{Unedited}
(A/N: For those of you who have been waiting we will finally be meeting some characters from the walking dead universe soon, Hang Tight)
Mason pulls away from the hug, "Alright let's get going". He leads Sam and Cheshire up two flights of stairs, onto the third and highest floor of the apartment. He counts the windows, One, Two..Three.
"That's my window" Mason crouched by his window and peered inside. It was dark but not wrecked. His curtains were still half-drawn. He could see a faint layer of dust coating the floor, and the faint outline of clothes tossed onto the floor where he left them.
"Home," Mason muttered.
He wedged the end of his hatchet under the window frame and pushed. The latch popped with a small metallic click. Samantha climbed in first, then pulled Cheshire through. Mason followed last, careful to shut the window behind them.
They stood in the middle of the living room. The place wasn't big, just one bedroom off to the left, a tiny kitchen behind a half-wall, and a narrow hallway leading to the bathroom. Dust danced in the beam of light coming through the window.
"It's small," Samantha said softly.
"Yeah," Mason answered. "But it's ours now."
Cheshire padded around, sniffing corners, tail wagging faintly. The sound of her claws on the hardwood floor was strangely comforting, as she made a be-line towards her bed in the living room.
Mason dropped his pack on the couch and pulled the blinds closed. "Lights stay off. We don't want any attention."
Samantha nodded. She looked more relaxed now, shoulders easing for the first time since they'd left the orphanage.
"Sit tight," Mason said. "Let's see what we've got."
~~~~
Mason moved through the apartment methodically, checking every drawer and cabinet. Samantha helped without being asked, pulling items from shelves and setting them neatly on the coffee table.
Before long, they had an organized pile of supplies.
Two unopened cases of MREs, containing 12 MRE's meal.
A half-dozen water bottles.
A few protein bars.
A small first-aid kit.
A couple of cheap flashlights.
A set of clean clothes for Mason and one hoodie small enough for Samantha.
And most importantly guns.
Mason knelt by the coffee table, laying each firearm out with a reverence that bordered on ritual.
The AR-15 came first. Still oiled, still clean. He checked the chamber, empty, and set it aside. He pulls out two boxes of 5.55mm rounds, fresh and unopened, 100 rounds in each.
Next, the Beretta M9. A solid sidearm, one of his father's old service pistols. He racked the slide and nodded in approval.
Then his own Glock 19, worn and scratched but reliable.
He found three boxes of 9mm rounds, one half-used. He counted quickly. "About sixty left," he murmured. "Plus, what's already loaded."
Samantha sat cross-legged beside him. "Is that a lot?"
"Enough to make it count," Mason replied.
He glanced toward the corner of the room where his Bowie knife hung from a leather sheath on the wall. He took it down, testing the edge with his thumb. Still sharp. Still ready.
They worked in silence for a while. Samantha sorted canned food while Mason loaded magazines. The rhythmic click of bullets sliding into place filled the quiet.
When they finished, Samantha looked around the room and whispered, "It feels… safe here."
Mason smiled faintly. "That's the idea kid."
Cheshire curled up on the rug by the couch, tail flicking lazily. For a moment, everything almost felt normal.
Almost.
But Mason's instincts wouldn't rest. The third floor had been silent when they climbed the fire escape, but silence meant nothing now.
He checked his Glock one more time and slid it into his holster. Then he tucked the Bowie knife into his belt.
Samantha noticed immediately. "Where are you going?"
"Just down the hall," Mason said. "I need to make sure this floor's clear. Last thing we need is a surprise in the middle of the night."
Her face fell. "Can't we just stay here? Lock the door?"
He shook his head. "I can't take that risk Sammy, not with you." Mason walked to the table and picked up the Beretta, slid in a fully load clip and handed the gun to Samantha.
"If anyone that isn't me comes. Point this at them and tell them to Fuck Off"
Samantha took the gun a slight smile on her face, "That's another bad word"
Mason grins ruffling her hair, "I know"
"What-what if they don't leave"
Mason pauses he already knows what he's going to say, but it doesn't sit right. He lets out a deep sigh, "Shoot at them"
Cheshire stood and whined softly. Mason knelt and scratched her behind the ears. "You stay here, girl. Keep her safe."
Samantha's eyes shimmered faintly in the dim light. "Be careful."
"Always," Mason said, forcing a small grin. He locked the door behind him.
~~~~
The air outside felt colder and heavier. The only light came from the narrow window at the end of the corridor, casting long shadows across the cracked walls.
Mason moved slowly, Glock in one hand, Bowie knife in the other, a flashlight held by his mouth, every step deliberate. The floorboards creaked under his boots.
Apartment 3A's door was wide open. He could smell it before he reached it, rot. He peeked inside.
The place was wrecked. A chair overturned. Blood streaks smeared across the floor. Someone had tried to barricade the front door with a dresser, but it had been pushed inward from the outside.
A walker lay motionless in the kitchen; skull split open, probably by a bat or hammer.
"Poor bastard," Mason muttered. He closed the door quietly and moved to the next one, 3B.
This door was locked but cracked at the bottom. He crouched, listening. No sound. No movement.
Still, he didn't like it. He grabbed the doorknob, twisted gently. The wood shifted, creaking. Then something scraped inside.
Mason froze.
He waited, breath held. The scraping came again soft, rhythmic, like nails dragging against wood.
He stepped back, knife in one hand, and gun in the other. The noise grew louder, closer. Then it stopped. A thud hit the door, hard enough to rattle the frame.
"Shit," Mason whispered.
The thudding grew frantic. Then came the guttural moan, the unmistakable sound of hunger.
He steadied himself. One clean shot would echo down the hall; too risky. He holstered the Glock and drew the Bowie knife instead.
He took one step forward and kicked the door once, hard. The frame cracked. The second kick sent it flying open.
The roamer lurched toward him, arms flailing, mouth open wide. Mason sidestepped and drove the blade upward beneath its jaw, pushing until the gurgling stopped. He yanked the knife free and wiped it on the roamer.
The apartment was empty otherwise, except for two mattresses pushed against the window and a half-burned candle on the table. Whoever lived here had lasted a while.
He looked around once, then stepped back into the hallway
The last door before his own.
This one was closed but not locked. Dried blood stained the handle. Mason's stomach tightened as he tried to push it open. But it wouldn't budge, bracing himself Mason rammed his shoulder into the door, and it finally gave way.
The smell hit first a foul rotten scent. He covered his nose and squeezed inside.
Someone had made a barricade here too: a couch against the door to the bedroom and a chair that looked like it was push up against the front door. There were messages scrawled on the walls in marker:
HELP US.
STAY QUIET.
THEY'RE INSIDE.
Mason's flashlight beam flickered across the words, across overturned furniture and empty cans. Then he saw them.
Two bodies, slumped together in the far corner. A man and a woman, their hands still clasped. Dried blood covered the carpet around them.
They weren't moving.
Mason lowered his flashlight, throat tight.
"Damn," he whispered.
He crouched for a moment, eyes lingering on the clasped hands. The world had taken everything from everyone. These two had chosen their ending together.
He bowed his head briefly, before making his way to the couch pushed up against the bedroom door. With some effort he pulls the couch away from the door, pulling out his knife he flings open the door.
A roamer comes stumbling out, dragging a useless leg behind it. It looks young, no older than Mason himself. Mason kicks its other leg out from under it and jams his knife into its skull.
He stands up, gives the couple a brief look before leaving. When he closed the door, the sound echoed down the empty hall like a farewell.
~~~
Mason returned to his own door and unlocked it quietly. Samantha jumped a little when he stepped inside, but her face relaxed the moment she saw him.
"Everything clear?" she asked.
"Clear enough," Mason said. He shut the door, locking it and sliding the bolt back into place.
Cheshire wagged her tail, brushing against his leg.
Mason dropped his knife onto the counter and sat heavily on the couch. Samantha sat beside him. "You look tired."
"I am," he admitted. "But we'll sleep better tonight. No surprises."
She smiled faintly. "Thank you."
He looked at her, really looked at the dirt on her face, the exhaustion in her eyes, the faint but stubborn light that still hadn't gone out.
"Get some rest, Sam," he said softly. "Tomorrow we figure out what's next."
She nodded, curling up with Cheshire on the couch. Within minutes, both were asleep.
Mason stayed awake a little longer, gun resting across his lap, eyes fixed on the window. He leaned back, whispering to no one, "We made it home."
~End