Chapter 25: Winter Training
The first frost of the season painted the Georgia countryside in crystalline beauty, but Jake barely noticed the scenery as he focused on the four walker corpses arranged in the far field. His breath misted in the cold air, and somewhere behind him, Carl Grimes watched with the fascination of a boy discovering magic was real.
"Again," Daryl commanded from his position on a hay bale, crossbow resting across his knees. "But this time, make 'em do something useful. Walking in circles ain't gonna help us in a fight."
Jake wiped blood from his nose—a lighter flow than usual, his body finally adapting to the constant strain—and reached out with his necromancy. The familiar cold sensation flowed through his consciousness as he connected with the primitive neural networks that still flickered in dead brain tissue.
"Stand. Turn. Form a line."
The four walkers obeyed with mechanical precision, rising from their sprawled positions and arranging themselves in a neat formation. Jake's range had expanded to twenty-five feet through constant practice, and he could maintain control for twenty minutes now before the headaches became unbearable.
"Better," Daryl acknowledged. "How many you think you could handle in a real fight?"
"Four's my max for extended control," Jake replied, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold. "Maybe six or seven for a few minutes if I'm desperate."
Carl stepped closer, his young face bright with curiosity. "How does it feel? Controlling them?"
Jake considered the question while he held the walkers in formation. How did you explain the sensation of reaching into hollow minds, of puppeting nervous systems that operated on pure hunger and instinct?
"Cold," he said finally. "Like touching ice that burns. And empty—there's nothing really there anymore, just echoes of what they used to be."
"Could you teach me?"
The innocent question hit Jake like a physical blow. He released his control over the walkers, letting them collapse back to the ground, and turned to face Carl with serious eyes.
"No. And even if I could, I wouldn't."
Carl's face fell. "Why not?"
"Because it's not a gift, Carl. It's a burden. Every time I use this power, I feel their emptiness, their hunger. I touch death directly, and death touches me back." Jake knelt to Carl's eye level. "Powers like mine... they change you. Make you see the world differently. And not always in good ways."
"I'm trying to keep you innocent as long as possible, kid. Trying to make sure you don't grow up thinking death is just another tool to be used. You'll see enough horror in this world without learning to command it."
Daryl nodded approvingly from his perch. "Listen to him, boy. Some things are better left alone."
Carl looked disappointed but accepted the wisdom. He'd learned to trust Jake's judgment, even when he didn't understand the reasoning behind it.
"Come on," Jake said, standing and ruffling Carl's hair. "Let's go see if Glenn wants help with the scavenging inventory."
They found Glenn in the farmhouse basement, surrounded by boxes of supplies and wearing the concentrated expression of someone trying to solve a complex puzzle. He looked up when they entered, his face brightening with genuine pleasure despite the awkwardness that still lingered between them.
"Perfect timing," Glenn said. "I could use your eyes on some of this stuff."
Jake settled beside him on the concrete floor, examining the array of items Glenn had collected during recent supply runs. Rusted tools, broken electronics, random mechanical parts—the detritus of civilization that might still hold value for survivors who knew how to look.
"This," Jake said, picking up a corroded wrench. "Good steel underneath the rust. Easy to clean up with the right treatment."
He demonstrated by placing his hands on the tool and reaching for his alchemy. The rust flaked away like shed skin, revealing clean metal underneath. The process was becoming second nature now, as automatic as breathing.
"You're like a walking recycling center," Glenn observed with amusement.
"More like a walking chemistry set with migraines," Jake replied, which earned him a laugh from both Glenn and Carl.
The friendship between Jake and Glenn had found its footing again, built on shared respect and the mutual understanding that some things couldn't be helped. Glenn had made his peace with losing Maggie's affections, and Jake had learned to appreciate the younger man's generous spirit.
"These circuit boards are good," Jake continued, examining a handful of electronic components. "The gold connectors are valuable for trade, and some of the chips might still function if we can find the right equipment."
They worked together for an hour, sorting salvage into categories of useful, potentially useful, and junk. It was peaceful work, the kind of productive collaboration that reminded Jake why he fought so hard to protect this group.
When they emerged from the basement, the sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. The group had gathered in the farmhouse kitchen for their evening ritual—the distribution of Jake's daily food manifestation.
The morning food ritual had evolved into something almost ceremonial over the past weeks. At dawn, the group would gather around the kitchen table while Jake opened his pack and distributed the day's rations. Carol had started saying a brief prayer of gratitude, and even the non-religious members of the group had begun observing a moment of silent appreciation.
Jake found the attention uncomfortable—he'd never wanted to be seen as some kind of mystical provider—but he'd learned to accept the role. The food came whether he wanted it or not, and the group needed the stability of reliable meals.
Tonight's distribution revealed an interesting development. The rations had improved in quality over the past week, shifting from basic survival food to more varied, flavorful options. Fresh bread, cured meats, even some chocolate for the children.
"The food's getting better," Carol observed, accepting her portion with a grateful smile.
"I've noticed that too," Jake admitted. "I think it responds to... connection. Trust. The closer I feel to all of you, the better the manifestations become."
It was a revelation that had taken weeks to understand. The Survivor's Bounty wasn't just about numbers—it was about genuine bonds, authentic relationships. The power seemed to recognize the difference between mere survival cooperation and true family.
Maggie approached the table last, as had become her custom. She always took her ration directly from Jake's hands, their fingers brushing in a moment of contact that sent electricity through both of them. Tonight, she lingered a moment longer than necessary, her green eyes holding his with unmistakable warmth.
"Thank you," she said quietly, and Jake knew she wasn't just talking about the food.
Around them, the group settled into the comfortable routines of family life. Hershel and Dale discussed farming strategies for the spring. Carl and Sophia played a quiet card game in the corner. Glenn and T-Dog worked on maintenance projects that would help them weather the coming winter.
For a moment, Jake allowed himself to believe that this could last. That they could build something permanent here, something worth protecting. That his powers could be used for creation rather than destruction, for nurturing rather than commanding.
The feeling wouldn't last—it never did in this world. But for now, surrounded by people who'd become his family despite impossible circumstances, Jake let himself hope.
Winter was coming, but they would face it together. And sometimes, that was enough.
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