CHAPTER 21: THE ROAD TO FORT BENNING - PART 1
POV: Dale Horvath
The RV's engine coughs like an old man with emphysema as Dale nurses it down the highway, willing the ancient vehicle to hold together for just a few more miles. Behind him, the convoy spreads out—Glenn's cube van loaded with supplies and people, Daryl's motorcycle weaving between abandoned cars like a metal wasp.
Two days since Shane's departure, and the camp feels different. Lighter somehow, as if they'd been holding their collective breath and could finally exhale. But also more fragile, like they'd lost a load-bearing wall and weren't sure if the structure would hold.
"Twenty miles. We've made twenty miles and already I can feel her struggling."
Steam begins rising from the hood, wispy at first, then billowing white against the morning sky. Dale's heart sinks as he pulls over, watching the temperature gauge spike into the red zone.
"Damn it all to hell," he mutters, then immediately feels guilty for the language.
POV: Scott
Scott's System flashes urgent warnings as he watches the RV coast to a stop from the van's passenger seat.
[VEHICLE MALFUNCTION DETECTED]
[WALKER HORDE APPROACHING - ETA: 2 HOURS 47 MINUTES]
[THREAT LEVEL: MODERATE TO HIGH]
[CONVOY STATUS: VULNERABLE]
"We're sitting ducks out here. Open highway, nowhere to hide, and a horde coming our way. Dale's timing couldn't be worse."
"What's wrong?" Andrea asks from beside him, noting his tense expression.
"RV's overheating," Scott says, already unbuckling his seatbelt. "We need to get it fixed fast and get moving."
POV: Rick Grimes
Rick approaches the steaming RV as Dale pops the hood, revealing an engine bay that looks like it belongs in a museum. Hoses crack with age, belts hang loose, and the radiator hisses like an angry snake.
"How bad?" Rick asks, though the expression on Dale's face already answers the question.
"Radiator hose," Dale diagnoses grimly. "Main line's blown. Without it, she'll overheat in minutes."
Glenn appears at Rick's shoulder, tools already in hand. "How long to fix?"
"If we can find the right part? Hour, maybe two. If we can't..." Dale shrugs helplessly.
POV: Glenn Rhee
Glenn surveys the highway's graveyard of abandoned vehicles, automotive corpses stretching in both directions like metallic bones. Somewhere in that maze of rust and broken dreams lies the part they need—if they can find it before whatever forced Dale to stop becomes their problem too.
"What kind of hose?" Glenn asks, dropping to examine the blown component. "Size, shape, anything specific?"
Scott appears beside him, kneeling to study the damage with professional efficiency. "Three-quarter inch, molded ninety-degree bend. Look for similar engine configurations—Ford, maybe Chevy from the early 2000s."
Glenn blinks, impressed despite their dire circumstances. "You know engines?"
"EMT training includes basic mechanical repair. When your ambulance breaks down on a call, you fix it yourself or people die."
POV: Daryl Dixon
Daryl kills his motorcycle's engine and surveys their predicament with growing unease. Broken down on open highway, scattered across multiple vehicles, no defensive positions worth mentioning. If trouble comes calling, they're fucked.
"We got bigger problems than hoses," Daryl announces, pulling Rick aside. "This is walker highway. All these cars? People tried to evacuate, got stuck, died where they sat. Dead don't forget where they died."
Rick nods grimly, understanding the implications. "How long before they show up?"
"Could be hours, could be minutes. Depends on what draws them."
As if summoned by his words, a low moan echoes from somewhere among the abandoned cars, answered by another from the opposite direction.
POV: Carol Peletier
Carol clutches Sophia close as the adults organize repair efforts with military efficiency. Scott coordinates parts scavenging while Rick and Daryl establish security perimeters, everyone moving with purpose born of necessity.
"No Shane to make the hard calls now. But maybe we're better off without his... intensity."
Sophia tugs at her sleeve. "Mama, why did Uncle Shane go away?"
Carol's heart clenches. "Sometimes adults need space to think, baby. He'll be okay."
"I hope."
POV: Scott
Scott leads a scavenging team through the automotive graveyard, his System highlighting potential sources with golden outlines invisible to everyone else.
[SUITABLE COMPONENT DETECTED - 47 METERS NORTHEAST]
[FORD EXPLORER - ENGINE BAY INTACT]
[COMPATIBILITY: 89%]
"There. Blue Explorer with the crumpled front end. Should have exactly what we need."
"Try that one," Scott suggests, pointing toward the target vehicle. "Explorer, similar engine configuration."
T-Dog pops the hood while Glenn examines the engine bay. "Bingo," Glenn breathes, locating the intact hose. "Perfect match."
The extraction takes precious minutes—removing clamps, working in cramped spaces, trying not to damage their prize. All while distant moans grow closer and more numerous.
POV: Andrea
Andrea maintains watch position with her shotgun while the men work, scanning the horizon for movement that doesn't belong. Amy huddles near the van with the other women and children, fear tight around her young features.
"We're exposed out here. Vulnerable. If a horde comes through while we're scattered..."
A shambling figure emerges from behind an overturned truck, then another. Single walkers, not a horde, but harbingers of what's coming.
"Contact," Andrea calls softly, raising her weapon. "Two walkers, south side."
Daryl's crossbow takes the first one through the eye before Andrea can fire. The second staggers closer until Glenn appears with a tire iron, dropping it with efficient brutality.
POV: Lori Grimes
Lori watches Carl help carry tools, trying to contribute despite being too young for real responsibility. Her son's growing up in this nightmare, learning that survival requires constant vigilance and violence as routine as breathing.
"Is this what childhood looks like now? Learning to kill before you learn to drive?"
The repair work continues with desperate efficiency. Dale and Scott work together under the hood, sharing medical and mechanical knowledge while sweat drips onto hot metal.
"Almost got it," Dale mutters, tightening clamps with hands that shake slightly from adrenaline. "Scott, check the pressure."
POV: Scott
Scott monitors the radiator pressure while his System provides constant updates on their deteriorating situation.
[WALKER HORDE: 1 HOUR 23 MINUTES OUT]
[SCATTERED WALKERS: 12 DETECTED IN IMMEDIATE AREA]
[REPAIR PROGRESS: 76% COMPLETE]
"We're cutting this too close. The horde's moving faster than expected, and we've got stragglers already finding us."
"Pressure's holding," Scott reports. "But we need to move. Now."
As if summoned by his urgency, the sound reaches them—a low rumble like distant thunder, but rhythmic. Hundreds of feet shuffling in unison, the percussion section of the apocalypse orchestra.
POV: Rick Grimes
Rick spots the horde first, a dark line on the southern horizon that moves like spilled oil across the landscape. Hundreds of walkers, maybe thousands, flowing around obstacles with the persistence of water finding its level.
"Under the cars," Rick orders, voice carrying absolute authority. "Everyone, now. Complete silence until they pass."
The evacuation is chaos barely contained—people scrambling for hiding spots beneath vehicles, children's muffled sobs, the metallic taste of fear coating everyone's tongue.
POV: Scott
Scott slides under a sedan beside Andrea, their bodies pressed together in the cramped space that smells of motor oil and rust. Through the gap between tire and asphalt, he can see the approaching horde's feet—bare, torn, still moving despite massive trauma.
His System tracks individual walkers with mechanical precision, counting them like inventory.
[WALKER COUNT: 347 AND RISING]
[MOVEMENT SPEED: 1.2 MPH AVERAGE]
[ESTIMATED PASSAGE TIME: 23 MINUTES]
Andrea's hand finds his in the darkness, squeezing tight as the first walkers shuffle past their hiding spot. Scott forces his breathing to slow, using EMT training to control his heart rate while death walks overhead.
POV: Andrea
A walker pauses directly above Andrea's position, its torn feet visible through the car's undercarriage. She can hear it breathing—if the ragged wheeze counts as breathing—and smell the sweet rot that clings to its decomposing flesh.
"Don't move. Don't breathe. Don't think loud thoughts. Just wait for it to pass."
But the walker doesn't pass. It stands there, swaying slightly, as if sensing something that doesn't belong. Andrea's lungs burn with the need for oxygen, but she doesn't dare exhale.
POV: Scott
Scott sees the walker's hesitation and knows Andrea's in danger. Without thinking, he activates a System ability, targeting a spot twenty feet away.
[DISTRACTION: ACTIVATED]
[MANA: 40/50]
[TARGET: EMPTY BEER CAN]
The can rattles against asphalt with metallic precision, and the walker's head snaps toward the sound immediately. It shambles away from Andrea's position, drawn by the promise of prey.
Rick's eyes find Scott's through the maze of car parts, unspoken questions flickering between them. How did Scott know to create that distraction? How did he know exactly where to target it?
POV: Daryl Dixon
Daryl counts walkers as they pass, noting their condition and gear with professional assessment. Fresh ones mixed with older corpses, some still wearing the clothes they died in. A family vacation gone wrong, an evacuation that became a slaughter, individual tragedies merged into collective nightmare.
"Three hundred plus. Biggest horde I've seen since Atlanta. Something spooked them, got them moving in formation."
The question is what—and whether it's following behind them.
POV: Dale Horvath
Dale huddles beneath his beloved RV, listening to dead feet shuffle past the vehicle that's been home for months. Each footstep sounds like a countdown to discovery, exposure, death for everyone he's tried to protect.
"Please let the repairs hold. Please let us make it through this. I'm too old to die scared under a truck on some nameless highway."
The horde passes with geological slowness, each minute stretching like hours while they wait for the all-clear signal that might never come.
POV: Carol Peletier
Carol holds Sophia against her chest, feeling her daughter's heartbeat race like a hummingbird's wings. The little girl's face is buried against Carol's neck, small body trembling with controlled terror.
"Stay quiet, baby. Stay still. Mama's here. Mama won't let anything hurt you."
Through the car's undercarriage, Carol can see endless pairs of feet shuffling past—men's shoes, women's heels, children's sneakers. An entire community's worth of dead, walking in search of life to consume.
POV: Scott
Finally, mercifully, the last stragglers pass by and the highway falls silent except for distant moaning fading toward the horizon. Scott counts thirty seconds, then a full minute, before giving the all-clear signal.
People emerge from hiding spots like prairie dogs checking for predators, faces pale with adrenaline crash and relief. Children cling to parents, adults check weapons and scan for threats, everyone processing how close they came to joining that wandering mass grave.
"Everyone okay?" Rick asks, doing a quick headcount.
Nods all around, but Scott catches sight of movement at the tree line—a small figure wandering away from the group, chasing something colorful that flutters between the branches.
POV: Sophia Peletier
The butterfly is beautiful—orange and black wings dancing between the trees like a piece of summer made manifest. Sophia follows it deeper into the woods, enchanted by its graceful flight, forgetting about walkers and hiding and all the scary things adults worry about.
"Pretty butterfly. Don't fly away. I just want to see you up close."
Behind her, the sounds of camp and convoy fade to whispers. The butterfly leads her deeper into shadow where darker things wait with infinite patience for small prey to wander within reach.
POV: Scott
Scott's Danger Sense explodes with warning just as he spots Sophia disappearing into the tree line.
[IMMEDIATE THREAT DETECTED]
[SOPHIA PELETIER: IN DANGER]
[WALKER PROXIMITY: 15 METERS]
[INTERVENTION REQUIRED: IMMEDIATE]
"Shit! She's wandering right into a straggler."
Scott sprints toward the woods, ignoring the surprised shouts behind him. Through the trees, he can see Sophia reaching for the butterfly while something moves in the shadows beyond—rotted hands reaching for a child who doesn't know death is coming.
POV: Carol Peletier
Carol turns from checking their supplies to find empty space where her daughter stood moments before. Panic hits like ice water in her veins, flooding her system with maternal terror.
"Sophia!" Carol screams, spinning in place to search for any sign of her child. "SOPHIA!"
The name echoes through the woods where small footprints disappear between the trees, leading toward shadows that might hide anything.
POV: Scott
Scott crashes through the underbrush, following the sound of Sophia's delighted laughter and the rustle of approaching death. He breaks into a clearing just as the walker emerges from behind a tree—elderly male, funeral suit torn and stained, reaching for Sophia with fingers that end in broken nails.
Time dilates as Scott activates every enhanced ability his System offers.
[POWER STRIKE: ACTIVATED]
[COMBAT AWARENESS: MAXIMUM]
[STAMINA: 45/100]
Scott's knife punches through the walker's temple with surgical precision, dropping it instantly as he scoops Sophia into his arms. The little girl giggles, still watching the butterfly that led her into danger.
"Butterfly!" Sophia announces happily, pointing at the insect that's already disappearing deeper into the woods.
"I see it, sweetheart," Scott says, carrying her back toward the highway where Carol's voice grows increasingly frantic. "But we need to stay with Mama, okay? The woods aren't safe."
POV: Carol Peletier
Carol collapses in grateful tears as Scott emerges from the trees carrying Sophia safely in his arms. Her daughter—alive, unharmed, smiling like nothing happened while Carol's world reconstructs itself around the simple fact of her child's continued existence.
"Oh God, oh thank you," Carol sobs, taking Sophia from Scott's arms and holding her so tight the little girl protests. "Don't ever wander off like that again, baby. Never."
Scott accepts Carol's tearful gratitude with quiet grace, but his eyes are troubled as he watches the tree line. In canon, this was where Sophia got lost, starting the search that led them to Hershel's farm.
"I changed it. Saved her. But what does that mean for everything else? How many other butterfly effects will ripple out from this one moment?"
POV: Rick Grimes
Rick watches the reunion with complex emotions—relief that they didn't lose anyone, admiration for Scott's quick thinking, and growing questions about the man's uncanny ability to be in the right place at the right time.
"That's twice now. The distraction during the horde, finding Sophia before anything could happen. Either Scott's incredibly lucky or he knows things he's not sharing."
"Good catch," Rick tells Scott as they prepare to resume travel. "Fast thinking."
Scott nods, but his expression remains troubled. "Just glad I spotted her in time."
The convoy reorganizes quickly—Dale's RV running smooth with its new hose, everyone eager to put distance between themselves and the highway that nearly became their grave. As they roll deeper into Georgia countryside, Scott stares out the van's window and wonders what other canonical events he's accidentally preventing.
POV: Andrea
That night they camp in a defensible position beside an abandoned gas station, nerves still frayed from their close encounter with the horde. Andrea sits beside Scott as he takes first watch, noting the tension in his shoulders that hasn't relaxed since the highway.
"You saved her," Andrea says quietly. "Sophia. Carol's convinced you're an angel sent to protect her daughter."
Scott's smile is strained. "Just paying attention."
"You're always paying attention. Always seeing things before they happen." Andrea studies his profile in the firelight. "How do you do it?"
The question hangs between them like smoke from the dying fire. Scott knows she's putting pieces together, seeing patterns in his impossible timing and knowledge.
"Paranoia," Scott says finally. "This world teaches you to expect the worst."
It's not entirely a lie, but it's not entirely truth either. Andrea nods like she understands, but her eyes suggest she knows there's more to the story.
As Georgia's night sounds surround their small circle of light, Scott keeps watch and wonders how much longer he can maintain the illusion of ordinary luck. Today he saved Sophia from canonical death, but the questions in Andrea's eyes suggest his secret might not survive much longer.
For now, everyone breathes. Everyone lives. And maybe that's enough.
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