Distant Encounter

The expedition trudged steadily across the rolling foothills, where tall grasses rustled in the late morning breeze and half-collapsed roads hinted at a once-civilized world now reclaimed by nature. Leading the group were Mark and Leila, accompanied by two of Tamsin's watchers and a couple of orchard workers handling the ever-patient orchard donkey. Their goal: push onward to rumored enclaves deep in the hills, hoping to secure forging and carpentry alliances. But the orchard settlement's cautious optimism remained tinged with fear—of infiltration, sabotage, or the lurking threat of Jace and Ellie's band.

They started at dawn from the orchard's farmland gate, crossing gentle slopes of re-planted rows and then veering into a region of shallow valleys. The orchard donkey, harness jingling, seemed mostly unbothered by the terrain, though the orchard workers guiding it muttered occasionally about hidden rocks or the donkey's reluctance to cross narrow gullies. Tamsin's watchers stuck to the flanks, rifles half-raised, scanning for undead or raider ambushes.

Leila's mind weighed the orchard's many burdens: infiltration checks at home, the possibility that forging enclaves might be allied with Jace, and her own determination not to appear overly reliant on Kai—who had stayed behind to bolster orchard security. She pressed forward, forging a stoic front. Mark took point, referencing partial maps gleaned from travelers, while Tamsin's watchers eyed every shadow.

By mid-morning, the group's cautious route brought them to an abandoned stretch of asphalt. Once perhaps a country road, it now lay cracked and overgrown, a scattering of battered vehicles rusting in the scrub. Farther on, near a crumbling intersection, stood the silhouette of a partially intact store—its metal sign half fallen, letters worn away by time. A low hush fell over the expedition.

Mark held up a hand, signaling the orchard donkey to halt. The watchers fanned out, scanning the store's surroundings. Broken windows gaped like empty eyes, vines curling over the façade. A sun-bleached parking lot stretched before it, cluttered with toppled shelves, twisted debris, and the shells of old cars. The orchard donkey let out a cautious snort, orchard workers patting its flank.

"Should we check it?" one orchard worker whispered, glancing at Leila. "Might find salvageable stuff—canned goods, maybe some tools."

Tamsin's watchers exchanged wary glances, each suspecting infiltration or undead. But the orchard donkey brayed softly, as if urging them onward. Mark furrowed his brow. "We do need supplies. Let's approach carefully."

Leila studied the store, gut twisting. Could be a cluster of undead inside. She recalled infiltration attempts that sometimes lured unsuspecting enclaves into abandoned buildings. But this was a prime chance to scavenge—the orchard settlement always needed more resources. She forced down her nerves. "Alright," she said, voice firm. "Two watchers stay with the donkey, orchard workers check the perimeter, Mark and I will go inside with one watcher. Quiet and methodical. No infiltration illusions, no sloppy mistakes."

They approached slowly, picking a path through the littered parking lot. The watchers stepped in front, rifles raised, orchard workers following with eyes peeled. The orchard donkey remained tethered to a rusted pole on the outskirts, the second watcher standing guard. Broken glass crunched underfoot as they reached the store entrance—a twisted metal frame that once held automatic doors.

A rancid odor hit them, making everyone recoil. Undead stench. Tamsin's watcher grimaced. "Stay sharp," he muttered. They inched inside the dim interior, beams of sunlight filtering through ragged holes in the roof. Racks of toppled merchandise lay in disarray. Dust motes danced in the stale air.

Leila's heart pounded, memory flitting to infiltration or sabotage attempts in similarly decrepit buildings. She raised her machete, scanning for movement. Mark, orchard staff behind them, clutched small weapons. The watchers kept rifles at the ready. Then they heard it—a rasping shuffle, a low moan echoing from behind a half-collapsed aisle.

"Zombies," Mark mouthed, eyes narrowing. The orchard donkey brayed outside, as if sensing the tension.

As if summoned by the sound of intruders, a small cluster of undead stumbled into view—at least half a dozen. Their flesh hung in tattered strips, clothing rotted or burnt. One had a missing lower jaw, another dragged a twisted leg. The orchard donkey's bray drifted faintly from outside as the watchers braced.

In a fluid motion, Tamsin's watcher raised his rifle, firing a short burst into the lead zombie. It collapsed in a welter of gore, but the gunshots echoed, stirring the rest into an agitated shuffle. They moaned hungrily, arms reaching, and more shapes emerged from the gloom behind the shelves—a few more walkers than they'd initially seen.

"Fall back or fight?" Mark hissed. But retreat risked them spreading out or losing a salvage opportunity.

Leila set her jaw. "We handle it carefully. No infiltration illusions—these are just undead. Keep formation."

She stepped forward, machete raised, meeting the nearest walker's lunge. A single slash severed its neck, sending it sprawling. Mark swung a short axe, orchard worker behind him supporting with a small blade. Tamsin's watcher fired controlled shots, dispatching two more with precise headshots. Broken metal shelves clattered as the undead flailed among them.

But the gloom of the store masked movement, and soon a straggling zombie—a slight figure in a shredded store uniform—lurched from behind a toppled display. The orchard donkey's bray grew muffled in the distance, orchard staff busy at the perimeter. Tamsin's watcher turned to shoot, only to have his line of sight blocked by an aisle. Meanwhile, Mark hacked at another undead.

Leila pivoted, scanning for infiltration or sabotage threats. Only undead, she reminded herself, chest tight. But a sense of foreboding pricked her: One wrong step, and it ends badly. Then the straggler lurched at her side, catching her unawares with skeletal fingers raking at her arm.

The undead pinned Leila against a fallen shelf, rancid breath assaulting her senses. Instantly, memories flared—Jace's final betrayal, pushing her into a corridor swarming with walkers. She gasped, heart pounding, as flashes of that day replayed: the searing pain, the vile stench, the hopeless screams. Her machete arm was pinned, her adrenaline spiking. No, not again, her mind screamed.

The walker's slack jaws snapped inches from her face, decayed eyes rolling with insatiable hunger. She fought back a wave of panic, shoving with her free hand to keep its teeth from her neck. A strangled cry escaped her throat—she wouldn't die like this again.

Across the store, Mark shouted something, orchard staff calling for watchers. But the shuffle of undead drowned them out. In a desperate move, Leila brought her knee up, jarring the zombie's rotted torso. It stumbled, giving her enough room to wrench her machete arm free. She swung with trembling force—the blade arcing through its skull in a spray of congealed blood.

The walker collapsed, and she staggered back, chest heaving. The store's stale air felt suffocating. For an instant, she remained half-crouched, mind swirling with the memory of betrayal. I almost froze. But she forced it down, refusing to let the fear consume her.

Tamsin's watcher finished off the last undead with a final shot, the echoes reverberating through the store. Silence followed, broken only by the orchard donkey's distant bray from outside. Mark approached Leila, orchard worker scanning for any remaining undead. A half-dozen corpses lay strewn among toppled shelves, no infiltration sign—just the bleak reality of a decaying world.

"Leila, you alright?" Mark asked, concern etched on his face.

She nodded stiffly, refusing to show weakness. "I'm fine. Just… a close call." She rose to her feet, machete dripping gore, her heart still hammering. "Keep searching. Let's salvage what we can and go."

The orchard donkey brayed again, orchard staff outside presumably keeping it calm. Tamsin's watcher stepped over a corpse, orchard worker rummaging behind a half-broken counter. They discovered a small storeroom in the back, shelves still holding a few dusty cans—vegetables, maybe some fruit, and even a couple of battered medical kits. The orchard donkey would be able to carry them easily.

Mark exhaled relief, orchard staff collecting the items in an old crate. "Not a huge haul, but better than nothing."

Leila forced a nod, adrenaline slowly ebbing. The orchard donkey's bray sounded closer as orchard workers signaled it was safe to approach. Tamsin's watcher kept watch at the store's entrance, orchard staff assisting with loading the donkey. Broken shards of infiltration worry flickered through Leila's mind—thankfully, no sabotage. This store had only the undead to claim it.

Leila turned away for a moment, eyes squeezed shut. The memory of Jace flared in her mind: his cold grin as he orchestrated her doom in that other timeline, the savage feeling of being devoured by the horde. Her stomach churned, breath unsteady. She pressed a hand to her chest. Not again, she told herself. I survived, we overcame infiltration, and I won't let old fear break me.

In the corner of her vision, Mark approached. "You sure you're okay?" he asked softly, noticing the tremor in her hands.

She steeled her expression. "I'm fine," she said, eyes fixed on the orchard donkey outside. "Let's finish up." She refused to appear weak, especially in front of orchard staff who looked to her for unwavering leadership. I can't let them see the old terror that lingers.

Mark studied her face, noticing the slight tremor in her machete arm, her tense shoulders. He opened his mouth to press further but caught the hard glint in her eyes. Instead, he simply nodded, orchard staff bustling around them, Tamsin's watcher re-checking for any stray undead. "Alright, let's go," Mark said, voice gently laced with empathy.

Leila moved to help orchard workers carry the crate of salvaged provisions. Her leg muscles still twitched with leftover adrenaline, her chest a swirl of emotion. This store reeked of the past, she thought, pushing away the flashbacks. I'm not dying again. The orchard donkey brayed from outside, orchard staff motioning for them to hurry.

She shook off Mark's lingering concern, determined not to let him see the full extent of her fear. The orchard watchers needed a confident leader, not a victim of old nightmares. "We'll distribute these supplies back at the orchard," she told Mark, voice level, ignoring her racing pulse.

They exited the store, orchard donkey stamping at debris in the cracked asphalt outside, Tamsin's watcher scanning the road. No infiltration sign, no more undead. Just a small victory, overshadowed by the memory of near tragedy. The orchard donkey's harness jingled as orchard staff strapped the salvaged goods in place, Mark keeping an eye on Tamsin's watchers for infiltration or sabotage hints.

Leila refused to look back at the store. The orchard donkey plodded forward, orchard staff guiding it as they resumed their route. Mark and Tamsin's watchers took point, orchard staff forming a defensive ring. She lingered near the rear, gripping her machete, mind swirling with half-buried horrors. I mustn't falter. The orchard depends on me.

Mark cast a sidelong glance, noticing her trembling fingers. She caught him looking, shot him a quick glare that said don't mention it. He nodded subtly, orchard watchers forging ahead, orchard donkey braying once more at the silent highway. The orchard donkey seemed calmer than she felt.

By late afternoon, the expedition pressed onward, farmland receding behind them, the orchard settlement out of sight. They carried the small crate of salvaged provisions as a modest victory. Tamsin's watchers remained on high alert, orchard staff discussing the forging enclaves rumored to lie ahead. Leila walked with measured steps, refusing to let her near brush with the undead reveal her private terror or the flashbacks of Jace's betrayal.

Mark occasionally hovered close, scanning for infiltration or undead. He noticed the tension in her posture but respected her boundary, offering no overt pity. The orchard donkey plodded dutifully, orchard workers guiding it with subdued chatter. A hush of camaraderie tinged with wariness enveloped them all.

Leila's mind replayed the store encounter, the undead pinning her, how her machete nearly slipped from her trembling grasp. But she forced the memory aside, steeling her nerves. I overcame infiltration attempts, died once before. I'll handle this, too. She inhaled the crisp air, gaze steadying on the road ahead.