Chapter 40

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long amber shadows across the desolate Georgia backroads. Faded asphalt cracked like old scars beneath the spinning tires of the beat-up pickup truck. Dust billowed behind them in a steady trail, curling like smoke into the evening sky.

Inside the cab, the silence was oppressive. Only the soft creak of the seatbelt and the occasional rattle of loose tools in the glovebox filled the space between breaths. The scent of sweat, old gasoline, and faint decay clung to everything.

Shane gripped the steering wheel with one hand, the knuckles white against sunburned skin. His other hand rested tensely on his thigh, the fingers twitching every few seconds like they were aching to grab something—anything—to release the pressure building in his chest. His jaw was tight, teeth grinding together every time his eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. He hadn't stopped looking back for miles.

Beside him, Dale sat stiffly, his rifle resting upright between his knees. His lips were pursed tight beneath his white beard, and his eyes were bloodshot from hours of watching the treeline for movement. The old man looked like he hadn't blinked in the last hour.

In the backseat, the Governor's daughter was slumped against the door. Pale, her skin almost gray in the fading light. Her cloudy eyes stared ahead at nothing, her mouth occasionally twitching beneath the loose gag Shane had tied around her head. She didn't growl, didn't lunge. She just breathed—slow, shallow, like something caught between life and death.

Behind them, a dark cloud began to form again. It started as a smudge on the horizon—then thickened, expanding into a swirling mass of dirt, motion, and rot.

"They're still comin'," Shane muttered, narrowing his eyes. "Like a damn shadow."

Dale craned his neck to see. "How far out do you think they are?"

"Closer than I'd like."

The truck jolted as Shane made a sudden turn, eyes scanning the roadside. The trees thinned to the right, revealing a shallow basin, ringed with dry, skeletal oaks and overgrown brush. A perfect killing field—quiet, isolated, and far enough from Woodbury to do what had to be done.

"This is it," Shane said. "End of the line."

He pulled the truck off the road, bouncing over rocks and ruts until the vehicle came to a stop beneath a gnarled oak tree, its bare branches twisting against the fading sky like reaching fingers.

The horde was getting louder. Groans, snarls, the occasional thump of feet against earth.

Shane flung open the door and stepped out. He didn't say anything—just walked to the passenger side, yanked the door open, and pulled the girl's limp form tighter into the back seat.

"She stays in the truck," he growled. 

Dale was already climbing out on his side, his expression grim. "You sure he's gonna fall for this?"

Shane looked at him, the corners of his mouth twitching in a dark, bitter smile. "He's already here."

From the edge of the basin, the shadows stirred.

They came in waves—first one, then two, then dozens. The Runners emerged from the trees, fast and twitching with that unnatural energy. Their eyes gleamed in the dim light, and their movement was jerky but purposeful—driven by something more than just instinct.

At their center, walking with slow, deliberate steps, was the Governor.

His coat billowed with each step, one arm tucked against his body where Dale's bullet had torn through him days earlier. His face was a pale mask of fury and obsession. His eye, the single one left to him, locked on the truck like it was the only thing in the world.

Shane stood his ground, the barrel of his pistol tilted down but ready. His breathing was steady, but every muscle in his body was coiled tight.

The Governor stopped fifteen feet away. The horde behind him hissed and moaned, waiting. Watching.

"You got what you wanted," Shane called out, voice sharp. "She's here."

The Governor said nothing.

He stood motionless, his long coat stirring in the warm breeze, his face pale and expressionless. But his eye—his one remaining eye—shifted subtly, narrowing as he tried to peer through the cracked windshield of the truck. He was searching for her. For his daughter.

Then—his hand moved.

Too slow. Too deliberate.

A glint of dull metal caught the dying light.

Dale's instincts kicked in. "Gun!" he barked, his voice raw with urgency, snapping his rifle up in one fluid motion.

The Governor raised his pistol, lips curled into a ghost of a smile—cold and murderous.

But Dale was faster.

His rifle cracked, the echo rolling like thunder across the field. The bullet struck true, punching into the Governor's chest with a meaty thud. He staggered back, breath hitching, his face twisting with pain—but somehow, impossibly, he didn't fall.

Instead, he turned.

And that's when it happened.

From the canopy above, high in the gnarled branches, came a whisper of motion—a blur barely seen.

Daryl's bolt struck with surgical precision, burying itself just above the Governor's temple.

His body stiffened, twitched once—

Then crumpled to the dirt.

The Runners twitched.

One by one, they straightened—heads snapping toward the source of the gunfire. Their groans returned, but now disjointed, chaotic. No longer in sync. No longer coordinated.

Then they turned.

Toward the noise. Toward the scent. Toward Shane and Dale.

Shane's stomach dropped. His eyes widened as he watched the horde shift focus, their attention now solely on them.

"They're free," Dale breathed, stepping back toward the truck, his voice barely audible over the rising cacophony.

The Runners let out a collective scream—not in unison, but as a discordant chorus of hunger and rage. No longer bound to the Governor's commands, they charged like unleashed animals.

"Truck! Now!" Shane barked, urgency lacing his voice.

They scrambled for the cab, slamming doors, fumbling with seatbelts. Shane's hands trembled as he turned the key. The engine sputtered, coughed, then roared to life.

Shane twisted around in the seat, glancing out the shattered rear window. "They're comin' fast!"

And they were.

Like a black tide, the Runners poured down the hillside. Dozens. Hundreds. Sprinting on all fours, hurling themselves at rocks and brush, clawing at the very earth to gain speed.

The truck lurched forward, tires spinning briefly before finding traction. The road ahead stretched long and open, but the horde was gaining.

"Hold on!" Dale shouted, swerving around a fallen tree, his knuckles white as he gripped the wheel.

The Governor's daughter groaned in the backseat, slamming into the door as the truck took a sharp turn. Her eyes, once vacant, now flickered with a semblance of awareness.

Shane twisted back toward the gas gauge.

Empty.

He stared at it, throat dry, chest pounding.

"Shit," he muttered.

"What?" Dale asked, eyes fixed on the road.

Shane looked up quickly, forcing a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "We're good," he lied. "We'll make it."

Dale's eyes flicked toward him, suspicion flashing in his tired gaze. He didn't press it—but he didn't believe it, either.

Behind them, the Runners followed relentlessly, a snarling sea of flesh tearing through the trees.

Suddenly, a loud thud reverberated through the truck as a rock slammed into the rear window, spiderwebbing the glass.

"They're throwing rocks!" Shane exclaimed, ducking instinctively.

Another rock crashed against the side mirror, shattering it into pieces.

A Runner, faster than the rest, sprinted alongside the truck, hurling a jagged stone that struck the passenger window, cracking it.

"They're trying to break in!" Dale shouted, accelerating.

The truck bounced over uneven terrain, the tires struggling to maintain grip. The Runners, undeterred, continued their assault, some picking up debris to hurl at the vehicle.

One particularly large Runner leaped onto the truck bed, pounding on the rear window with a bloodied fist.

Shane turned, eyes wide. "Get off!" he yelled, reaching for his pistol.

Before he could fire, the Runner was thrown off balance as the truck hit a bump, sending it tumbling onto the road.

More Runners took its place, some attempting to climb onto the sides, their fingers clawing at the metal.

Dale swerved violently, trying to shake them off. "They're like ants!"

The Governor's daughter let out a guttural moan, her chains rattling as she shifted in the backseat.

Shane glanced at her, then back at the horde. "We need to lose them."

The road ahead narrowed, flanked by dense woods. Branches scraped against the sides of the truck as they barreled through.

A Runner managed to grab onto the passenger door handle, its snarling face pressed against the window.

Shane fired through the glass, the bullet hitting the Runner square in the forehead. It released its grip, falling away.

The truck emerged from the woods onto an open stretch of highway. The Runners, momentarily slowed by the trees, began to fall behind.

Shane exhaled, relief washing over him. "I think we lost them."

Dale didn't respond, his eyes scanning the rearview mirror.