Walking Dead: Level Up or Die Trying

After the camp had fallen silent, Aiden turned back to the map. He pulled a fresh piece of charcoal from a pouch and marked several new spots—tight circles drawn with quick, confident strokes.

"Here. Here. And here."

He tapped each with a gloved finger.

"I scouted these before I got here. Abandoned convoys. Junkyards. A road crew site with trucks still half-loaded. They're not perfect, but the frames are solid. Engines might still kick."

He stood up straight and turned to face the group once more.

"I'll take three with me. Rest of you stay here. Lock things down, reinforce the perimeter. This camp lives or dies depending on how well you hold it while we're gone."

Mara gave a small nod from the back. She didn't say much, but her people were already reacting—checking weapons, assigning sentries, reinforcing the west fence.

Aiden moved without hesitation.

He pointed.

"You. The younger one—fast runner. You come."The kid nodded, grabbing a crowbar and a side bag.

"You. The one who fixed that heater last night. You're on engine duty."An older woman tightened her scarf and joined without a word.

"And you—marksman. Quiet shot, steady hands."The last, a lean man with a scoped hunting rifle, gave a curt nod and slung his bag over his shoulder.

That was it. Four total.

Aiden walked toward his truck, the group falling in behind him. He slung his pack into the bed, checked the weapons stashed under the passenger seat, and gave the wheel a quick tap with his knuckles.

"This is a pickup run. In and out. We don't stop for scraps, we don't chase noise, and we don't play hero. If something moves—tell me. If something breathes—aim first, talk later."

The three others climbed in. The door slammed. The engine groaned, then roared to life—more beast than machine.

As they rolled out past the perimeter, a few of the camp's survivors watched silently. The gates creaked open and closed behind them.

The mission had begun.

Dust kicked up behind Aiden's truck as it tore down the broken road, headed toward rusted metal, empty lots, and whatever dangers might still linger between here and the future they were trying to carve.

As the truck rumbled toward their first target site, the landscape passed in broken stretches—burnt fields, rotting fences, and half-collapsed overpasses. The kind of silence that made even the wind feel dangerous.

Aiden slowed as they neared the old service lot, engine growling low. The others readied themselves—checking knives, makeshift armor, and, instinctively, reaching for their guns.

"Stop."

Aiden's voice was quiet but sharp.

The others froze mid-motion, confused.

He turned slightly in his seat and looked at them.

"Don't use your guns unless you have to."

They exchanged glances.

The runner spoke first, hesitantly. "But if we get swarmed—"

"Then we leave," Aiden cut in.

"Guns make noise. Noise brings more. You shoot one, you wake ten. Ten becomes twenty."

Then, without another word, Aiden stepped out of the truck, walked to the back, and opened a long, dented crate buried beneath a tarp.

He crouched low, eyes scanning the treeline, then pulled three compact bows from the crate—lightweight, silent, perfectly maintained. Alongside them, quivers of arrows, neatly bundled.

He handed them out one by one without explaining where they came from.

"Use these instead," he said.

The group looked at the bows, surprised. They weren't made from scavenged wood or scrap—they were too clean. Too intact. But no one asked. Something about Aiden made people avoid asking the wrong questions.

He pulled his own bow from a similar hidden slot beneath the truck's seat and gave a quiet warning:

"Don't loose an arrow until they're close.

"He looked at each of them in turn.

"You miss, you lose the shot. You panic, you waste time. Close range only. Aim center mass. Don't show off."

They nodded. Nervous, but grateful.

The mechanic adjusted the drawstring awkwardly.

"We're not trained for this…"

Aiden gave her a calm look.

"Neither was I."

He paused, scanning the cracked lot ahead.

"But we learn. Or we die."

With that, he signaled them to move out—bows drawn, eyes up, and footsteps as quiet as the grave.

The truck rolled to a stop beneath the cover of a long-dead billboard—half the letters rusted away, the other half faded by sun and ash. Aiden turned off the engine and let the silence swallow the group. No birds. No wind. Just distant creaks of a world decaying.

He stepped out, pulling his bow across his back and gesturing for the others to follow.

"We walk from here."

The mechanic looked confused. "It's still a ways off, right?"

Aiden nodded once. "That's the point. Sound travels too far in these parts. We don't risk the engine this close. We go quiet."

The others followed, boots crunching over loose gravel as they approached the treeline. Through the brush, the gray shape of their destination rose on the horizon—an old CDC outpost, squat and reinforced, once manned, now abandoned. Probably.

Aiden motioned for them to stop and crouched beside a patch of grass flattened in strange patterns. His eyes narrowed.

"This place used to be clear."His voice was low, almost to himself."I ran through it a few days ago. Swept it clean. Cleared the fence line. But…" He paused, fingers brushing the broken stalks of weeds."…these weren't here before."

The mechanic looked around. "You think walkers made it back here?"

Aiden stood, scanning the perimeter."Maybe. Or maybe someone else died nearby and led them in."He looked at the building again—its fences bent inward at odd angles, like something had pressed through.

He turned back to the group.

"Stay alert. If you put one down, make sure it stays down. Step on the skull. Cut the spine. Don't assume. Don't hesitate."

He slung the bow from his shoulder, then motioned the group closer.

"Before we move in, you need to know how to use that properly."

He held up his own bow—simple but deadly, matte black with minimal noise from the string.

"You ever used one before?"

The runner shook his head. The mechanic muttered a "not really," and the marksman gave a quiet, reluctant "once or twice."

Aiden grunted. "Figured."

He stepped to a wide patch of ground and dropped a can from his pouch, letting it roll a few feet away. Then he turned to them.

"First thing—don't aim with your arms. Use your back. Pull with your shoulder blade, not your elbow. Bows aren't about strength. They're about control."

He took a slow breath, lifted the bow, and drew it back. His stance was solid—feet shoulder-width apart, posture low, balanced like a predator on the edge of a strike.

"Line up the shot. Exhale. Loose on the breath."

Thump.The arrow hit the can clean through, burying in the dirt behind it.

"Second—don't flinch. You flinch, you miss. You panic, you waste an arrow. And out here, arrows are more valuable than bullets."

He gestured for each of them to take a turn.

The runner's shot wobbled and flew wide.The mechanic's hit the dirt with a thud.The marksman got close—but not close enough.

Aiden didn't criticize. He just stepped beside each of them, correcting posture, guiding hands, adjusting stances.

"You get one shot before they turn and come at you. Don't take it unless you're sure. These aren't video game bows. They don't forgive you."

He led them through several more tries, making small corrections, forcing them to slow down. Sweat started to bead on foreheads despite the cool air.

"When you draw, you hold your breath—only for a second. Then release. Inhale again after the shot. Keep your lungs quiet."

They practiced like that for nearly an hour, in the shadow of the CDC outpost, before Aiden gave a final nod.

"Good enough. Not great. But you'll live."

He turned back toward the fence line.

"Now for the real part. Stay low. Eyes up. We'll check the compound first—slow, steady. If it's clear, we look for trucks. If it's not…"

He unslung his combat dagger and turned it in his hand.

"…then we do what we came here to do."

They moved out, crouched and quiet, weaving through long grass and debris piles. The air around the outpost felt off—too quiet, too still. No birds, no insects, just the soft sound of boots brushing dirt and metal groaning somewhere in the distance.

They reached the broken outer fence. It looked like something—or many somethings—had pressed through. Inside, the yard was scattered with old supply crates, weather-worn vehicles, and dark red smears along the ground.

Aiden held up a fist, signaling stop. He crouched low and picked up a broken arrow shaft—splintered clean in the middle.

His voice dropped, barely a whisper.

"This was one of mine…"

He looked toward the open doorway of the CDC structure—its heavy door pried halfway open, hanging on a single hinge.

"We're not alone here."

The group tightened their grips on the bows, adrenaline rising.

Aiden drew an arrow and whispered, cold and sharp:

"Stay behind me. Don't run. And if I say loose—you loose."

Aiden led the small group slowly through the cracked concrete yard of the CDC outpost, their eyes sharp, their breath steady but shallow. Every corpse they passed was inspected with ruthless precision. Aiden knelt down beside a fallen walker slumped against a rusted crate, crouched low enough to peer into its clouded eyes.

"It's not dead if it still bleeds."His voice was rough, hard-earned. He raised his combat knife and brought it down swiftly, stabbing through the skull to sever the spinal cord. The head lolled to one side.

The mechanic swallowed hard but nodded and mimicked the motion on the next body—a shallow cut behind the neck, ensuring no surprises later.

They pressed forward through the chilling silence of the outpost, eyes scanning every shadow, every dark corner. The smell of rot and rust clung heavy in the air.

Suddenly, a sharp, guttural growl echoed from inside the crumbling building—low, rough, and unnerving.

Aiden froze, signaling for the group to stop. He raised a hand.

"Hunter."

The marksman's eyes widened in recognition. "Like Luis said…" he whispered. "The ones that stalk, smarter than regular walkers."

Aiden nodded grimly. "Fast. Silent. Deadly. And they know how to use the environment. Stay close."

He slipped an arrow into his bow, drawing it back slowly, every muscle coiled tight like a spring. The others mirrored his caution, bows raised, nerves taut.

From the shadowed doorway, a lithe figure slinked out—a grotesque parody of a human, its muscles taut, eyes burning with feral cunning. The Hunter moved with unnerving grace, crouching low, claws scraping the concrete as it circled them.

The marksman held his breath, arrow aimed.

Aiden whispered, "Wait. Let it come close."

The creature lunged in a blur, claws swiping, teeth bared. Aiden rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the strike, and let loose his arrow with deadly precision. The arrow embedded in the creature's shoulder, slowing it but not stopping it.

The others fired, arrows flying true—one hitting the Hunter's side, another piercing its leg.

The beast snarled in pain but pressed on, slashing wildly. The runner barely dodged a swipe, stumbling backward.

Aiden sprang forward with his dagger, slashing a precise cut across the Hunter's throat. Dark blood sprayed, but the creature snarled again, eyes wild, before collapsing with a final, shuddering breath.

The group stood panting, adrenaline flooding their veins.

"Make sure it's dead," Aiden said sharply, approaching the body.

He plunged his knife deep into the base of its skull, twisting to sever the spine.

The mechanic shuddered. "That was… different."

Aiden wiped sweat and blood from his brow. "Different means dangerous. Stay sharp. Always."

The outpost lay quiet once more—but the weight of the encounter hung heavy.

They weren't just fighting the dead anymore.

[Ding!]

[+10 EXP for killing a Hunter-class walker]

The Hunter's final twitch faded, and the group exhaled collectively, tension easing just a bit. Aiden wiped his blade clean on his sleeve, then gestured sharply.

"Move. We clear the rest of the outpost."

They swept through the building systematically, checking every room, every hallway, tossing aside debris, and double-checking for hidden dangers. Broken glass crunched beneath their boots; stale air mixed with the faint hum of distant engines beyond the compound's walls.

Bodies, dead and dying, littered the floors—some walkers, some victims of long-forgotten skirmishes. The group carefully dispatched any still twitching, eyes sharp, bows ready.

Once the building was secured, Aiden gathered them near the main gate, turning their attention outward.

"Now, the trucks."

The yard held half a dozen vehicles, some rusted, some surprisingly intact, their flat tires and dust telling stories of neglect rather than destruction.

They worked in pairs, checking engines, testing tires, and searching the cabs for supplies. The marksman popped a hood, frowning at the corroded battery.

Aiden stayed quiet for a moment, scanning the fleet, then glanced toward his own truck parked discreetly a little ways off, shielded by a cluster of dead trees.

When the others were distracted, he slipped away unnoticed, pulling his jacket tighter around him.

He knelt beside the truck's tank, a faint shimmer visible as he carefully reached into the air—his hand passing through thin space as he pulled out a small, sturdy container of diesel fuel from his system inventory.

The faint hum of the vehicle's engine compartment masked the soft clink of the container as he opened the cap, pouring the precious liquid into the tank with practiced care.

He repeated this with two more trucks, eyes flicking constantly to ensure no one saw.

The group's survival depended on these vehicles, and Aiden knew the fragile balance of trust wouldn't last if they learned he was hoarding supplies.

When he returned to the group, hands clean and empty, he simply nodded at the trucks.

"Good to go. They'll run."

A few smiles flickered among the survivors—hope, tentative but real.

Aiden allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction before turning to face the road ahead.

"Let's get back before dark."

The sun hung low, a swollen orange orb melting slowly toward the horizon, spilling warm light across the cracked pavement of the old CDC outpost. Aiden wiped a thin sheen of grime from his brow, his eyes sweeping over the row of trucks they'd claimed. Each vehicle sat battered and worn but intact enough to rattle to life—a lifeline in a world gone silent.

He motioned the group forward with a sharp nod. The survivors, still shaking with adrenaline and exhaustion from the day's hunt, moved quickly, their steps uneven but eager.

The mechanic took charge of the nearest truck, prying open doors and crawling inside. She fiddled with the ignition, the engine coughing to life on the third try. The unmistakable rumble sent a ripple of relief through the group.

Aiden stepped up into his own truck's cab, the familiar creak of worn leather under him both comforting and heavy with responsibility. He slid the key into the ignition slot—a makeshift port he'd fashioned long ago—and the engine roared awake, deep and hungry.

The others followed suit, starting each truck in turn. Tires hissed as they inflated slightly from patched valves; chains and straps were secured over broken windows and makeshift cargo holds. They loaded the few supplies they'd scavenged: canned food, water jugs, spare parts, and the bows and arrows carefully packed away for training.

Aiden watched them work—young and old, strong and shaky alike—each contributing in their way. Mara, the steady voice at camp, barked orders to tie down a tarp flapping in the growing wind. The runner carried a toolbox to the front truck, anxious fingers eager to help keep the fleet moving.

When all was ready, Aiden climbed back into his seat, the familiar grip of the steering wheel solid beneath his hands. He glanced at the others in the nearest truck, catching Mara's eyes for a moment.

She nodded once, a silent understanding passing between them.

"Ready?" he asked.

The engines growled in reply.

With a slow, grinding motion, the convoy began to move, one after the other, rattling down the cracked and uneven road that led away from the outpost.

The tires crunched over gravel, throwing up small clouds of dust that hung in the evening air like ghosts.

Aiden's eyes never stopped scanning the road ahead. Every shadow, every flicker in the distance was a potential threat. Walkers, raiders, or worse—he didn't want to imagine. His fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel, steady but restless.

Inside the lead truck, the group sat mostly quiet. The adrenaline of the day was fading, replaced by a wary fatigue. The mechanic wiped grease off her hands on a rag, glancing nervously out the window.

The runner leaned forward, voice barely above a whisper.

"Think we'll make it back without trouble?"

Aiden's gaze stayed fixed ahead.

"Maybe."

He didn't want to lie, but he couldn't promise safety—not in this world.

The convoy snaked through empty fields, patches of tall, brittle grass waving in the wind like dry flames. Broken fences marked boundaries no longer enforced. Cracked highways stretched into the distance, overgrown and forgotten.

As the sun dipped lower, the sky bloomed into a canvas of reds and purples. The fading light cast long shadows across the convoy, turning the trucks into dark shapes slipping through the dying day.

In the back of one truck, Mara spoke softly to the others, her voice steady but tired.

"We're stronger than we were this morning," she said."Thanks to Aiden."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the small group.

Aiden kept his eyes on the road but caught the sound, feeling the weight of their words settle on him. He wasn't sure if he deserved the credit, but he also knew this was the first time some of them felt like they had a chance.

The convoy rumbled on, passing the skeletons of ruined vehicles, fallen signs, and broken remnants of a civilization lost. Occasionally, a distant groan or shuffle hinted at walkers watching from the brush.

Aiden's hand moved instinctively to the bow resting near his seat, fingers brushing the worn wood.

Night would come soon. The road would be darker and more dangerous.

He would need them ready.

As the convoy rolled steadily toward the camp, the first stars began to prick the twilight sky.

The world had shrunk to this stretch of road, these trucks, and these few fragile lives clinging to hope.

Aiden glanced back once, seeing the tired faces framed by the dusty windows, the quiet determination in their eyes.

Survival wasn't easy. But right now, it was enough.