Hours dragged on, and Rebecca's worry grew into outright agitation. She paced the cabin floor, her hands clenched into fists.
"Alvin should've been back by now," she muttered, shooting a glare toward the door. "Something's wrong."
Carlos sighed, rubbing his temples. "Rebecca, they probably just got held up—"
"No," she snapped. "Get the guns. We're going after them."
Carlos hesitated, glancing toward the stairs where Sarah was hiding. "I'm not leaving her here with him."
Micah, sprawled on the couch cleaning his revolvers, didn't even look up. "Ain't babysittin' another brat. Take her with you."
Rebecca scoffed. "Like hell. She stays."
Carlos wavered, but Rebecca's glare won out. With a reluctant sigh, he grabbed his rifle. "Fine. But we make it quick."
The two left, the door slamming shut behind them.
Upstairs, Clementine was talking with Sarah. But then suddenly, Sarah bolted downstairs, a brief smile on her face—until she looked out the window. Her expression crumpled.
"That's not Luke," she whispered, her breath coming in short gasps.
Clementine followed her down. "Who is it?"
"H-he can't see me," Sarah stammered, her hands trembling.
Micah finally looked up from his guns. "Why the hell not?"
But Sarah didn't answer. She just shook her head, her panic rising.
Clementine nudged her toward the stairs. "Go hide. Now."
Sarah didn't need to be told twice. She fled upstairs just as a firm knock echoed through the cabin.
Micah holstered one revolver, kept the other low at his side, and sauntered to the door. He yanked it open.
The man on the porch smiled, disarmingly polite. "Afternoon."
Micah's eyes flicked over him—mid-forties, calm demeanor, pistol on his hip. Armed. Confident. Dangerous.
"What do you want?" Micah asked, voice flat.
"Name's George," the man said, extending a hand. "My family and I are set up downriver. Surprised we haven't run into each other yet."
Micah didn't believe that name for a second, but he shook the man's hand anyway. Firm grip. No hesitation. Used to being in charge.
"Micah."
"Pleasure," George—Carver, Micah was sure of it now—said smoothly. "Mind if I come in?"
Micah exhaled smoke through his nose, then stepped aside with a lazy wave. "Whatever."
Carver stepped inside, his gaze sweeping the room. Clementine stood near the kitchen, her hand drifting toward her Glock. Carver noted it—just like he noted Micah's twin revolvers.
"Just the two of you here?" Carver asked, still smiling.
Micah took a drag of his cigarette. "I asked first."
The two men locked eyes. For the first time since the outbreak, Carver felt a flicker of unease. This wasn't some scared survivor. This was a man who enjoyed danger.
Carver swallowed. "I'm looking for my people. Seven of 'em. Couple of farm boys, an old man... Spanish guy and his daughter."
Micah blew smoke in his face. "Never seen 'em."
Lie. But a good one.
Carver studied him, then nodded. "Well. Thanks for your time." He tipped an imaginary hat. "You take care now."
He left, the door clicking shut behind him.
Micah waited until his footsteps faded before muttering, "That's the bastard they're scared of?"
Clementine frowned. "He's coming back."
"Damn right he is," Micah said, stubbing out his cigarette.
Five days had passed since the group fled the cabin. Pete was gone—bitten, then put down—and Lee had saved Nick's ungrateful ass in the process. Now, standing at a distance from an old, weathered bridge, the group was running out of options.
Luke unfolded a creased map, squinting at the faded lines. "This is it. Only way across the river."
Nick and Rebecca sat on nearby rocks, exhaustion etched into their faces. Clementine, perched on a boulder, peered through a pair of binoculars.
"What do you see?" Luke asked.
"Bridge looks clear," she said. "There's a station house, a big lodge, and… a ski lift?" She lowered the binoculars, handing them back.
Carlos straightened. "We have to cross that bridge. Let's go."
Luke held up a hand. "Hold on, now. We can't all go sprinting across that thing. If we get spotted out there, we're trapped."
Micah, leaning against a tree with his arms crossed, let out a dry chuckle. "Luke's got a point." He pushed off the trunk, stretching his back with a groan. "Lee, Clem—you two go clear it."
Lee raised an eyebrow. "And you're staying here because… what? Too old and tired?"
Micah flipped him off. "Go fuck yourself, Lee."
Clementine snorted, covering her mouth to stifle a laugh.
Carlos frowned. "Clementine should stay here. She's—"
"—more capable than all of you put together," Micah cut in, smirking.
Clementine's face lit up with smug satisfaction—until Micah flicked her ear. "Don't let it go to your head, kid."
She rubbed her ear, scowling, but the grin still tugged at her lips.
Luke sighed. "Alright. Lee, Clem—scout the bridge. Rest of us stay put until we get the all-clear."
Lee nodded, checking his Glock before motioning for Clementine to follow. "Stay sharp."
As they moved toward the bridge, Micah leaned back against the tree again, watching them go.
"You really think they can handle it?" Nick muttered.
Micah lit a cigarette, exhaling smoke through his nose. "I'd bet my last bullet on it."