scud

Denise had died the day she had begrudgingly accepted his offer. And when she came back to Alexandria—with only herself, Daryl, and Eugene—she didn't care. She didn't even remember.

She's sure Spencer had heard what happened by now. Everyone has.

But when she and Daryl dragged Eugene’s limp body through the gates and toward the small building labeled Doctor, there was no one there.

Because their last one had died in front of her.

You’re stronger than you think, which gives me hope that maybe I can be, too.

Carol had spotted them from near the gate and followed quickly behind, stepping in without hesitation when she saw Eugene's condition. She took over as medic the moment they laid him down, moving quietly as she gathered what supplies they still had.

They were supposed to come back with more—Denise had helped them find it. But The Saviors had taken everything they had after they killed her.

Daryl left the second Eugene's ass hit the chair.

He didn't say a word during the walk back, and he wasn't about to start now. He disappeared out the door, retreating to whatever corner of the world he pleased.

But Rosita stayed.

She stayed long enough to hear Eugene groan. Long enough to see his chest rise without struggle. Long enough to know he was going to live.

Carol didn't ask questions, which Rosita appreciated. She worked silently, pressing cloth to bruised skin, checking his breathing, and cleaning blood with careful hands.

Rosita watched from the wall, exhaustion dulling her focus as she lazily followed Carol's steady movements.

Maybe Spencer had been at his house then, cooking something that would eventually go cold on the table.

Maybe he was already waiting.

She hadn't spoken to him since.

Her thoughts drift now, tangled and heavy, while the forest presses in around them. The only sounds breaking the quiet are the crunch of leaves beneath their boots—Daryls heavier steps ahead of her, and Rosita's steady ones behind.

Daryl doesn’t look back.

Whatever plan he has to find Dwight is reckless. She knows it. Daryl knows it too, whether he’d admit it or not.

But following him into the woods feels less like a choice and more like something she owes.

She owes it to everyone.

She owes it to Denise.

The name sticks in her head no matter how hard she tries to push it away.

How long had she really known her? How many words had they actually shared before the arrow struck?

The most time they’d ever spent together had been yesterday.

One day.

That was all.

And she wouldn’t get that time back.

The truth is, you don’t have to know someone like the back of your hand to feel the weight of them. Sometimes all it takes is a few conversations, a shared moment, a glimpse of the person they were trying to be.

When that weight disappears, the loss of it never settles in your chest.

The last thing Denise had told Rosita and Daryl was that they were better people than they thought they were.

Rosita didn’t believe that.

But Denise had been young. Eager to learn, eager to help—always for the right reasons. The kind of person who still believed things could get better if you just tried hard enough. People like that are hard to come by.

They’d never know what could have come from her now.

All that remains of her is a name scratched into a wall and a wooden cross hammered into the ground.

Next to countless others.

Rosita had lived long enough to watch people disappear one by one, usually right when things seemed steady enough to almost trick you into thinking life might finally settle again. But this—This was a reminder.

A reminder that the world didn’t care how hard you fought to hold things together.

People came and went faster than anyone could prepare for.

You never knew who would be next.

Or when the next string would snap.

Rosita watches as Daryl moves ahead of her, silent as ever, his eyes trained on the ground. Every few steps he slows, scanning the dirt, the crushed grass, and broken twigs along the path.

If anyone can track Dwight, it’s him.

“Got anything?” she finally asks.

Daryl doesn’t answer. His gaze stays locked on the ground. She lets the silence sit.

They keep walking, leaves crunching under their boots, the forest thick and quiet around them.

After a moment, Rosita speaks again, quieter this time.

“She didn’t deserve that.”

Daryl slows, but he doesn’t look back.

“Denise,” Rosita adds, like he needs clarification.

A long beat passes before he grunts under his breath.

“None of ‘em do.”

His voice is rough, like the words scrape on the way out.

Rosita exhales through her nose. That’s about as much agreement as she’s going to get.

They walk a few more yards before Daryl suddenly stops. It breaks the rhythm of their steps so abruptly that Rosita nearly walks into him.

He crouches slightly, studying the ground.

“S’not the same,” he mutters.

“What?”

He points to the mud near a patch of flattened grass. His finger hovers over faint impressions Rosita can barely see.

Boot prints.

She squints, leaning closer, trying to follow the pattern his eyes are already mapping out.

“His trail stopped.”

Daryl’s head tilts as he scans the surrounding ground again, searching for anything that doesn’t belong.

Rosita shifts her position, and this time she sees it.

More boot prints.

Not just one trail—several. They cut across the ground, overlapping, all leading back in the direction they just came from.

Realization sinks into her stomach like a stone.

“Shit.”

“You think they took the others?” Rosita asks in a hushed tone as she follows Daryl back the way they came, both of them moving quickly but careful to keep their steps quiet.

“Maybe,” Daryl mutters.

They move through the trees, weaving between trunks and thick brush. Daryl leads, cutting a silent path forward while his eyes sweep constantly between the ground and the woods around them.

Rosita keeps her rifle tight against her chest, scanning the tree line.

Then she sees it.

Smoke.

Thin at first, curling above the trees in a gray ribbon before thickening into something darker. It drifts just high enough for them to spot from where they stand.

Daryl stops when he catches it. Rosita stops with him.

They both stare.

“Campfire,” she murmurs.

Daryl’s jaw tightens. “Too open.”

Which means one thing.

A trap.

If Dwight doubled back… if there were multiple tracks…

“Saviors?” she asks quietly.

Daryl doesn’t answer right away.

His eyes stay fixed on the smoke.

“Only one way t’know.”

He moves again, slower now. The woods and birds grow quieter the closer they get.

Rosita feels it before she sees it.

The shift in the air. The uneasy stillness that settles over the trees. The kind of silence that usually means something bad is waiting.

Daryl raises a hand suddenly. Stop.

She freezes mid-step at the command.

Daryl crouches, carefully pushing aside a low branch. She lowers beside him, following his line of sight through the trees.

And then she sees them.

Glenn.

Michonne.

Sasha.

All three are tied to separate trees along the edge of the clearing, thick rope wound tight around their torsos and wrists. Dirty strips of cloth are forced between their teeth, knotted roughly behind their heads to keep them silent.

Rosita’s chest tightens. Relief hits first.

Then anger.

Glenn’s hair hangs in his face, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt. Michonne’s shoulders are rigid, her eyes sharp and alert even with her mouth gagged.

Sasha stands straighter than the others.

Her eyes lock on Rosita immediately.

For a second, the entire forest feels smaller.

Sasha’s gaze flicks quickly over her—checking for blood, injuries, anything serious—before settling again. The relief is brief, almost invisible, but Rosita catches it.

Then Sasha glances past her to Daryl. Same routine.

Three Saviors stand nearby, weapons slung casually in their hands like this is nothing more than a break in their day.

One of them kicks at the dirt. Another laughs at something the third says.

Like they’re not holding people hostage.

Rosita shifts slightly, instinctively raising her rifle.

Daryl’s moving too. He lifts his crossbow slowly, the motion careful and controlled.

From the clearing, Glenn’s head snaps up, locking eyes with Daryl.

For a split second, Rosita sees the relief flash across his face—dread washing over his expression quicker than the relief had. He shakes his head.

Don’t.

Daryl ignores him.

The crossbow rises again. If Daryl fires—

A sharp metallic click snaps behind them.

Both Rosita and Daryl freeze instantly.

The unmistakable sound of a gun safety switching off presses cold into the silence.

“Now that,” a voice says calmly behind them, “looks like a real bad idea.”

Rosita feels the cold barrel of a gun settle against the back of her head.

Daryl’s crossbow stays raised for half a second longer, the bolt aimed toward the clearing where Glenn, Sasha, and Michonne are tied to the trees.

Glenn’s head shakes harder now. No.

Daryl’s jaw tightens.

Slowly, he lowers the crossbow.

Rosita exhales through her nose, careful not to move too suddenly. Her fingers twitch near the rifle strap across her chest, but she already knows it would be pointless.

They’re not alone back here.

Leaves rustle behind them.

More footsteps.

She shifts her eyes just enough to catch movement through the trees. Two men step out from the brush to their left, rifles already trained on them. Another appears to the right.

The clearing ahead goes quiet.

One of the Saviors near Sasha glances toward the trees and smirks.

“Looks like we caught the rest of ‘em,” he calls out.

Rosita’s stomach sinks. Of course Dwight doubled back.

Daryl’s shoulders tense beside her, his fingers still wrapped around the crossbow.

“Put it down,” the man behind Rosita says.

The barrel nudges her head slightly for emphasis.

“Both of you.”

Daryl hesitates. For a second, Rosita thinks he might try something anyway. That he’ll spin, fire, run—anything but surrender.

But there are too many of them.

He knows it.

Slowly, the crossbow lowers until it rests against the forest floor. Rosita reluctantly follows, sliding the rifle from her shoulder and letting it drop beside her boots.

“Good choice,” the voice behind them says.

Another set of footsteps approaches from deeper in the trees.

Rosita doesn’t need to turn to know who it is.

When Dwight steps into view, the crooked burn scar across his face catches the pale light filtering through the branches. He looks from Daryl, to Rosita, then past them toward the clearing.

“Told ya,” he says casually. “Guy like you couldn’t let it go.”

Daryl doesn’t respond, but his stare could cut through bone.

Dwight gestures lazily with his pistol.

“Bring ’em out.”

A rough hand shoves Rosita between the shoulder blades, causing her to stumble forward through the brush, branches scratching against her sleeves before the trees open into the clearing.

Daryl is forced into the clearing after her, a rifle barrel pressed hard against his back. His crossbow is already gone, hanging loosely from one of the Savior’s hands like a trophy.

The Saviors spread around them lazily, five—no, six—men scattered near the fire and the trucks parked farther back among the trees.

They look comfortable.

Too comfortable.

One of them laughs under his breath.

“Well damn,” he says. “Whole damn reunion out here.”

Glenn shifts against the rope binding him, the bark of the tree scraping against his back as he tries to move forward. His eyes flick toward Daryl again, urgent.

Don’t do anything.

Even with the gag in his mouth, the message is clear.

Rosita swallows hard.

Boots crunch against the dirt behind her.

Dwight steps into the clearing like he owns it.

“Told my guys we’d get lucky today,” he says, almost conversationally.

His eyes settle on Daryl.

“Didn’t expect you to make it this easy though.”

Daryl says nothing. His jaw is locked so tight Rosita can see the muscle twitch.

Dwight circles him slowly, dragging the toe of his boot through the dirt near the pointless fire.

“See, that’s your problem,” Dwight continues. “You can’t leave well enough alone.”

His gaze flicks toward the others tied to the trees.

“Could’ve just let ’em sit tight.”

Michonne’s eyes narrow.

Sasha doesn’t move at all.

Rosita feels a shove from behind, forcing her closer to the center of the clearing.

She stops just a few feet away from Sasha.

Close enough to see the rope cutting into her sleeves.

Close enough to see the anger sitting quietly behind her eyes.

For a brief moment, Sasha leans her head back against the tree trunk.

Her eyes close once.

Open again.

A small motion of her chin toward Rosita—you okay?

Rosita gives the smallest nod she can manage.

Across the clearing, Glenn exhales through his nose in frustration, the gag muffling the sound.

Dwight laughs. “Don’t worry,” he says lightly, glancing back at Glenn. “Your friends ain’t dead yet.”

He gestures toward one of the trucks parked near the tree line.

“But we got somewhere you all need to be.”

The Saviors begin moving immediately.

One of them steps forward with a knife, slicing through the rope binding Glenn to the tree—but not the rope around his wrists.

Another does the same with Michonne.

When they reach Sasha, the Savior pauses for a second, eyeing her carefully before cutting the rope from the trunk.

Sasha stumbles half a step forward as the tension releases, but she catches herself quickly.

A rough hand grabs her arm before she can steady.

Rosita’s fingers curl slightly.

Dwight notices that too.

“Easy,” he says with a crooked grin. “You’ll all get plenty of time together.”

The fire crackles behind them.

Somewhere deeper in the woods, a crow calls once before going quiet again.

The Saviors begin pushing them toward the trucks waiting beyond the trees.

The back doors slam shut with a hollow metallic clang that echoes through the truck.

Darkness rushes in around them.

For a moment the only sound inside the enclosed space is breathing—slow, uneven, and louder than it should be.

Then the engine roars to life.

The truck jerks forward, the sudden movement throwing Rosita sideways. Her shoulder bumps against Sasha’s as the metal floor vibrates beneath them, the entire vehicle rattling with the rough grind of the engine.

The air inside smells thick—rust, old gasoline, and something sour that’s been sitting too long in the heat.

A thin strip of fading daylight leaks through the uneven seam between the back doors, cutting a narrow blade of pale light across the floor. It flickers every time the truck bounces over the uneven road.

Rosita shifts slightly where she sits.

Her hands are still tied tight behind her back. The rope has been wound several times around her wrists, the coarse fibers digging into her skin every time the truck jolts over a bump.

The rope burns her wrists as she struggles against it, the motion faltering as it moves to no avail.

At least their gags are gone.

The Saviors pulled the cloth from their mouths before forcing them inside, but their restraints remained.

Rosita hadn’t missed the look the Savior gave them when he did it. Almost amused.

Like allowing them to talk to each other was part of the entertainment.

Across from her, Glenn sits with his back against the metal wall of the truck bed, his knees drawn slightly upward because there isn’t enough room to stretch them out. His hair falls messily over his forehead, damp with sweat and dirt.

Michonne sits beside him, her back straight despite the cramped space. Even now, her eyes move constantly, studying every corner of the truck like she might find something useful if she looks hard enough.

The loss of Daryl’s presence was palpable.

He was forced into the other lonesome truck The Saviors had waiting, ready and open. For him alone.

The Saviors hadn’t cared to spare an explanation.

Sasha sits to Rosita’s left. Their shoulders press together every time the truck sways.

For a long time, none of them say anything.

The truck rattles down the road, the vibrations humming up through the floor and into Rosita’s bones.

The road changes beneath them every few minutes.

Gravel crunches loudly under the tires before giving way to cracked pavement. Then dirt again, the truck bouncing hard enough that Glenn’s shoulder hits the wall with a dull thud.

Rosita tries to track it.

Left turn.

Another.

A long stretch forward.

Another turn.

But eventually it starts to blur together.

The driver isn’t taking the fastest route.

They’re taking their time.

The realization sits heavy in her stomach.

Glenn shifts across from her, leaning his head back against the metal wall with a quiet sigh.

“They’re messing with us,” he says finally, his voice low.

Michonne glances toward the doors, listening to the muffled rumble of the engine.

“Looping roads,” she murmurs. “Changing directions.”

Rosita follows Glenn, leaning her head back against the cool metal behind her. Her loose, wavy hair sprawls across her shoulders at the action.

The Saviors had stripped them clean. Weapons. Hair ties. Hats.

The truck slams into a pothole so hard that all four of them lift off the floor before crashing back down again.

Rosita winces as the rope cuts deeper into her wrists.

Beside her, Sasha exhales slowly through her nose.

“You okay?” Rosita asks quietly, turning her head just enough to look at her.

Sasha nods once. “Yeah.”

Across from them, Glenn watches the exchange for a moment before glancing toward the narrow strip of light leaking through the truck doors.

The color of it is changing. The dull gray glow of afternoon is fading into a deeper shade of blue.

They’ve been driving longer than Rosita realized.

“Sun’s going down,” Glenn says quietly.

Michonne follows his gaze.

Her expression doesn’t change much, but Rosita catches the slight tightening of her jaw.

“They’re waiting,” Glenn adds after a moment.

Sasha shifts beside Rosita, the movement subtle but restless.

“For what?” she asks.

No one has an answer.

The truck takes another sharp turn, gravel scattering loudly beneath the tires.

Rosita watches the thin lines of light stretching across the floorboards.

They grow dimmer with every passing mile.

Her stomach twists slowly.

Most groups wouldn’t bother with this. If The Saviors wanted them dead, it would have already happened.

A bullet in the clearing. A knife. Something quick.

But this—This feels deliberate.

Like they’re being delivered somewhere.

She closes her eyes for a moment, and Denise’s uninvited voice floats back into her head.

You’re better than you think you are.

Rosita almost scoffs.

The truck sways again, throwing Sasha lightly against her shoulder.

This time neither of them pulls away.

Sasha glances sideways, and Rosita meets her gaze.

Neither of them says it, but the same thought sits behind both of their expressions.

Something about this doesn’t feel right.

Not just captured.

Not just outnumbered.

Something bigger.

Like the road beneath the truck is slowly carrying them somewhere they aren’t meant to come back from.

The sky outside the narrow cracks in the doors has turned almost completely dark now.

Only faint streaks of twilight remain.

The truck finally begins to slow, the engine downshifting with a loud mechanical groan.

Gravel crunches beneath the tires again.

Rosita feels her pulse pick up instantly.

None of them move. None of them speak.

The vehicle rolls forward a few more yards before stopping completely.

The engine idles loudly in the quiet.

Outside, voices drift faintly through the metal walls.

More than a few.

And some—familiar.

Rosita exchanges another glance with Sasha.

And this time the feeling in her gut settles into something cold and certain.

They didn’t drive this long just to kill them.

Whatever is waiting outside—

It’s meant to be seen.

Chapter Four: Fear The Rot - Coming Soon

Coming Up:

The low rumble of engines.

The faint creak of leather jackets shifting as the Saviors move.

Crickets chirping.

Then—

“Alright!”

The voice cuts through the clearing like a knife.

A Savior steps forward into the headlights, his grin wide and eager as he looks down the line of kneeling survivors.

“We got a full boat. Let's meet the man.”