The Walking Dead: Outside The Wire

Marcus moved through the Georgian forest with the measured pace of someone who'd learned to conserve energy over long distances. The canopy above filtered the afternoon sunlight into shifting patterns of gold and shadow, and his boots found purchase on the carpet of fallen leaves with barely a whisper of sound. Pine needles clung to the humid air, mixing with the earthy scent of decomposing wood and the ever-present underlying stench of death that had become the world's new perfume.

He stepped over a fallen log, noting the scratch marks in the bark—claws, probably from a raccoon or possum. The forest was reclaiming itself, nature filling the void left by civilization's collapse. Vines strangled abandoned fence posts, and wildflowers pushed through cracks in what had once been a hiking trail. It would have been beautiful, if not for the occasional glimpse of bones scattered among the undergrowth.

As he walked, Marcus's mind drifted back to the encounter at the shack. The girl—Beth—had been nervous but determined. Green, but not stupid. She'd answered his questions honestly, which was more than he could say for most people these days. And Daryl... that one was interesting. Crossbow, tactical awareness, the way he'd positioned himself when Marcus had spoken. Military training, maybe. Or just someone who'd learned to survive the hard way.

The thought of survival brought his mind to Terminus. Those who arrive survive. The slogan had been plastered on every railroad sign for fifty miles. In his experience, when something sounded too good to be true, it's usually a sham. Real sanctuaries didn't advertise—they couldn't afford to. Broadcasting your location was an invitation to raiders, desperate people, or worse. Either whoever was running Terminus was incredibly naive, or they had a very different definition of "survival" than most people.

Marcus checked his watch: 2:00 PM. He paused beside a massive oak tree and shrugged off his pack, retrieving a worn map from the side pocket. His finger traced the route from his current position to the CDC in Atlanta. Still a considerable distance—at least a day's travel, maybe more depending on road conditions and walker density. With evening approaching and the inherent dangers of night travel, he'd need to find shelter soon.

The forest began to thin as he approached the road, the trees giving way to the skeletal remains of a gas station. The pumps stood like metal tombstones, their screens dark and cracked. A pickup truck sat nearby, its driver's door hanging open, dried blood on the seat telling a story Marcus had seen too many times before.

He emerged onto the asphalt, the heat radiating up from the pavement even through his boots. The road stretched in both directions, empty except for the occasional abandoned vehicle. Most were either burned out, stripped for parts, or had obviously been there since the early days of the outbreak. But Marcus needed transportation, and patience was a virtue he'd learned to cultivate.

The first car—a sedan with Georgia plates—had a dead battery and keys nowhere to be found. The second, a minivan, had been gutted by fire. The third looked promising until he discovered the engine block was cracked, probably from overheating. The fourth vehicle, a dusty Ford pickup, finally offered hope. The keys were in the ignition, and when Marcus turned them, the engine coughed but didn't catch.

He popped the hood and spent ten minutes checking connections, cleaning corrosion from the battery terminals with his knife. Military training had included basic vehicle maintenance, and two decades of fieldwork had expanded that knowledge considerably. Finally, he gave up on the legitimate approach and reached under the dashboard.

Hotwiring a vehicle was a skill he'd hoped never to need again, but muscle memory guided his fingers as he stripped the ignition wires. The engine turned over on the third try, settling into a rough but serviceable idle.

Marcus pulled onto the road, windows down to catch any sound that might indicate trouble. The countryside rolled past—overgrown fields, collapsed farmhouses, the occasional herd of cattle gone feral. A billboard advertised a restaurant that had probably been closed for months before the outbreak even started. Nature was patient, but relentless. Give it enough time, and it would erase every trace of human civilization.

His thoughts turned to Dr. Jenner and the CDC explosion. Marcus had worked with enough scientists to understand the mentality. When faced with an impossible problem, some people chose to ensure their failure couldn't make things worse. If the facility had lost power, if Jenner had exhausted his research options, the explosion would have been a failsafe—prevent the escape of any dangerous pathogens, destroy any research that might be misused.

It was logical, even admirable in its way. But it also meant that whatever answers Marcus hoped to find might be nothing more than radioactive ash.

He glanced at his watch again: 4:00 PM. The sun was beginning its descent toward the western horizon, visible through the windshield as a orange orb that would soon start painting the sky in shades of red and gold. Time to find shelter for the night.

The small town appeared around a bend in the road—maybe two dozen buildings clustered around what had once been a main street. Most of the storefronts were dark, their windows either boarded up or shattered. A few cars sat abandoned in the middle of the street, doors open as if their occupants had fled in panic.

On the outskirts of town, Marcus spotted what he was looking for: a modest two-story house set back from the road, connected by a gravel driveway that curved through a stand of pine trees. The isolation was perfect—far enough from the main road to avoid casual notice, but close enough for a quick exit if needed.

He drove past the house and parked the truck behind it, where it would be hidden from anyone passing on the road. The backyard was overgrown with weeds, and a child's bicycle lay rusted beside a collapsed swing set. Marcus felt a familiar tightness in his chest at the sight—reminders of the world that had been lost.

The back door was solid wood with a glass panel. Marcus knocked firmly, three measured raps that would carry through the house. The response was immediate: low moans and the sound of shuffling feet. Four distinct voices, maybe five. He waited, listening to their movement patterns, mapping the interior layout in his mind.

Marcus drew his combat knife from its shoulder harness and retrieved a small flashlight from his belt. The blade was a seven-inch fixed steel, honed to razor sharpness—a tool that had served him well in darker times and places. He tested the back door handle. Locked, but the glass panel was already cracked.

A careful application of pressure with his knife handle, and the glass gave way with a soft tinkle. Marcus reached through and turned the deadbolt, then eased the door open.

The kitchen was bathed in afternoon shadows, but his flashlight revealed the scene clearly. The first shambler had been a woman, probably in her fifties, wearing a floral housedress now stained with decay. She turned toward the sound of his entry, milky eyes focusing on him with predatory hunger.

Marcus moved with practiced efficiency. A quick step forward, his left hand grabbing the creature's shoulder to control its movement, his right driving the knife up under its chin and into the brain stem. The body went limp immediately, and he lowered it quietly to the floor.

The second shambler appeared in the doorway leading to the living room—a man in his thirties, probably the woman's son, wearing a t-shirt and jeans. Marcus used the doorframe to his advantage, letting the creature stumble forward before executing the same maneuver. Clean, quiet, efficient.

The third and fourth shamblers came together, probably drawn by the light from the flashlight. A teenage boy and an older man, both moving with the shambling gait of long-dead corpses. Marcus backed into the kitchen, using the narrow space to funnel them into a single line. The boy came first, arms reaching with mindless hunger. Marcus sidestepped, grabbed the creature's wrist, and used its momentum to drive his knife into its temple. It dropped, but the motion brought the older man within reach.

This one was different—fresher, stronger. It grabbed Marcus's wrist before he could withdraw the knife, its grip surprisingly powerful. Marcus didn't panic. He'd faced worse odds with less preparation. A sharp knee to the creature's midsection broke its hold, and a quick thrust to the base of the skull finished it.

Four bodies lay on the kitchen floor, their second deaths as quiet as their first should have been. Marcus wiped his blade clean on one of the corpses' shirts, then began the tedious process of dragging them outside. The physical labor was nothing compared to the mental weight—each body had been a person once, with hopes and fears and people who loved them.

But that was the old world. This was survival.

With the house cleared, Marcus secured the back door and moved through the rooms, closing curtains and checking for any signs of other occupants. The living room was modestly furnished—a couch, coffee table, television that would never broadcast again. Family photos on the mantle showed happier times: vacation pictures, birthday parties, graduation ceremonies.

Marcus settled onto the couch and allowed himself a deep sigh. The first moment of true relaxation in weeks. He retrieved a candle from his pack and lit it with his zippo, placing it on the coffee table. The flickering flame cast dancing shadows on the walls, creating the illusion of warmth in a world that had gone cold.

He spread his map on the table, marking his current position with a small X. Halfway to the CDC, maybe less. If he left at 8:00 AM, he could be there by 10:00, assuming no major obstacles. The question was whether there would be anything left to find.

Hunger gnawed at his stomach, reminding him that he'd been running on adrenaline and determination for most of the day. Marcus selected a can of beef stew from his pack and opened it with his knife, the metal peeling back to reveal the contents. He ate mechanically, his mind already moving to tomorrow's challenges.

The house was quiet except for the occasional creak of settling wood and the distant sound of wind through the trees. Marcus finished his meal and set the empty can aside, then leaned back against the couch cushions. Fatigue was creeping in, the accumulated weight of sleepless nights and constant vigilance finally catching up with him.

He blew out the candle, plunging the room into darkness. In the old world, he would have checked his phone, maybe watched some television, called someone to let them know he was safe. Now, safety was a luxury measured in hours, not days.

Marcus closed his eyes and let sleep take him, his knife and pistol within easy reach and his ears tuned to any sound that might mean danger. Tomorrow would bring its own challenges, but tonight, he was alive. In this new world, that was enough.

xxx

Marcus woke at 6:32 AM, three minutes before his internal alarm would have pulled him from sleep anyway. Two years of civilian life hadn't broken the habit—his body still operated on the rigid schedule that had kept him alive through a dozen black ops missions. Even after his honorable discharge, even after the comfortable suburban routine with Sarah and Emma, some patterns were too deeply ingrained to fade.

The sound of birds chirping outside made him pause for a moment, a cruel mockery of normalcy. For just a heartbeat, he could almost pretend the world was still the same—that he'd wake up to Sarah making coffee downstairs, that Emma would be complaining about some teenage drama over breakfast. But the silence beyond the birdsong was too complete, too empty. The world had moved on without the hum of civilization, and no amount of wishful thinking would bring it back.

He pulled himself up from the couch, joints protesting the night spent on unfamiliar cushions. Marcus walked to the window and lifted the curtain's edge, squinting against the morning light. The sun hung low in the eastern sky, casting long shadows across the overgrown yard. His watch confirmed what his body already knew: 6:39 AM.

Without thinking, Marcus began his morning routine. Push-ups first—fifty clean reps that worked the sleep from his muscles. Then sit-ups, stretches, a brief series of isometric exercises that kept his body functional. It was a ritual that had persisted through everything: boot camp, special ops training, countless missions, civilian life, and now this new world of the walking dead.

He maintained the regimen not out of vanity or even hope for the future, but because discipline was armor against chaos. Every push-up was a declaration that he hadn't given up, that he was still a weapon to be maintained rather than a man slowly surrendering to despair. In a world where everything had fallen apart, the familiar burn of exercise was an anchor to who he used to be.

Marcus retrieved another can from his pack—corn this time—and opened it with his combat knife. The metal scraped against metal, a sound that would have bothered him in the old world but now seemed as natural as breathing. He ate mechanically, fuel for the machine, tasting nothing.

By 7:15, he was packed and ready. The half-used candle went back in his pack along with the flashlight and map. His pistol settled into its familiar spot at his waist, the combat knife sliding into its shoulder holster with practiced ease. He wanted to be on the road before 7:30, which would put him at the CDC by mid-morning.

That's when he heard the engines.

Marcus moved to the window, instincts prickling. Two vehicles approached fast—a sedan in the lead, an SUV close behind. The sedan's driving was erratic, desperate, while the SUV maintained steady pursuit. This wasn't random travel; this was a hunt.

The sedan skidded to a stop outside the house, tires throwing gravel. Three people tumbled out—a man in his forties with graying hair, a woman about the same age, and a girl who couldn't be more than eighteen. The terror on their faces was raw, primal. Marcus had seen that look before.

The family ran toward the house's front door, the father looking back over his shoulder at the approaching SUV. Five men emerged from the second vehicle, moving with the lazy confidence of predators who knew their prey was cornered. Marcus recognized the type—the kind of men who'd found opportunity in chaos, who'd discovered that the end of the world meant the end of consequences.

The family disappeared inside the house. Marcus heard the front door slam, then the heavier sound of boots on the porch. He moved away from the window, muscle memory guiding him toward the kitchen and the back exit.

"Please," came a voice from the front of the house—the father, pleading. "We don't have anything. Just let us go."

Laughter answered him, cruel and predatory. "Oh, but you do have something, friend. You got a pretty wife and a prettier daughter."

Marcus paused at the kitchen door, his hand on the knob. This wasn't his fight. He had a mission, a purpose. Getting involved would compromise everything he'd planned. The smart play was to slip out the back and continue to the CDC.

"Tell you what," another voice said, "we'll let you live. Hell, we'll even let you watch. Might learn something about how to please a woman."

The woman's scream cut through the morning air like a blade.

Marcus's hand tightened on the door handle. Sarah's face flashed through his mind—what she'd looked like the day he'd left for his final mission, the way she'd held Emma close as if she could protect their daughter from the world's darkness. He'd failed them both. Failed to keep them safe when the world ended even when he was with them.

But he could still save these three.

Marcus slipped out the back door, moving like smoke through the overgrown yard. The morning air was cool against his face as he circled the house, cataloging positions and calculating angles. Five targets. One positioned by the vehicles—young, cocky, probably new to this game. The other four were inside with the family.

The sentry was smoking a cigarette, his rifle slung casually over his shoulder. Amateur. Marcus approached from his blind spot, using the abandoned car as cover. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten.

The man didn't even have time to drop his cigarette. Marcus's knife slid between his ribs, angled upward to pierce the heart. A quick twist, and the sentry folded silently to the ground. Marcus caught the rifle before it could clatter against the car.

Four left.

Inside the house, the woman was crying. Marcus could hear fabric tearing, the girl's voice raised in terror. His jaw clenched as he moved to the front door, testing the handle. Unlocked. Through the gap, he could see into the living room where he'd spent the night.

Two of the men had the woman pinned to the floor while a third held the father at gunpoint. The girl was pressed against the wall, the fourth man advancing on her with his belt undone. None of them were watching the door.

Marcus slipped inside, the combat knife appearing in his hand as if by magic. The first man—the one approaching the girl—died without knowing it, the blade sliding into the base of his skull. Marcus caught the body as it fell, lowering it silently to the floor.

The second man, the one holding the father, turned at the sound of movement. Marcus's knife took him in the throat, cutting off his shout before it could form. Blood sprayed across the wall, and the father stared in shock as his captor collapsed.

"What the hell—" The third man looked up from the woman, reaching for his weapon. Marcus's blade caught him in the chest, puncturing his lung. The man gasped, blood frothing from his mouth as he tried to scream.

The fourth man, the one holding the woman, finally understood what was happening. He released her and dove for his rifle, but Marcus was already moving. The knife found the space between his vertebrae, severing his spinal cord. He dropped like a marionette with cut strings.

Silence fell over the house, broken only by the woman's sobbing and the father's ragged breathing. Marcus wiped his blade clean on one of the dead men's shirts, his movements mechanical.

"Thank you," the father whispered, pulling his wife into his arms. "Thank you, we thought—"

The gunshot cut him off.

Marcus spun toward the sound, realizing his mistake too late. The second man—the one he'd stabbed in the throat—wasn't dead. Dying, yes, but not dead. The bullet had caught the father in the chest, and he was already falling.

"Dad!" The girl rushed to her father's side as Marcus put his knife through the gunman's eye, finishing what he'd started. But the damage was done.

The father coughed, blood speckling his lips. "Take care of... take care of them..."

He died with his eyes open, staring at nothing.

The woman's screams brought the walkers.

Marcus heard them before he saw them—the shambling footsteps, the low moans of the undead drawn by the noise. Through the window, he could see them emerging from the woods, from abandoned houses, from wherever they'd been lurking. Dozens of them, maybe more.

"We have to go," Marcus said, helping the woman to her feet. "Now."

But she was beyond reason, cradling her husband's body and keening like a wounded animal. The girl tried to pull her mother away, but the woman fought her, unwilling to leave the man she'd loved.

More gunshots echoed from outside—the dead men's weapons discharging as walkers stumbled over them. The sound drew more of the undead, and Marcus could see them pressing against the windows now, their rotted faces hungry for the living flesh inside.

"Please," the girl begged her mother. "We have to go. Dad would want us to go."

But it was too late. The front door gave way under the weight of bodies, and the shamblers poured in like a tide. Marcus grabbed the girl, pulling her toward the kitchen as the woman's screams turned to gurgles. He didn't look back. Couldn't look back.

They made it to the kitchen before the girl broke away from him, rushing back toward the living room. "Mom! MOM!"

Marcus caught her at the doorway, but not before she saw what was left of her mother. The woman was still alive, still screaming, as the shamblers tore strips of flesh from her arms and legs. Her eyes found her daughter's face, and in them was not pain but relief—relief that her child was still alive.

"I'm sorry," Marcus whispered, pulling the trigger. The bullet took the woman in the head, ending her suffering. But the girl had seen enough. She collapsed against him, her mind retreating from a reality too awful to process.

Marcus carried her to the back door, but the yard was full of walkers now, drawn by the commotion. They were trapped, surrounded by the very creatures he'd been avoiding all morning. His careful plans, his precise schedule, his mission to the CDC—all of it undone by a moment of conscience.

He looked down at the girl in his arms, catatonic with grief and trauma. She was maybe seventeen, with her whole life ahead of her. A life that would now be measured in hours, not years.

"I'm sorry," he said again, though she couldn't hear him. "I'm so goddamn sorry."

The shamblers pressed closer, their moans rising like a chorus of the damned. Marcus checked his ammunition—not enough for all of them. Maybe enough for two final shots, if he was lucky.

He looked at the girl one more time, thinking of Emma, of Sarah, of all the daughters and wives and mothers he'd failed to save. Then he raised his pistol and made the only choice he had left.

The sound of the gunshot was lost in the hungry moans of the dead.