Chapter 7: The Quarry Camp
The walk to the quarry takes most of the morning, Glenn filling the silence with stories about the camp's quirks and personalities.
"Dale's like everybody's grandfather," Glenn explains as they pick their way through a forest that's already starting to reclaim the hiking trail. "He's got this ancient RV that breaks down every other week, but he keeps it running with spit and duct tape. And Shane—Shane's our unofficial leader. Former cop. He can be intense, but he keeps us alive."
Scott's System pings constantly as they approach the camp, detecting multiple human signatures clustered around what his interface marks as a natural choke point. The tactical part of his mind automatically catalogs the location's advantages—high ground, clear sight lines, multiple escape routes—while his enhanced hearing picks up voices, laughter, the ordinary sounds of people trying to build something normal from apocalyptic chaos.
"I'm about to meet people I've mourned before they've even died. Dale's going to die saving Andrea. Amy's going to get bitten at the fish fry. Shane's going to lose his mind and try to kill Rick. And I have to pretend I don't know any of it."
His stomach twists into knots as they crest the final hill and the camp comes into view.
It's smaller than he expected, more intimate. Maybe twenty people scattered around a collection of tents, cars, and that iconic silver RV perched on the quarry's edge like a metallic guardian. Laundry hangs on lines strung between trees, and he can smell something cooking over an open fire—fish, maybe, or small game.
It looks like hope. Fragile, temporary hope, but hope nonetheless.
The first person to notice them is a man with broad shoulders and short-cropped dark hair who emerges from behind the RV with his hand resting casually on his pistol. Even at a distance, Scott recognizes the bearing, the way he moves—controlled, alert, ready for violence.
Shane Walsh. Future cop-turned-murderer, current protector of twenty innocent people.
"Glenn," Shane calls out, his voice carrying the authority of command. "You're back early. Everything okay?"
"Better than okay," Glenn responds, raising his hand in greeting. "Found someone you're going to want to meet."
The camp stirs to life as people emerge from tents and gather around the fire. Scott's System helpfully begins identifying faces, overlaying names and basic information like some sort of morbid social media feed.
[SHANE WALSH - MALE, AGE 38]
[RELATIONSHIP: UNESTABLISHED]
[THREAT ASSESSMENT: MODERATE TO HIGH]
[PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: AUTHORITY FIGURE, STRESS INDICATORS PRESENT]
Shane approaches with measured steps, his eyes never leaving Scott's face. When he's close enough to speak without raising his voice, he stops and crosses his arms.
"I'm Shane Walsh. This is my camp."
The emphasis on possession is subtle but unmistakable. Scott recognizes the territorial display for what it is—a test to see how he'll respond to authority.
"Scott Alen," he responds, keeping his voice level and non-threatening. "Glenn invited me to meet your people."
"That so?" Shane's gaze flicks to Glenn, who nods enthusiastically.
"Guy's an EMT, Shane. Saved my ass from a walker nest yesterday, and he's got medical supplies the camp can use."
Shane's expression shifts slightly at the mention of medical training. "EMT, huh? You current?"
"Was when the world ended. Five years with Atlanta Fire Department."
Shane studies him for a long moment, then jerks his head toward the camp. "Let's talk."
The weapons check is thorough but professional. Shane examines Scott's crowbar, the hunting knife from his inventory, and the small collection of basic supplies he's carrying in his backpack. When Shane asks about his medical training, Scott provides his EMT certification number from memory and answers questions about emergency procedures with the kind of detail that comes from real experience.
"Airway, breathing, circulation," Scott recites when Shane asks about trauma assessment. "Control bleeding, treat for shock, immobilize spinal injuries if possible. Priority is keeping the patient alive long enough to reach definitive care, though I suppose that's less relevant now."
Shane grunts approval. "Sounds right. We could use someone with real training." He hands the weapons back. "Glenn vouches for you, and we need medical help. But understand something—I keep these people safe. All of them. You cause problems, you're gone. We clear?"
"Crystal."
The introduction to the rest of the camp flows more smoothly after Shane's endorsement. A woman with shoulder-length brown hair and tired eyes approaches first, a boy maybe twelve years old hanging close to her side.
[LORI GRIMES - FEMALE, AGE 35]
[PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: PROTECTIVE MATERNAL INSTINCTS, GUILT MARKERS PRESENT]
[CARL GRIMES - MALE, AGE 12]
[RELATIONSHIP TO LORI: SON]
"Rick's family. His wife and son. God, they have no idea what's coming. The reunion, the jealousy, everything Shane's going to put them through."
"I'm Lori," she says, offering her hand. "This is my son Carl. Glenn mentioned you have medical training?"
"That's right. EMT background."
Relief flashes across her face. "Thank God. We've been making do with basic first aid, but..." She glances at Carl, and Scott catches the unspoken worry. Children are vulnerable in ways adults can't always protect them from.
Carl stares up at Scott with the kind of unguarded curiosity only kids can manage. "Are you a doctor?"
"Not exactly, but I know how to help people when they're hurt."
"Cool," Carl says with the simple acceptance of childhood. "Shane says I can't learn to shoot until I'm older, but maybe you can teach me other stuff?"
"Carl," Lori chides gently, but Scott can see she's not entirely opposed to the idea.
"I'd be happy to teach you basic first aid," Scott tells the boy. "Every survivor should know how to treat injuries."
From his inventory—carefully shielded from view by his backpack—Scott pulls out a bag of hard candy he'd stored from an earlier scavenging run.
"For being patient while the adults talk," he tells Carl, offering the candy.
Carl's face lights up, and Lori mouths "thank you" over his head. It's a small gesture, but Scott knows it'll pay dividends in group acceptance.
The next introduction comes from an elderly man with silver hair and kind eyes who approaches carrying a steaming mug.
[DALE HORVATH - MALE, AGE 65]
[PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: ELDER FIGURE, HIGH EMPATHY, MORAL COMPASS]
"I'm Dale," the old man says, offering Scott the mug. "Coffee's not real coffee, but it's warm and caffeinated."
Scott accepts the drink gratefully, noting the way Dale's handshake lingers just a moment longer than necessary—assessing, measuring, forming judgments about character.
"This kind man dies trying to save Andrea from a walker. Gutted in the dark because he went out alone to think. I can't let that happen."
"Thank you," Scott says, and means it. "Glenn mentioned you've been having some respiratory issues?"
Dale's eyebrows rise. "Nothing serious, just a persistent cough. Getting older isn't for the weak, especially these days."
From his inventory, Scott produces a bottle of antibiotics—the same ones Glenn had been so excited about finding. "These should help clear that up. Take one twice a day with food."
Dale stares at the medicine bottle like it's a miracle. "I... how did you...?"
"Supply run earlier this week. Figured someone in camp could use them."
"This is..." Dale's voice catches slightly. "This is exactly what I needed. Thank you."
The gratitude in the old man's voice makes Scott's chest tight. Such a small thing—antibiotics that cost him nothing from his System inventory—but it means health and comfort for someone who's become a grandfather figure to twenty survivors.
The introductions continue in a blur of faces and names. Two women approach together—sisters, obviously, despite the difference in their demeanor.
[ANDREA - FEMALE, AGE 32]
[AMY - FEMALE, AGE 22]
[RELATIONSHIP: SISTERS]
Andrea is all sharp angles and barely contained energy, her blonde hair pulled back in a practical ponytail and her eyes constantly scanning for threats. Amy is softer, younger, with a brightness that hasn't been completely worn away by the apocalypse.
"Amy dies first. Gets bitten during the fish fry attack. Andrea has to shoot her own sister to keep her from turning. Jesus Christ, how am I supposed to make small talk knowing that?"
"I'm Andrea," the older sister says, her handshake firm and evaluating. "This is Amy."
"Nice to meet you both."
Amy smiles with genuine warmth. "Glenn told us you saved his life. Thank you for bringing him back safe."
"Glenn saved himself. I just provided backup."
"Still," Amy insists. "We look out for each other here. Anyone who helps one of us helps all of us."
Andrea's expression remains more guarded, but she nods agreement. "We appreciate it."
The next introduction comes with immediate tension. A man in his forties with thinning hair and the soft look of someone who's never missed a meal approaches with obvious reluctance.
[ED PELETIER - MALE, AGE 45]
[PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: ABUSIVE PERSONALITY, CONTROL ISSUES]
[WARNING: DOMESTIC VIOLENCE INDICATORS]
Behind him, hanging back like a shadow, is a woman with graying hair and downcast eyes that scream volumes about her home life.
[CAROL PELETIER - FEMALE, AGE 40]
[PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: ABUSE VICTIM, EXTREME SUBMISSION PATTERNS]
"Ed's a wife-beating piece of shit who dies early. Carol becomes one of the most dangerous people in the group after he's gone. From victim to stone-cold killer. Amazing what people are capable of when they're finally free."
"Another mouth to feed," Ed mutters, just loud enough to be heard. "Hope you're bringing more than you're taking."
The casual dismissal hits Scott like a slap, not because of the content but because of what it represents. This is exactly the kind of petty power play that abusers use—diminishing newcomers to maintain their position in the hierarchy.
"Ed," Carol says quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry, he didn't mean—"
"Yes, I did mean it," Ed cuts her off with the kind of casual cruelty that makes Scott's EMT training scream warnings about domestic violence. "Resources are tight. Everyone needs to pull their weight."
Scott forces his voice to remain level. "I'm an EMT. I'm carrying medical supplies the group can use. And Glenn can tell you I handle myself in a crisis."
Ed grunts, apparently unsatisfied but unwilling to push further with Shane watching.
Carol glances up at Scott for just a moment, and he sees bruises on her wrists that she's tried to cover with long sleeves. The sight makes his jaw clench.
"Thank you," she whispers. "For the medicine. For helping Glenn."
Her gratitude is almost painful in its intensity, like she's not used to people being kind to her. Scott nods, filing away the abuse patterns for future reference. In the show, Ed's death was almost a relief. Here, seeing Carol's fear firsthand, Scott finds himself hoping it comes sooner rather than later.
Two men working on a car nearby pause their conversation to wave. Scott recognizes them from the show—T-Dog and Morales, two of the more pragmatic survivors who never got enough screen time.
[T-DOG - MALE, AGE 29]
[MORALES, LOUIS - MALE, AGE 34]
Before Scott can approach them, a commotion breaks out near one of the tents. A child's cry cuts through the camp's normal background noise, and Scott's EMT training kicks in automatically.
A little girl, maybe four years old, is crying in the arms of a Hispanic woman while a man—presumably her father—paces nearby with obvious anxiety.
"What's wrong?" Scott asks, approaching with the kind of calm authority that comes from years of emergency response.
"She's burning up," the woman says, her accent thick with worry. "Started this morning. I don't know what to do."
Scott activates his Analyze skill while kneeling beside the child.
[SOPHIA MORALES - FEMALE, AGE 4]
[STATUS: FEVER - 101.2°F]
[CAUSE: DEHYDRATION, HEAT STRESS]
[TREATMENT: FLUIDS, COOLING MEASURES]
[PROGNOSIS: EXCELLENT WITH BASIC CARE]
"May I examine her?" Scott asks the parents. When they nod desperately, he begins a gentle assessment—checking temperature, looking at her eyes, palpating her neck for swollen lymph nodes.
"It's heat stress and dehydration," Scott tells them after a moment. "Nothing serious, but we need to get her cooled down and get fluids in her."
He guides them through the treatment—moving the child to shade, removing excess clothing, giving her small sips of cool water. Within twenty minutes, her fever breaks and she's sleeping peacefully in her mother's arms.
"Gracias," the woman whispers, tears of relief streaking her cheeks. "Gracias, señor."
Morales grips Scott's shoulder. "Thank you. We didn't know... we thought..."
"She's going to be fine," Scott assures him. "Kids dehydrate faster than adults, especially in this heat. Just keep pushing fluids and keep her in the shade."
The crowd that gathered during the medical emergency disperses with obvious relief, but Scott notices the way people look at him now. Not as a stranger Glenn brought back, but as someone useful. Someone who can solve problems.
Dale appears at Scott's elbow as he's washing his hands with precious water from a camp jug.
"That was well done," the old man says quietly. "Professional."
"Just doing what I was trained to do."
"Hmm." Dale's eyes are knowing. "Glenn mentioned you have good instincts for finding supplies. And I noticed the way you assessed the camp's layout when you arrived. That's not typical EMT behavior."
"Shit. Dale's too observant. I need to be more careful."
"Paranoia," Scott says with a self-deprecating smile. "Apocalypse makes you notice things like escape routes and defensive positions."
Dale chuckles. "Indeed it does. Still, you have a tactical mind. Emergency response work will teach you that, I suppose."
Before Scott can respond, Glenn appears with a plate of food and an enormous grin.
"Told you they're good people," he says, settling down beside the fire. "Though I'm guessing Ed wasn't exactly welcoming."
"Ed's an ass," says a gravelly voice from across the fire.
Scott looks up to see two men approaching—brothers, obviously, despite their different builds. The shorter one is lean and compact, with long dirty-blonde hair and the kind of weathered face that comes from years of hard living. The taller one is broader, more muscular, with a shaved head and a collection of scars that suggest a violent past.
[DARYL DIXON - MALE, AGE 35]
[MERLE DIXON - MALE, AGE 43]
[RELATIONSHIP: BROTHERS]
[WARNING: MERLE CLASSIFIED AS POTENTIAL THREAT]
"The Dixon brothers. Daryl becomes one of the most loyal people in Rick's group. Merle... Merle's complicated. Racist, violent, unstable. But he loves his brother, and that might be enough to work with."
Daryl nods at Scott with neutral acknowledgment while cleaning a crossbow that looks like it's seen serious use. Merle's assessment is more obvious—looking Scott up and down like he's evaluating livestock.
"Well, well," Merle drawls. "Another pretty boy joins the camp. Hope you're tougher than you look, sunshine."
The casual insult is delivered with a grin that doesn't reach his eyes. It's a test, Scott realizes—push back too hard and Merle will escalate, back down too much and he'll see weakness.
"Tough enough," Scott responds mildly, maintaining eye contact without being aggressive about it.
Merle's grin widens. "We'll see about that."
Before the tension can escalate, Shane's voice cuts across the camp.
"Merle, knock it off. Man just helped save a little girl's life. Show some respect."
Merle raises his hands in mock surrender, but Scott notices the way his eyes narrow when Shane's not looking. Another person to watch carefully.
Daryl, meanwhile, continues cleaning his crossbow with the kind of methodical attention that suggests genuine expertise. When he speaks, his voice is quieter than his brother's but carries its own weight.
"Crossbow's good for hunting," he says without looking up. "Quiet. Reusable ammo. Don't attract every walker in a mile radius like gunfire."
It's not quite conversation, but it's not hostility either. Scott files it away as potential common ground.
As the afternoon wears on, Scott settles into the camp's rhythm. He helps with small tasks—organizing medical supplies, assisting with food preparation, offering quiet advice about camp security that he frames as "EMT emergency planning protocols."
People begin to relax around him. Carl asks a dozen questions about first aid and emergency response. Amy shares stories about her college experiences. Even Andrea engages him in conversation about survival tactics, though her questions are more probing than casual.
"She's smart. Perceptive. I need to be careful not to reveal too much."
As sunset approaches and the camp gathers around the fire for dinner, Scott finds himself studying faces in the flickering light. These aren't characters from a TV show anymore—they're real people with hopes and fears and complicated inner lives. Dale's dry humor. Amy's infectious laughter. Carl's boundless curiosity.
People he's going to have to watch die unless he can figure out how to change their story.
Glenn catches his eye across the fire and winks.
"Told you they're good people," he mouths silently.
Scott manages a real smile despite the weight in his chest. They are good people. Flawed, human, dealing with impossible circumstances as best they can. They deserve better than what's coming.
His System chimes softly, displaying updates he's been expecting.
[SETTLEMENT: QUARRY CAMP - RESIDENT STATUS ACHIEVED]
[MULTIPLE RELATIONSHIP TRACKERS INITIALIZED]
[SHANE WALSH: WARY - 30/100]
[LORI GRIMES: GRATEFUL - 40/100]
[DALE HORVATH: FRIENDLY - 60/100]
[ANDREA: NEUTRAL - 35/100]
[DARYL DIXON: SUSPICIOUS - 20/100]
[CAROL PELETIER: HOPEFUL - 45/100]
[NEW QUEST: EARN CAMP'S TRUST]
[OBJECTIVE: COMPLETE HELPFUL TASKS (0/10)]
The easy part is over, Scott realizes as conversation flows around him and people begin to relax into evening routines. Now comes the hard part—keeping them alive without them discovering he knows exactly how they're supposed to die.
But as he watches Carl help his mother clean dishes, as he listens to Dale tell stories about the old days, as he sees Amy brush Andrea's hair in a moment of sisterly intimacy, Scott feels something he hasn't experienced since waking up in this world.
Purpose.
These people are worth saving. All of them. Even Ed, despite his flaws. Even Merle, despite his ugliness.
The System offers him power, knowledge, advantages beyond anything they could imagine. But it can't tell him how to be human, how to build trust, how to love people enough to risk everything for them.
That part, he's going to have to figure out himself.
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