Chapter 41

The truck rumbled over the cracked, timeworn asphalt, each bump in the road causing the rusted suspension to creak in protest. The endless stretch of barren land around them was a ghost of the world that once was—fields long abandoned, trees stripped of foliage, and silence so complete it pressed on the ears like a weight. The sky, overcast and bruised with dark clouds, hung low, casting a gray pall over the land.

Inside the cab, tension simmered. The cabin reeked of gasoline, sweat, and the faint coppery trace of dried blood. Shane gripped the steering wheel like it was the last thread tethering him to sanity. His fingers were locked in a death grip, the knuckles white as bone. His jaw clenched tight, a muscle ticking violently at the side of his face. His eyes—sharp, wary, and cold—kept flicking between the broken road ahead and the rearview mirror. The reflection staring back wasn't just the dusty road. It was paranoia. It was guilt.

Beside him, Dale watched silently, his face carved with lines that age and fear had etched deeper over the months. His grizzled beard twitched with every bump in the road. He squinted at Shane with eyes that were part suspicion, part sadness—like he already knew what was coming but didn't want to believe it.

"You've been quiet," Dale said finally, his voice gravelly and laced with unease. The words hung in the air like smoke, disrupting the heavy silence between them.

Shane didn't answer at once. His lips pressed into a firm, bloodless line. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and strained. "Just thinking."

Dale leaned back, arms crossed, his brow furrowed. "Thinking about what? Murphy? Or about how you can't stand the fact that he's done more good for the group than you ever did?"

That struck a nerve. Shane's grip on the steering wheel tightened even more—if that were possible. His eyes darted toward Dale for the briefest second, a flash of anger lighting them up like a fuse.

"Murphy's a damn liability," he snapped, voice sharp with the heat of long-held resentment. "You think he's helping us? You think he's some kind of messiah? He's a beacon, Dale. A damn flare in the night for those freaks."

Dale's eyes narrowed, his jaw twitching. "That's a hell of a claim. Got any proof? Or is this just more of your paranoia talking?"

Shane let out a bitter laugh, devoid of humor. "You saw what happened. Morales found us. You think that's a coincidence? And now there's this Prophet out there.we don't even know how many more of those bastards are out there. And they all seem to sniff us out. Murphy's got something in him, something wrong. It draws them like moths to a flame."

The truck's fuel gauge dipped lower, the needle trembling on the edge of red. Shane's eyes caught it, and a flicker of panic darted across his face. He knew they weren't going to make it back to Woodbury. Not on this tank. Not even close.

He glanced into the back seat. A soft groan issued from behind them—the Governor's undead daughter. Her pale, bloated face twitched as her vacant eyes stared straight ahead. Hair matted with filth, jaw slack, teeth grinding softly, she was a haunting reminder of the nightmare world they lived in. A world where even children weren't spared.

Then, a grim realization dawned.

There was only enough walker guts to cover one person.

His mind snapped into survival mode.

Without hesitation, Shane drew his knife. The steel flashed in the dying light. With a swift, practiced movement, he plunged the blade deep into the walker's skull. The groan cut off instantly. The undead girl's body sagged, collapsing lifelessly onto the seat.

"What the hell are you doing?" Dale jerked around, eyes wide, voice raised in alarm.

Shane didn't answer. His face had gone blank—emotionless, cold. He reached back, hands moving fast, cutting into the body, dragging out entrails with grim determination. He began smearing the thick, viscous gore onto his shirt, rubbing it into his jeans, his arms, even his face. The smell hit him like a punch in the gut, bile rising in his throat, but he forced it down.

Realization hit Dale like a hammer. He turned pale. "You're leaving me."

Shane paused, his face a mask of conflicted emotion. He didn't look at Dale directly. "I'm sorry," he said hoarsely. "It's the only way."

Dale's hand moved for his weapon. "Don't you dare."

But Shane was faster. Like a striking viper, he lunged across the cab, knife flashing again—this time plunging into Dale's thigh. Dale screamed, collapsing sideways, blood pooling fast beneath him.

"You son of a—!" he gasped, clutching his leg.

Shane backed away, still dripping in walker gore. His eyes met Dale's. For a moment, there was a flicker of something—guilt, regret, maybe even sorrow—but it vanished behind a wall of hardened resolve.

Outside, the snarls and howls of Runners grew louder. A fast-moving horde, their distorted forms already cresting the distant ridge. Shane took one final look at the truck. At Dale. At what he'd done.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again.

Then he opened the door and stepped out.

He shut it behind him softly, blending into the world of death. The walkers around him didn't even flinch. Covered in their filth, he was one of them now. Just another shuffling figure in the crowd. He walked steadily, never looking back.

Inside the cab, Dale groaned in agony, his body wracked with pain. His face twisted into a grimace as he dragged himself upright, using the dashboard for support. Every movement sent searing bolts of pain through his leg where Shane's knife had torn flesh and muscle. Blood oozed steadily from the wound, soaking through his jeans, pooling beneath him on the vinyl seat. His hands, coated in the sticky warmth of his own blood, slipped as he fumbled with the door locks, slamming them down with trembling fingers.

His breathing was ragged, sharp gasps mingled with low groans. Cold sweat matted his graying hair to his forehead, and his vision swam as he looked around the cab in desperation. His eyes darted wildly—over the blood-spattered windshield, across the glove compartment, under the seats. There had to be something. A gun. A knife. A wrench. Anything.

But there was nothing.

Just the growing sound of death.

The Runners were upon him now.

The first pounding on the truck shook it like a thunderclap. Then more followed—fists, feet, rocks, crowbars. A symphony of violence. The metal groaned beneath the barrage. Windowpanes shuddered, spiderwebbing with cracks under the relentless assault. The truck rocked slightly with the sheer force of the mob pressing against it.

Dale turned toward the driver's side window just in time to see a twisted, blood-slick face slam against the glass, leaving a smeared streak of gore. The Runner's eyes were wide and wild, lips peeled back to reveal yellowed teeth gnashing hungrily. It let out a guttural scream that vibrated through the glass and into Dale's bones.

Panicking, Dale braced himself against the passenger door, trying to buy a few more seconds. His hand slipped on the gear stick, leaving behind a slick smear of red. He fumbled with a broken tire iron on the floor, grasping it with slippery hands just as the first window gave way.

A horrific crash rang out—the driver's side window shattered inward in an explosion of glittering shards. Dale flinched instinctively, covering his face as bits of broken glass embedded in his skin. A Runner lunged through the opening, half-climbing into the cab, eyes blazing with savage hunger.

"Get back!" Dale roared, his voice thick with desperation. He swung the tire iron wildly, connecting with the creature's skull. There was a sickening crunch, and the Runner collapsed halfway into the cab, still twitching.

But there were more.

Another followed—faster, stronger, relentless. Its arms clawed at Dale's shirt, nails raking against his chest. He slammed the tire iron again, but his strength was fading. His leg throbbed with each heartbeat, blood loss stealing away his stamina. He managed one more swing before the weapon slipped from his grasp, clattering to the floor.

Hands—so many hands—began pouring through the shattered window, grabbing at his shoulders, his arms, his throat. The rear window cracked, then burst as another Runner climbed onto the truck bed and smashed its way in from behind.

Dale screamed again—raw and primal.

"SHANE!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "Shane, please!"

The name left his lips like a final plea, a last hope that somewhere in that sea of death, Shane might turn back. Might come for him. Might save him.

But Shane was already gone. Far beyond reach. A shadow swallowed by the shifting tide of undead bodies.

The Runners surged into the cab.

The first tore into his shoulder with jagged teeth, ripping flesh away in a spray of blood. Another bit into his arm. Another into his side. Pain erupted like fire across Dale's body as he writhed, his screams muffled under the growls of the feeding horde.