Chapter 24: Shane's Obsession
POV: Shane
The freak was everywhere now.
Shane watched from the farmhouse porch as Jake demonstrated his alchemy to Carl, turning a handful of rusty nails into clean, sharp fasteners with nothing but his touch. The boy's face was bright with hero worship, hanging on every word that fell from the freak's lips like gospel truth.
It made Shane sick.
Carol hovered nearby like a protective mother hen, bringing Jake water and checking his hands for signs of strain. Daryl had taken to including the college boy in his hunting trips, teaching him to track and shoot as if he were grooming a successor. Even Dale had started deferring to Jake's opinions about group decisions, trusting his "instincts" about danger.
"They trust him. They depend on him. His food, his powers, his mysterious knowledge about threats. He's making himself irreplaceable. Controlling them."
The realization hit Shane like a cold slap. This wasn't random acceptance—it was calculated manipulation. Jake had wormed his way into the group's survival structure so thoroughly that removing him would feel like amputation. He fed them daily, healed their injuries, protected them from walkers with his freaky death powers.
He'd made himself indispensable, and indispensable people got away with anything.
Shane's hand drifted to his service weapon, muscle memory from years of police work. In the old world, there were procedures for dealing with threats like this. Background checks, psychological evaluations, containment protocols for dangerous individuals.
But this wasn't the old world, and Jake wasn't a normal threat.
Shane watched Maggie approach the group, saw the way her face lit up when she looked at Jake, saw how she touched his arm with casual intimacy that spoke of recent developments. Another relationship manipulated, another bond forged to strengthen the freak's position.
"Glenn should have fought for her. Should have shown some backbone instead of just rolling over and accepting that the freak gets whatever he wants."
But Glenn was too weak, too trusting, too willing to believe the best of people who didn't deserve it. Just like Rick, just like Carol, just like all of them. They saw Jake's helpful exterior and refused to look deeper, refused to ask the hard questions about what kind of person could command the dead without breaking.
The kind of person who was fundamentally wrong. Unnatural. Dangerous.
Shane found Lori in the kitchen, helping Patricia prepare dinner from ingredients that had mysteriously appeared in Jake's backpack that morning. The sight of her accepting food from the freak's impossible supply made his jaw clench with suppressed fury.
"We need to talk," Shane said, pulling her aside to the empty dining room. "About Jake."
Lori's expression immediately grew wary. She'd been avoiding Shane since their confrontation weeks ago, maintaining careful distance that hurt more than any open rejection.
"What about him?"
"He's dangerous. Unnatural. The powers he has... normal people don't develop abilities like that."
"He saved Carl's life," Lori said firmly. "He's saved all of us, multiple times."
"He says he saved Carl. What if he's manipulating all of us? What if he caused the problems he claims to solve?"
Lori stared at him for a long moment, her face cycling through expressions Shane couldn't read. When she spoke, her voice was tired, resigned.
"Shane, you need to let this go."
The words hit him like a physical blow. Even Lori—the woman he'd protected, the family he'd held together, the future he'd built his whole world around—even she was lost to the freak's influence.
"He's gotten to you too," Shane whispered. "Jesus Christ, he's gotten to all of you."
"There's no 'gotten to' about it. Jake has proven himself over and over. Whatever he is, whatever he can do, he's on our side."
"You can't know that. You can't trust someone who won't explain where his powers come from, who admits he knows things he can't share. That's not transparency—that's manipulation."
Lori looked at him with something that might have been pity. "I'm not having this conversation with you. Jake stays, the group's decision is final, and you need to find a way to live with that."
She walked away, leaving Shane alone in the dining room with his growing certainty that the group he'd fought to protect was already lost.
That night, Shane sat in the ruins of the barn, sharpening his knife with methodical precision. The blade was already razor-sharp, but the repetitive motion helped him think, helped him plan.
Through the farmhouse windows, he could see Jake's silhouette moving around the guest bedroom. The freak was settling in for the night, probably dreaming of new ways to manipulate the group, new dependencies to create, new powers to reveal at strategically useful moments.
"For their own good. Before he destroys them completely. Before he makes them so dependent on a monster that they can't survive without him."
The rationalization came easily now. Shane had gotten good at justifying necessary actions, at reframing hard choices as moral imperatives. Jake was a cancer in the group's body, growing stronger every day, spreading his influence until it infected everyone.
Cutting out a cancer was surgery, not murder.
Shane tested the knife's edge against his thumb, watching a thin line of blood well up from the nick. Sharp enough. More than sharp enough for what needed to be done.
The plan was simple: wait for Jake to take one of his nighttime walks—the freak was always wandering around at odd hours, probably checking on his sabotage work or practicing his powers in secret. Catch him alone, away from witnesses, make it look like a walker attack or an accident.
Regrettable but necessary. The price of keeping the group safe from a threat they couldn't recognize.
In the shadows at the edge of the barnyard, Dale Horvath watched Shane's preparations with growing unease. The old man had seen the deputy's mental state deteriorating, had witnessed the paranoia and resentment building like pressure in a sealed vessel.
But Dale said nothing. Just watched, and worried, and hoped that morning would bring clearer heads and better judgment.
It wouldn't.
Shane Walsh had crossed a line in his mind, and men who crossed certain lines rarely found their way back. The knife in his hands wasn't just a tool anymore—it was a solution to a problem that existed only in his own fractured perception.
The stage was set for tragedy, and the only question was whether anyone would recognize the danger before it was too late.
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