Chapter 26: Randall
POV: Rick
The town of Senoia looked like a postcard from hell—empty storefronts with shattered windows, abandoned cars rusting in the streets, the persistent smell of decay that clung to every surface in this new world. Rick's scavenging team moved through the ruins with practiced caution, weapons ready, constantly scanning for threats.
They found Randall Walsh pinned under an overturned motorcycle in what had once been the town's main garage. The young man—he couldn't be more than nineteen—was conscious but trapped, a piece of rebar from the bike's frame piercing his thigh just above the knee.
"Help me," Randall gasped when he saw them approaching. "Please, I've been stuck here for hours."
Shane raised his shotgun immediately. "Could be a trap. His people could be watching."
Rick studied the scene with cop instincts that had served him well in both worlds. The motorcycle was genuinely heavy, the injury was real, and there were no obvious signs of an ambush. But something felt off about the situation—too convenient, too neat.
"Jake," Rick called softly. "What do you think?"
Jake approached the trapped man, his expression thoughtful as he extended his supernatural senses. Rick had learned to trust Jake's ability to read people, to sense the darkness that violence left behind.
"Dark, but not murderous," Jake said after a moment. "Scared mostly. He's seen bad things, been around bad people, but he's not a killer himself."
"He's not a killer," Jake said aloud. "Just following bad people."
Shane's face twisted with frustration. "We don't know that. Could be lying, could be bait. Safest thing is to put him down and move on."
The casual discussion of murder made Rick's stomach clench. This was what they'd become—people who debated killing an injured boy like they were deciding what to have for lunch.
"We save him," Rick decided. "Bring him back to the farm. If he's hostile, we deal with it then."
Shane's opposition was immediate and vehement, but Rick's word was final. They freed Randall from his metal prison, improvised a stretcher, and began the careful journey back to Hershel's property.
POV: Jake
Randall's screams echoed through the farmhouse as Jake worked to remove the rebar from his leg. The metal had punctured cleanly through the muscle but missed the major arteries—painful but not immediately life-threatening if properly treated.
"How are you doing that?" Randall gasped, watching Jake's hands glow with soft alchemical light as he sterilized the wound and began transmuting damaged tissue back together.
"Shut up and hold still," Jake replied, sweat beading on his forehead from the effort. Healing always required equivalent exchange—he was trading his own energy to accelerate Randall's cellular repair, feeling the young man's pain echo through their connection.
But while Jake's hands worked on the physical injury, his death sense was reading deeper truths. Randall's psychic residue told a story of violence witnessed but not committed, of moral compromises made in the name of survival. He'd seen murders, had stood by while terrible things happened, but he'd never pulled the trigger himself.
"Your group," Jake said quietly as he worked. "How many?"
Randall hesitated, loyalty warring with self-preservation. "Thirty, maybe thirty-five. Well-armed, well-organized. They're... they're not good people."
"What kind of not good?"
"The kind that take what they want. The kind that don't ask permission." Randall's voice was barely a whisper. "They sent me ahead to scout. If I don't come back..."
Jake felt ice form in his stomach. "They'll come looking."
"Yeah. And when they find this place..." Randall couldn't finish the sentence, but Jake could fill in the blanks easily enough.
The healing session left both of them exhausted. Randall's leg was functional again, though tender, and Jake's hands were cramped from the extended use of his alchemy. But the real damage was the knowledge they'd gained—Hershel's farm was now on the radar of a hostile group with superior numbers and firepower.
Jake helped Randall to the guest bedroom that had become an impromptu medical ward, then made his way to the living room where the group was debating their prisoner's fate.
The argument was already in full swing when Jake arrived. Shane stood near the fireplace, his face flushed with anger and something that might have been fear. Dale sat in his favorite armchair, wearing the patient expression of someone trying to talk sense into children. Rick paced between them, mediating as always.
"Execute him," Shane was saying. "Clean, quick, no suffering. But we can't let him go back to his people with information about this place."
"We don't execute prisoners," Dale replied firmly. "That's not who we are."
"It's who we need to be if we want to survive!"
Jake settled into an empty chair and waited for someone to ask his opinion. When Rick finally turned to him, Jake chose his words carefully.
"He's not evil," Jake said. "But his group knows about this farm now. Even if we kill him, they'll come looking when he doesn't return."
Rick studied Jake's face, reading the certainty there. "Can we trust your sense about people?"
"It's never been wrong."
The simple statement carried weight that surprised Jake. Over the weeks, his ability to read people's violent histories had proven accurate enough that Rick had begun relying on it for tactical decisions.
"So what do you recommend?" Rick asked.
Jake thought about the television show he remembered, about how this situation had played out in the original timeline. But that knowledge was locked away behind his speech block, forcing him to rely on logic instead of foreknowledge.
"Relocate him. Drive him twenty, thirty miles away, blindfold him so he can't find his way back. Give him supplies and a head start. If his people come looking, they'll search the area where he disappeared, not here."
It was a compromise solution—not the mercy Dale wanted, but not the execution Shane demanded. Rick nodded slowly, clearly weighing the options.
"Shane?" Rick asked. "Thoughts?"
Shane's face was a mask of barely controlled rage. "You're asking me to trust the judgment of a freak who talks to dead people over basic tactical sense."
"I'm asking you to trust my judgment," Rick replied coolly. "And my judgment is that Jake's assessment is sound."
The dismissal was clear, and Shane's expression went dark with humiliation. Jake felt a chill run down his spine as he recognized the look—this was a man whose paranoia had found a focal point, whose need for control had been challenged one too many times.
"Shane's losing it. The group's trust in me is undermining his authority, and he can't handle being marginalized. This isn't going to end well."
But Jake kept his concerns to himself. Speaking them aloud might trigger his speech block, and besides, what could he say? That he was worried Shane might try to kill him? That would sound like paranoia, even if it was justified.
The vote was close but decisive—relocate Randall rather than execute him. Shane's face went white with fury at being overruled again, but he didn't argue further. Instead, he stalked out of the room, muttering under his breath about "freak show decisions" and "getting everyone killed."
Dale caught Jake's arm as the group dispersed. "Thank you," the old man said quietly. "For arguing for mercy."
"It was the right choice," Jake replied, though he wasn't entirely sure that was true.
In a world where mercy could get you killed, sometimes the right choice and the smart choice weren't the same thing. But Jake was tired of living in a world where every decision came down to who lived and who died.
Sometimes you had to take a stand for something better, even if it cost you everything.
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