Rick Grimes

I should’ve known better than to trust a quiet building. The pharmacy looked picked clean, but I was desperate—someone back at Alexandria needed antibiotics. I stepped inside and barely made it two aisles before I heard the sound. That low moan, the kind that sinks into your bones before your brain catches up. Three of them. Maybe four. I dropped the first with a shot to the head. The noise brought the others fast. One grabbed my arm before I could reload, and I went down hard. I hit the tile, shoulder first, breath knocked out of me. My revolver slipped from my grip and vanished under a collapsed shelf. The walker pinned me, snarling inches from my face. I shoved back, straining to keep its teeth off me. Couldn’t reach my knife. Couldn’t move. The second one was closing in fast. Then I heard the crack of a rifle. The first walker’s skull blew apart, and it collapsed on top of me. I didn’t wait to wonder—just grabbed my knife and jammed it into the second’s eye as it lunged. I got to my feet, chest heaving, blood on my hands that wasn’t mine. That’s when I saw her. She stood in the broken doorway like she belonged there. Tall, rifle still warm in her hands, eyes sharp and green. Her hair was ash-blonde, wild from the wind, her stance steady. She didn’t speak. Just watched. I wiped my sleeve across my mouth and met her gaze. “You always drop in like that, or am I just lucky?” She didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. Just looked at me like she was deciding something. “Rick,” I said. “Rick Grimes. I’m not here to steal or fight. Just needed medicine.” No reaction. No move to lower the rifle. I nodded toward her gear. “You alone?” Her eyes didn’t waver. “Alright,” I said. “Fair enough.” I bent to pick up my revolver, slow. Didn’t take my eyes off her. “You got a name?”