twd: the last silence

Chapter 42: Wolves in Sheep's Skin

Axel's plan was simple.

Simple like child play.

No traps. No snipers. No fire.

Just survival.

"We go in like survivors," he said.

So they did.

They rolled in dirt.

They rubbed filth all over their skin.

Mud in their hair. Dust on their clothes.

They looked like they didn't take a shower since the damn world ended.

They looked broken, tired, lost.

But they weren't.

They were Numbers.

Killers.

Machines in human flesh.

Axel told them to act weak. To look desperate. To smell like rot.

Because if the Nomads were smart, and they saw a group like this walking toward their door—

They wouldn't shoot.

No, they'd want them.

They'd see the numbers and think:

"More people. More hands. More power."

Exactly what Axel wanted.

They walked slow.

Staggered like real survivors.

Redd was at the front, his face grimy and bloody.

Number Two and Number Three dragged an old cart behind them filled with fake trash.

And Axel?

Axel walked behind them.

His face low. His eyes dead.

He didn't look like a leader.

Didn't look like a killer.

He looked like a boy.

A lost, thin, quiet boy in the back of the group.

And it wasn't fake.

For just a moment—he let that mask fall.

He let go of the cold, hard shell.

He remembered his brother, his father, his mother.

He remembered the fire.

The blood.

And now he was walking right to the gates of the people who took all of that from him.

And they'd never see it coming.

---

The group moved slow.

One foot after the other.

Every groan. Every limp. Every fake breath of exhaustion was a mask—

A wolf pulling on sheep's skin.

Axel stayed behind the group, head lowered. Dirt in his hair. Mud smeared across his pale skin.

His katana was hidden deep in the cart. His revolver tucked in rags.

To them, he looked like a scared kid walking with strangers, holding onto whatever scrap of life was left.

Then they reached the gates.

Tall iron doors, scarred by bullets and time.

A rusted watchtower loomed above them.

Eyes behind glass. Rifles in hand.

Redd lifted a trembling hand and knocked.

Three slow, weak thuds.

The wind howled.

A head popped out from the watchtower. Then another.

A third figure stepped out behind the glass, staring at the group.

Then it happened fast—

Motion.

The Nomads moved like they were trained.

Three on the tower. Two on the roof. One behind the gate.

Voices whispered into radios.

Eyes locked on the group like predators sniffing weakness.

The door creaked open, just a crack.

Then… wider.

Three men stepped through.

Hard faces. Sharp eyes. Dirty clothes, but not like Axel's people.

No, they were clean underneath.

Weapons polished.

Boots intact.

Leaders.

The man in the middle, tall with a stitched scar across his cheek, stepped forward.

He looked at Redd.

"Where you from?" he asked, not unkindly.

Redd coughed. Let his knees shake. Made his voice soft.

"North… came down the valley. Lost two men to fever. Three more to raiders."

The scarred man studied him, eyes flicking between them all.

"Who's in charge of your group?"

Redd shrugged like he had no strength to care. "No one really. Just surviving."

A beat.

"Why come here?"

"Just food," Redd said. "Shelter. A wall to sleep behind. We'll work. Fight if we have to. We're not asking for handouts, sir."

The scarred man looked back at his two.

They looked at the group. Looked at Axel—who made his eyes wide, like a scared dog hiding behind men who could barely protect him.

Then the scarred man smiled.

It was soft.

Too soft.

Like he was kind.

Like he gave a damn.

"You're lucky," he said. "We just got a shipment from a supply run. Food. Water. Bunk beds. Enough to share."

Redd lowered his head like in disbelief.

"Thank you…"

"Name's Elli," the man said, reaching his hand out. "Welcome."

The iron gates opened fully.

A path cleared.

They walked through it.

Numbers, killers, machines—dressed as beggars—stepped into the heart of the Nomads' hive.

And as the gates closed behind them with a heavy iron groan…

Axel lifted his head just an inch.

Just enough to see the tower above them.

To count.

Seven on the walls.

Three at the gate.

Unknown numbers deeper in.

But he smiled.

Because they let the devil through the front door.

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