckles turned white. Somewhere deep down, she knew Zephyr had been right. This place wasn't safe anymore.
(To be continued...)