twd: the last silence

Chapter 39: The Mark

Axel didn't kill the last one.

Not yet.

The man lay whimpering on the dirt, hands shaking, mouth bleeding from where Axel had yanked a tooth out—just to shut him up.

Axel turned to Noah, who still stood frozen by the car.

"Stay here."

His voice was cold. Like ice cracked across steel.

Noah didn't move. Didn't speak. Just nodded slowly.

Axel grabbed the man by the jaw—fingers digging into flesh—and dragged him by the tongue like a mutt. Into the woods. Out of sight.

The man cried, screamed, begged—but Axel didn't care.

Deep in the trees, where the sun couldn't see, Axel threw him down.

Then knelt.

Pulled the small military knife from his side. The edge gleamed—clean, sharp, hungry.

Without a word, Axel drove the blade into the man's thigh. Not too deep. Just enough for pain.

The man screamed again.

Axel waited for silence.

Waited for the fear to take hold.

Then he reached into his coat.

Pulled out a folded, blood-stained piece of paper.

Unfolded it slowly.

Held it in front of the man's eyes.

On the paper was the mark.

Three jagged slashes forming a triangle, and in its center—a black circle. Rough. Violent. Drawn with ash and something darker.

"Do you know this?" Axel asked.

No anger in his voice.

No rage.

Just a quiet, terrifying calm.

"I saw this behind my father's body." Axel continued. "Smeared on the wall. In blood. Oil. Ash."

The man looked at the symbol.

His eyes widened.

He knew it.

He tried to lie—Axel saw it in the twitch of his mouth.

Axel pushed the knife deeper.

The scream shattered the silence.

"Don't lie." Axel said.

The man cried. Shook. Then finally nodded.

"Yes—yes—I've seen it! It's real! It's—it's not just a symbol, it's a—it's a flag, a message—they use it when they take over—please, please I don't know much—"

Axel leaned in closer.

"Who are they?"

The man sobbed, blood dripping from his leg.

"Nomads—monsters—they move in packs, always masked, always silent—they take everything. People. Food. Children. They—"

He didn't finish.

Axel didn't let him.

The knife slipped across his throat—quiet. Clean.

No more sound.

Just the wind.

Axel stood, wiping the blade clean on the man's shirt.

Then he looked down at the paper one last time.

The symbol.

His only lead.

Then he turned back, heading toward the road.

Noah sat there, still silent, hugging his knees.

Axel said nothing.

He opened the car door.

"Let's go."

And they drove.

Farther into the broken world.

Farther toward the monsters.

Farther toward revenge.

---

The road stretched like a scar through the dead land.

Cracked asphalt. Rusted signs. Burned-out cars on the sides like graves no one bothered to bury.

Axel drove in silence.

Noah sat beside him, small hands folded in his lap. He hadn't said a word since the woods.

Axel didn't ask.

Some silences were good.

Some were necessary.

The world around them was quiet, but not peaceful. Just… waiting. Like a wounded animal too weak to scream.

Axel's eyes scanned everything.

The broken buildings.

The burnt trees.

The faint smell of smoke still clinging to the air.

The last man mentioned packs. Masked ones. Nomads.

And if Axel learned one thing in this world, it was this—

Where there's movement, there's tracks.

He stopped the car near a hill of rubble. Took out his knife and a pair of battered binoculars. Climbed to the top while Noah waited below.

There it was.

In the distance.

A trail.

Wagon wheels. Boot prints. Drag marks. Smoke from a fire long dead.

They were heading east.

"Cowards move in circles," Axel muttered. "But even circles leave footprints."

He slid back down the hill.

Noah looked at him. Quiet. Curious.

"Did you find them?" he asked.

Axel started the car again.

"Soon," he said.

The drive was longer now. The road broke into dirt, then dust, then just open, dead ground.

Hours passed. Axel didn't stop.

Not for food. Not for rest.

Only when the sun started to fall behind the black clouds did they see it.

A small outpost. Nothing official. Just a camp of people trying to survive.

Axel slowed the car.

Eyes met his.

Nervous. Suspicious. Tired.

But not dangerous.

Not yet.

He parked the car. Got out. Noah followed, close.

A man came forward. Old jacket. Rifle in his hands.

"We don't want trouble," he said. "Not looking for new folks either."

Axel didn't blink.

"I'm not staying."

"Then what do you want?"

Axel pulled out the paper.

Showed the mark.

The man froze. His lips thinned. His fingers twitched on the rifle.

"Seen it?" Axel asked.

The man nodded. Swallowed.

"They came through. Two weeks ago. Took everything from a place twenty miles west. Same symbol. Same silence."

Axel's eyes narrowed.

"Where'd they go?"

The man hesitated.

Then pointed.

"North. Always north. Like they're chasing something."

Axel turned without a word.

Back to the car.

Back to the road.

Noah followed. But before he climbed in, he looked back at the man.

"Thank you," Noah said quietly.

The man just stared at Axel. Like he saw a storm and didn't know if it would pass or stay.

The engine roared to life.

And Axel drove into the night.

North.

Toward the nomads.

Toward the ones who painted his family's blood on the walls.

---

.

.

.

.

You can contact me through my official page on the following Accounts:

telegram:

miraclenarrator

tiktok:

miracle_narrator

instagram:

miracle_narrator