Once again Mason awoke as the sun drifted over the Atlanta skyline, its light shining between the curtains. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he drags himself off the couch ignoring the now familiar aches and pains of yesterday's work. Grabbing a kitchen knife, he scratches another mark onto the wall, adding to the growing collection. Each mark a day they've survived within these walls.
Mason stares at the scratch marks, "Ten days already, huh. How time flies" He mutters.
The last ten days have gone surprisingly well for the trio of Mason, Samantha, and Cheshire.
The very next day that they moved into the apartment, Mason cleared out the other two lower floors. Only coming into contact with two roamers which were delt with easily. The rest of the day Samantha and Mason spent barricading every window and door on the bottom floor. Leaving the fire escape as the only entrance or exit.
The following days Mason was hard at work dragging the bodies of the now dead roamers and tossing them out the window. Not something he took pleasure in but leaving rotting corpses just laying around was asking for trouble.
With that handled Mason allowed Samantha to take lead of gathering anything useful within the complex. The only notable item was the pistol that the old couple, down a few doors, used to take their lives.
With their little apartment now stocked with food, clothes and water. They spent a day or two relaxing and recovering, something both of them need dearly.
That's when Mason decided to give Samantha a few lessons on how to take down a roamer.
~Few Days Earlier~
Mason spent half of yesterday turning a table leg into a small but suitable practice weapon for Samantha. Then dragging a chair out of room one of the rooms and a few cushions that will help simulate a roamers height.
"Sammy come 'ere for a sec" Mason says his head popping into their apartment.
Samantha stops playing with Cheshire, "Okay" she says following him into the hallway, Cheshire trailing after her.
Mason holds out his makeshift wooded pike, "Here", Samantha takes in with a confused look on her face. "We're going to practice taking out a walker"
Mason can see her physically tense as it becomes too tight, too stiff. Her knuckles going white around the grip.
"Relax," Mason told her, stepping behind her and nudging her elbows down. "If you tense up, your aim'll shake. You need control."
Samantha swallowed, nodding. The makeshift practice yard was just the long hallway outside the apartment door. He tapped the cushion's "head" with the end of his own stick. "This is what you're aiming for. But you don't go straight for the kill unless you're cornered. First thing you do is make it fall."
He stepped back, demonstrating the movement in one smooth line jab low, twist, step away. The kind of fluid motion born of repetition and survival.
"Hit the legs," he said, pointing. "Shins, knees, anything to drop it. A roamer on the ground is a problem you can handle. A roamer on its feet will grab you before you blink."
Samantha lifted the pike again. Her breath stuttered.
"Try it," Mason said.
She jabbed. Too slow. Too shallow. The wood made a hollow thunk against the cushion, barely moving it.
Mason shook his head. "You're not poking a balloon here, Sam. You're fighting something that wants to rip your face off. Put your weight behind it."
He stepped close again, placing his hand lightly between her shoulder blades. "Breathe. Then push."
She inhaled shakily. Exhaled. Then drove the pike forward, hard this time. The cushion snapped backward, sliding the whole chair a few inches across the floor.
Mason nodded once. "Better. Again."
They repeated the drill over and over: stab the "legs," step back, reset. At first Samantha winced every time the wood struck. But slowly very slowly, her movements sharpened. Her stance widened. Her breathing steadied. After half an hour, sweat streaked her neck and her arms trembled from effort.
Mason gave her the signal for the real thing. "Alright. He's down. Go for the head."
Samantha hesitated only a heartbeat before she lunged in and thrust the point of the pike into the upper cushion, right where a roamer's eye socket would be.
The chair toppled backward from the force.
Sam stared at it. Then at Mason.
His expression didn't soften, but his voice did. "Good. You're getting it."
She swallowed hard and lifted the pike again, determination burning through her exhaustion.
"Again," she said.
And Mason nodded not proud, exactly, but relieved. She was learning. She was surviving.
~~~~
After their first training session they repeated the process at least once a day, and slowly Mason gained some conference to leave Sam alone a go out a quick scouting mission on their surroundings.
At first it was just to check if the horde had moved on and it had. So, Mason took advantage to scout their surrounds properly. He made note of small groups of roamers, stores to loot, and other buildings of value.
Mason also took this time outside to look for signs of other survivors, but found none. It was during one of these supply/ scouting runs that Mason discovered the step in the trio's survival.
~Another Flashback~
Mason kept to the alleys on his way across town, moving fast but low. The bowie knife in his hand and his Glock tucked into his waist band. The sun was up, but was covered by clouds turning the world a dim gray.
As he was about to move from one ally to another, a building caught his attention. A store, one the Mason used to get his lunches at. "That means Sarge's place is close by" he mutters to himself.
Moving quickly, almost like muscle memory Mason finds himself stand a few feet from Sarge's Workshop.
Mason's chest tightened as he approached. The place smelled of dust and oil. The last time he'd been here, Sarge was alive, grumbling about spark plugs and yelling at Mason for drinking all the damn coffee.
He tried the front door. Locked, but the glass had been spider-webbed from something hitting it. Mason crouched, peeked through the gap, then slid his knife through and flipped the interior latch.
Inside, the air was still and heavy. Tools lay scattered on the concrete, wrenches and sockets kicked across the floor. A stool was overturned. A faint trail of dried blood led toward the back office, brown and nearly black by now. Mason swallowed hard, forcing himself not to follow it.
He didn't call out Sarge's name. There was no point. If Sarge was still here… Mason wouldn't find him alive.
Instead, he moved deeper into the main garage bay.
That's when he saw it.
A 2007 Ford pickup, forest-green, hood up as if mid-repair. Dust coated it, but it was intact. Tires still full. No shattered windows. Mason circled it slow, heart kicking in his chest. Everything about it screamed Sarge practical, sturdy, reliable.
"Holy shit…" Mason whispered under his breath.
He slid into the driver's seat. The keys weren't in the ignition, but when he popped the sun visor out of habit, there they were. Exactly where Sarge always stashed them.
Mason exhaled a shaky laugh, part relief, part disbelief. A working truck could change everything.
He searched the workshop next, careful, methodical. Most of the tool drawers had been looted or left open, but in the back storage room, half-hidden under a tarp, he found a dusty footlocker he recognized immediately. Sarge's.
He knelt and flipped the latches.
Inside lay tactical gear, old, worn, but well-kept. A pair of camo fatigues. A black combat shirt reinforced at the elbows. A plate carrier missing its armor plates. A battered set of knee pads. Gloves. A folded boonie hat.
Underneath, wrapped in an oily cloth, was a Remington 870 shotgun, mid-2000s make, fitted with a short barrel and ghost-ring sights. The kind Sarge used to take hog hunting.
Mason lifted it out with both hands. The weight felt solid, steady, comforting in a way he wasn't expecting. A pump-action didn't jam easily. Took common shells. Reliable.
Just like Sarge.
There were a few loose shells in the bottom of the footlocker seventeen in total. Not much, but better than nothing.
Mason stood there a long moment, thumb brushing the weapon's receiver. A knot tightened in his stomach.
"You really left me something, old man," he murmured.
He grabbed the clothes, folded tight, and the shotgun. There were no signs of Sarge himself, no body, no walker, nothing. Maybe he'd made it out. Maybe not. The blood trail in the office told one story; the missing body told another.
Mason didn't let himself hope too hard.
He loaded everything into a duffel he found on a shelf, slung it over his shoulder, and headed back to the truck. He checked the oil, coolant, battery, everything Sarge drilled into him over the years.
Then he turned the key.
The engine hesitated… coughed… then rumbled to life.
Mason closed his eyes, letting the vibration settle into him like a heartbeat he thought he'd lost. Sliding out if the front seat Mason makes his way to the garage door, unbolting at the door he slides in all the way up.
Hoping back into the pickup truck, Mason doesn't bother to look for anything else and drives off heading home once again.
~~~~
Mason only found the truck a couple days ago and since then other than going out to look for some additional food, water, or fuel. Mason and his small family mostly stayed home, almost like they were waiting for something or someone.
~End