Chapter Text
The road stretches ahead in a broken gray ribbon, cracked open by heat, frost, and the weight of years without maintenance. The Nomads stay spread out across the shoulder so no one makes an easy target. They walk the way they always do, in quiet rhythm, letting the crunch of gravel and the rustle of dry weeds fill the silence. The sky hangs low and pale over the ruins of Illinois, soft with clouds that promise nothing. Not rain, not sun, not comfort.
Ray keeps the map tucked under his arm. The paper is worn and creased and smudged with fingerprints that belong to him, Peter, and Collie. It is almost unreadable. Ray knows the route by heart anyway. He studies it now and then, not because he needs to, but because it keeps him grounded. It gives him something to check, something stable, something that stayed the same while everything else rotted.
Peter walks beside him, close enough that their shoulders brush every few minutes. He talks about the cold, or about the way the sky looks, or about the weird half collapsed billboard they passed two miles back. Peter tries to make it sound like light chatter, something casual, something easy. But his voice is too quick. He glances behind them too often. His smile never reaches his eyes.
Collie brings up the rear. He’s the quiet guardian of the group, sharp eyed and steady. He watches their backs while Ray watches the horizon. Every so often he calls out to check that Hank, Art, Barkovitch, and the others are keeping pace. He has a habit of counting them under his breath. He never stops at seven unless he sees all seven of the others.
Richard walks a little slower than the rest. His right prosthetic foot taps the pavement with a faint plastic click. Stebbins stays near him and keeps an easy pace so Richard never feels rushed. They talk in low voices, trading fragments of ideas for the next journal entry or footage to capture. Whenever Richard brings the camcorder up to his eye, Stebbins leans into the shot with a grin, trying to lighten the mood. Richard never scolds him for it. He just shakes his head and pretends he’s annoyed.
Hank and Art flank Barkovitch near the middle of the line, though not obviously enough to make it look like a chaperoned walk. They stay close in a way that suggests friendship, not surveillance. Hank matches Barkovitch’s stride perfectly, throwing out gentle comments about useless things like how the clouds look like stretched wool or how the wind smells like metal. Art does the same, though his attempts always come out softer and more strained.
Barkovitch himself looks hollow eyed and jittery. His hair sticks to his forehead. He jumps at the sound of loose stones rolling beneath someone’s boot. Sometimes he mutters something too low to understand. Sometimes he nods at empty space.
No one says out loud that he’s getting worse again. No one needs to.
The morning air tastes like dust. The road winds between fields that used to carry corn and soybeans but now carry only yellowed weeds and scattered bones. A rusted tractor sits in the distance, half swallowed by tall grass. A mile back they passed a burned house with windows cracked in spiderweb patterns. No fresh bodies. No fresh movement. It was quiet in a way that never feels peaceful.
The world ended fast, then slow. It broke, then kept breaking, and the Nomads learned to walk the pieces without cutting themselves too deeply. But Barkovitch doesn’t seem to know where to step anymore.
He stumbles when a crow bursts from a ditch. His whole body snaps like a pulled wire.
Hank catches him before he falls. "Hey. You good?"
Barkovitch nods too fast. "Yeah. Yeah. It’s fine. Just a bird. Just a bird."
Art looks at Hank with a tight expression that says they both know it wasn’t the bird. Hank shakes his head slightly. Not now.
Ray glances over his shoulder at the noise. When he sees Hank helping Barkovitch steady himself, he slows his pace. He doesn’t walk back, but he calls, "All good?"
"Fine," Hank says. "Just tripped."
Ray watches a second longer, then returns his eyes to the road. He trusts Hank. He trusts all of them. But he’s starting to worry. Collie is too. Ray can feel it in the way Collie’s voice has sharpened over the past week. Something is going on and they haven’t put a name to it.
Barkovitch pulls his hood up like he’s trying to hide inside it. "It’s them. They’re talking again."
Hank’s face goes pale. "Hey. Not now. Not here."
"They’re saying my name," Barkovitch whispers. He presses his fingers to his temples. "Telling me to get off the road. To go into the corn. They’re waiting."
Art steps in closer. "You’re safe with us. Rotters don’t talk."
"Yes they do," Barkovitch says. His voice rises at the end, like it wants to crack in half. "They talk. You’re not listening. Why aren’t you listening?"
Hank squeezes his shoulder. "I am listening. I’m right here. Just breathe."
Barkovitch stares at him with wide, frantic eyes. Then the panic settles into something smaller and heavier. He swallows and nods, even though he doesn’t look convinced.
Hank leans toward Art and whispers, "We keep it quiet. Let him come down on his own. He’ll be okay."
Art hesitates. His jaw flexes. "We should tell them."
"Not yet."
"They’ll find out. Just like last time on that escort from New York."
"Art. Please. Give me time."
Art falls silent. He doesn’t like this, but they both carry too much guilt from the past to fight about it now. They left Barkovitch behind once when they were young and scared and stupid. They won’t do it again. Even if that means keeping secrets that tug at their nerves every mile they walk.
The road curves toward a cluster of abandoned vehicles. Broken windshields glitter with sunlight. A few doors hang open like mouths mid scream. Ray lifts a hand to halt them.
They all scatter into practiced positions. Peter drops beside Ray to support him. Collie moves ahead to scout the other side. Hank pulls Barkovitch behind a truck, though Barkovitch keeps peering over the hood like something is whispering in his ear. Richard lifts the camcorder briefly, then lowers it again. His heart isn’t in filming this part of the world anymore. He only keeps recording because the habit refuses to die.
After a slow sweep, Collie waves them forward. "Clear. No movement."
Ray nods and gestures for the group to keep walking.
They move past the cars, careful and quiet. A stuffed toy lies on the pavement near a minivan, its fur soaked in old rainwater and its eye missing. Peter picks it up, wipes it off on his sleeve, and tucks it onto the dashboard through a broken window. He tries not to imagine the family that left it behind.
As they walk, the world grows colder. A breeze pushes ash colored dust down the road. Barkovitch starts muttering again. Hank hears him whisper, "Stop calling me. Stop calling me," as if he’s pleading with something only he can hear.
Hank offers him water. Barkovitch ignores it.
The rest of the Nomads drift apart into two loose clusters. Ray and Peter lead. Richard and Stebbins follow a little behind. Hank, Art, and Barkovitch stay in the middle. Collie lingers behind everyone, scanning the tree line with tense shoulders.
No one speaks for nearly an hour.
Then Barkovitch stops.
Not a slow halt. A sudden one. Like his feet hit an invisible wall.
Hank notices first. "Hey. Bark. You with me?"
Barkovitch’s eyes go glassy. His lips move without sound. He turns his head toward the empty field, listening the way someone might listen to a distant music box.
Art steps in front of him. "What’s happening?"
"They’re louder," Barkovitch whispers. "I hear them all the time now. They want me to go. They know me. They know my name."
Hank quickly looks up the line to see if Ray is watching. Ray isn’t. Good. Hank steps between Barkovitch and the rest of the group and says, "It’s nothing. It’s just noise. You’re just tired."
But Barkovitch backs away from him. He touches his chest like his heart is beating wrong. He whispers something that sounds like, "You’re lying."
Hank tries to catch his eye, but Barkovitch is somewhere else again.
Ray finally turns around. Peter slows next to him. "Something up?" Ray calls.
"Just a breather," Hank answers. "He’s fine."
Ray doesn’t look convinced. Collie is already walking toward them. He folds his arms as he reaches Hank and gives him a look that could strip paint.
"Hank," Collie says. "What’s going on. Really."
Hank forces a steady tone. "He’s tired. We all are."
Barkovitch laughs at nothing. It’s a sharp little sound, brittle as a cracked shell.
Collie’s eyes flick to him, then back to Hank. "I know tired. That’s not tired."
Hank’s mouth tightens. "We can handle it."
"Who’s we," Collie asks. "Because it looks like you and Art are handling this alone."
Art looks away, guilty.
Ray walks back and joins them. Richard and Stebbins stop a few yards behind, silently alert.
Ray says, "If he’s sick, we need to know."
"He’s not sick," Hank snaps. Then he lowers his voice. "He’s just overwhelmed. It’s been a rough stretch. He needs rest. That’s all."
But Barkovitch begins whispering again. This time the words spill out faster and sharper. "They’re coming out of the dirt. They’re calling me. Why won’t you hear them. Why won’t you hear them."
Everyone hears that.
Collie steps forward. "Gary."
Barkovitch flinches at his voice like it’s a slap. He stumbles backward and clutches at the air as if something invisible is grabbing at him. "No. No. Not you too."
Peter reaches for Ray’s hand. Ray squeezes it to keep him steady.
Collie softens his tone. "It’s okay. No one is here but us."
"They’re always here," Barkovitch says. "I can hear them under the road."
Richard watches with a frozen expression. His shoulders are drawn tight. His camera hangs limp from his hand.
Hank finally steps in front of Barkovitch and says, "Listen to me. Just look at me. You’re safe. You’re with us. Nothing’s going to hurt you."
Barkovitch does look at him. But something behind the fear has shifted. Something rawer and more desperate is taking root. He whispers, "You knew. You knew it was getting worse."
Hank feels the accusation like a punch.
Ray sighs. It’s not angry. It’s tired in a way that speaks of too many nights watching the group fall apart piece by piece. "Why didn’t you tell us."
Hank doesn’t know how to answer that without breaking something important. He tries anyway. "He asked me not to. And I didn’t want him to feel alone again."
"He was never alone," Collie says. "You should’ve told us."
"It’s my fault," Hank says. "I thought I could help."
"It’s not about blame," Ray says. "It’s about keeping him safe."
But Barkovitch is past listening. He staggers forward and grabs Collie’s sleeve with shaking fingers. His voice cracks as he whispers, "Tell them to stop. Please. Tell them to stop calling me."
Collie holds his arm gently. "We’re going to get you help."
The words sink into Barkovitch like stones.
He whispers, "Don’t send me away."
Collie looks devastated. "We’re not sending you away. We’re staying with you."
Barkovitch doesn’t believe him.
He falls to his knees on the cracked pavement. His breath shudders out of him, too fast to control. He covers his ears with both hands and starts to rock, whispering things the wind steals away.
The Nomads form a circle around him. The world feels colder. The road feels wrong. The silence between them grows heavy with the truth they can’t ignore anymore.
Barkovitch isn’t okay. He isn’t getting better.
And they can’t handle this alone.
Ray kneels beside him. Collie does too. Hank hovers, looking like his ribs are collapsing inward. Art rests a hand between Hank’s shoulder blades, trying to keep him upright.
The group waits like that for a long time, surrounded by empty fields and broken asphalt, holding together the only way they know how.
The road stretches ahead into uncertainty, but they don’t move. Not yet.
They stay with Barkovitch until his breathing evens. They stay until he stops whispering. They stay until he looks up at them, lost and small, and no one knows what to say.
When he finally speaks, his voice is thin.
"I’m scared."
Collie squeezes his hand. "We know. We’ve got you."
And the Nomads keep walking, but slower now, closer now, bound by the quiet fear that they might lose him if they take one wrong step.
They walk in a tighter formation now. No one says it out loud, but everyone adjusts without thinking. Hank and Art stay on either side of Barkovitch again, though closer this time. Collie moves up from the rear and walks a few paces behind them instead of all the way at the back. Ray switches the map to his other hand so he can keep glancing over his shoulder. Peter stays glued to his side. Stebbins watches the group more than the surroundings. Richard doesn’t lift the camera once.
Barkovitch shuffles rather than walks. His steps drag like he’s learning how to move again. Every sound makes him flinch. He keeps his head down, but his eyes dart up every few seconds, searching for shapes that aren’t there.
Hank tries to keep things steady with small comments. He points out a fallen billboard, a rusted mailbox, a flock of birds cutting across the sky. He talks about anything that might anchor Barkovitch to the moment, but Barkovitch doesn’t respond. He just breathes fast and shallow. Art keeps adjusting the strap of his pack, nervous hands that betray what he doesn’t say.
They reach a stretch of road where the asphalt rises in uneven slabs. The earth underneath shifted years ago, pushing the pavement upward like broken teeth. Ray slows and motions for everyone to step carefully. They follow him one by one. Barkovitch stumbles on the first rise, and Hank barely catches his elbow in time.
"You’re okay," Hank says.
Barkovitch nods, but the nod feels empty.
The road curves toward an old gas station swallowed by vines. The windows are dust filmed and cracked. A sign dangles from its post, hanging by one screw so it twists in the breeze with a slow, tired squeal. Ray stops at the edge of the lot and studies the building.
"We’ll rest here," he says.
No one argues. They’re all drained from the tension twisting around them.
Peter slips ahead to check the inside while Collie circles around the back. After a minute they return and meet Ray with matching grim expressions.
"Nothing fresh. No rotters, no animals," Collie says. "Just trash and a lot of dust."
"Good enough," Ray answers.
They settle in. Richard drops onto an old plastic crate and rubs the back of his neck with a long sigh. Stebbins sits beside him and nudges his shoulder.
"You okay?"
Richard gives the smallest shrug. "It’s been a day."
Stebbins puts a hand on his knee. Richard doesn’t move away, but he also doesn’t lean in the way he normally would. Something in him has curled inward.
Ray and Peter sit near the door and quietly split a protein bar. Ray hands the bigger half to Peter, who shakes his head and tries to give it back. Ray just raises an eyebrow, and Peter finally accepts it with a faint smile.
Hank guides Barkovitch to sit against a wall. Barkovitch folds himself up with his arms around his knees, staring at a stain on the floor as if it’s speaking to him. Art sits on his other side, knees drawn up, ready to catch him if he bolts.
Collie kneels in front of Barkovitch. "You need anything? Water? Food?"
Barkovitch lifts his head slowly. "They’re following us."
Collie pauses. "Who’s following us?"
"You know." His voice is almost a breath. "You know."
Hank leans forward quickly. "We’re safe here. Zombies don’t track like that."
But Barkovitch answers without looking at Hank. "They know me."
Art runs his hand over his face and looks toward the ceiling as if asking for patience. Collie stays calm.
"We won’t let anything get to you," Collie says. "We’re staying together."
Barkovitch gives a small laugh. It sounds wrong, weak and hollow. "No you’re not. I heard you. You think I’m sick."
Collie shuts his eyes for a moment, then opens them. "We think you’re scared. And overwhelmed. That’s it."
Barkovitch studies his face as if searching for a lie. Whatever he finds, it doesn’t soothe him. He presses his palms to his eyes and whispers, "It won’t stop."
Ray steps closer. "We’ve been pushing too hard. Let’s take a longer break. Give him time to breathe."
Peter nods and starts unpacking one of the food bags. Collie drags a half working shelf over to use as a table. Richard finally lifts his camera and records a few seconds of the building, but not the people. He turns the lens away from Barkovitch immediately. His jaw clenches.
Hank notices. He walks over. "You’re avoiding him."
Richard lowers the camera. "I don’t know what to say to him right now."
"He’s scared."
"I know."
"That’s when he needs you."
Richard stares at the floor. "He needs someone stronger than me."
Hank frowns. "Strength isn’t about fixing things. Just sit with him."
Richard shakes his head. "Not now. I can’t."
Stebbins overhears and drapes an arm around Richard’s shoulders. Richard lets him, but his expression stays distant.
Hank returns to Barkovitch and sits. Art slides a little closer. Collie sits on the other side. Barkovitch stays curled up and quiet.
Outside, the wind picks up. Loose paper blows across the parking lot with a dry flutter. A rusted flagpole clinks against its metal bracket. The world always sounds like this now. Empty places making empty noise.
Ray gives everyone an hour. He knows they need it. Bodies relax. Tension unwinds little by little. But Barkovitch doesn’t relax at all. His breathing stays fast, and every few minutes he jerks like something whispered in his ear.
When they finally get ready to move again, Barkovitch struggles to stand. Collie and Art grab his arms and help him up. Hank adjusts Barkovitch’s pack straps and whispers, "We’re almost there. Just one more day and we hit New Chicago."
Barkovitch stares at him. His voice is barely audible. "They don’t want me to go there."
Hank tries to smile. "You don’t have to listen to them."
"Heard you the first time," Barkovitch mutters, but the words are hollow, not sharp.
They step back onto the road. The sun sinks lower behind thick clouds, turning the world slate colored. Ray checks the map again and tucks it away. They’ll reach the outer fences of New Chicago by evening if they keep a good pace.
The group marches in silence. Every footstep sounds too loud. Every breeze feels too cold.
Halfway down the next stretch, Barkovitch stops again. This time he doesn’t freeze or stare. He simply crumples, knees hitting the pavement with a dull thud.
Hank drops beside him instantly. "Bark. Look at me. Hey. Come on."
Barkovitch shakes his head fast, like he’s trying to rattle something loose inside it. "Too loud. They’re too loud."
Collie kneels next to him. Art does too. Ray calls back, "Everything okay?"
Before anyone can answer, Barkovitch throws his hands out and screams.
It cuts through the air like a flare. Sharp. Raw. Full of terror the rest of them can’t see.
Peter grabs Ray’s sleeve. Richard flinches hard enough that his prosthetic foot slips on the asphalt. Stebbins puts out a hand to steady him.
Hank tries to wrap his arms around Barkovitch, but Barkovitch thrashes. "Get them out! Get them out of my head!"
Art grips his wrists gently to keep him from hurting himself. Collie tries to talk over the screams. "You’re safe. You’re right here with us. Breathe. Look at me."
But Barkovitch is lost. He’s looking at something far away or deep inside or nowhere at all. His screams break into shaking sobs.
The group rushes around him. They form a protective circle.
Barkovitch keeps shaking. His face is damp with sweat and tears. Hank pulls him close and holds him through the trembling, even though Barkovitch barely registers who’s touching him.
When he finally quiets, he leans against Hank’s chest, exhausted and small. His breathing slows to weak hiccups. His voice is a thin scrape. "Don’t let them take me."
Collie kneels so they’re eye level. "We’re not letting anyone take you. We’re staying with you."
Barkovitch stares through him. "I don’t believe you."
Collie’s expression twists with pain he tries not to show. "Then believe this. I’m not leaving. Not now. Not ever."
The wind carries a faint groan from somewhere in the fields, but it’s far off. Ray listens a second, then gestures for everyone to move. They help Barkovitch stand. Hank and Collie support most of his weight. Art stays close, ready to catch him.
The Nomads continue down the cracked road, closer and closer to the place that might save him or break him or both.
They don’t talk. They don’t argue. They simply walk, exhausted and scared, holding each other up through the long stretch of dying daylight.
And for the first time since the outbreak began, the terror isn’t outside the group.
It’s inside it. Inside Barkovitch.
And none of them know how much time they have left.