I didn't remember closing my eyes.
I remembered laying in my sleeping bag after a light dinner with Daryl and Rick, discussing possible future plans.
Then, I felt a hand on my shoulder—firm.
I came awake instantly without jerking. Rick's face was close, voice low. "Zephyr."
I sat upright. "What?"
Rick tilted his head toward the window. "You need to see this."
Across the hall, another door opened.
Daryl stepped out, his hair flattened on one side, his crossbow already in hand. "What's wrong?"
Rick didn't answer; he moved to the front instead and lifted the curtain a fraction. I stepped in beside him.
The street was full.
Walkers packed tight between abandoned cars, pressed against fences, drifting around mailboxes and hedges.
A sea of rotten flesh was moving past the house. The low sound of them came through the glass—a layered, wet murmur.
Daryl leaned from the side and stared.
"Hell," he breathed.
The herd stretched past the house in both directions.
Dozens? No—more than that.
A couple hundred at least.
Some still wore dock uniforms, some hospital scrubs, others just civilian clothes in varying stages of decay.
The herd kept flowing, dozens more behind them.
Hard to count in the dark, but it was big enough that pushing through at dawn would be suicide.
I stepped closer, eyes narrowing as I tracked the direction they were headed.
Same as our destination.
Not random.
"Something had drawn them," I said.
"They weren't there before," Rick said quietly.
"No," I agreed.
Rick lowered the curtain carefully. "They're not hitting the house," he said. "Just passing"
"For now." I replied,
We stood there listening.
The herd brushed against the side fence at one point; wood cracked. A few hands thumped lightly against the outer wall, but no one inside made a sound.
Minutes stretched, then more.
The herd kept moving.
Daryl finally stepped back from the window. "If they settle out there…"
I nodded. That was the problem.
If the herd stalled in the neighborhood, it would be impossible to move tomorrow without drawing them straight to the house.
Rick crossed his arms, thinking. "If they're still thick at first light," he said quietly, "we'll need to shift them."
Daryl didn't hesitate. "I'll do it."
Both me and Rick looked at him.
"I know my ways around the woods," Daryl said.
"You remember back at the Greenes' farm, right? I can pull a chunk of 'em, if not most, the opposite way. Make noise—just enough. Lose 'em in the trees, circle back."
Rick frowned slightly. "That's a lot of bodies."
Daryl shrugged once. "Don't matter. They'll follow all the same."
Silence.
I studied him for a long second, then nodded once.
"If they're still here at dawn," I said, "you move before we do. No heroics. You pull until they commit, then you vanish."
Daryl gave a short nod.
"And no radio," I added.
Rick glanced at me. "Because?"
"Because we don't know who's listening."
"We're too close to the coast, too close to whoever's operating out there," I continued.
"If there's still an active military presence tied to the island, the last thing we do is start broadcasting our position."
"Sound carries; signals do, too."
Daryl grunted, adjusting his crossbow. "Fine by me. Wasn't planning on chatter anyway."
Rick placed a hand briefly on Daryl's shoulder—not stopping him, just grounding the moment.
"First light," I repeated. "Only if they don't clear."
Daryl sat against the wall in the room this time, not bothering to lie down fully.
Crossbow across his chest, eyes open.
I stepped back into the bedroom I've been using.
I didn't immediately sit; I just listened.
The herd's sound continued outside—steady, dragging, relentless—but it was moving.
For now, that was enough.
After a minute, I lowered myself back into my sleeping bag, knife near me again, eyes half-lidded.
I didn't fully sleep; I just waited for either silence or morning.
It wasn't long before light crept in through the curtains.
I was already awake when Rick stepped in.
"The bulk moved," Rick said quietly.
I was already on my feet and going back to the front window before he finished talking.
The street was no longer a sea of dead bodies, but it wasn't clear either.
Walkers drifted in clusters now: twos, fours, a loose knot of maybe ten tangled near a crushed sedan.
More figures further down the block.
At least two dozen still within sight.
Stragglers.
Daryl studied their spacing. "I can pull 'em."
He shifted his crossbow into a ready grip.
I didn't answer immediately.
I watched the direction the main herd had gone—toward the river, toward the docks.
Rick followed my line of sight.
"You thinking what I'm thinking?" Rick asked.
"Yeah," I said.
Daryl glanced between us. "What?"
I stepped back from the window. "The herd," I said. "It was moving with purpose."
"Noise?" Rick suggested.
"Maybe," I said. "Maybe something drawn them."
Daryl frowned slightly. "You sayin' it's headin' toward the island?"
"I'm saying," I replied evenly, "if a horde that size is now in our destination, walking straight into it is suicide."
Silence settled.
Outside, one of the walkers bumped into a mailbox and kept going.
Rick rubbed his jaw. "So we can't continue how we planned?"
"No," I said. "We change approach."
Daryl lowered his crossbow slightly. "Which is?"
"We don't go to the docks yet," I said. "We find elevation. Close enough to see the island, far enough to stay out of the funnel."
Rick nodded slowly. "Scout before committing."
"Exactly."
Daryl glanced back at the street. "Still gotta clear these."
"Yeah," I said. "Draw them like you said. Just enough to thin the area. We move while they're stretched."
Daryl gave a short nod. No more discussion.
We moved downstairs.
Rick cracked the back door just enough to slip out into the yard. I followed, and Daryl went last.
The morning air was damp and cool with a heavy stench of rot—heavier than usual.
The stragglers hadn't noticed us yet.
Daryl moved first.
He stepped into the open edge of the yard and whistled, low and sharp.
The effect was immediate.
Heads turned.
Three walkers closest to the fence shifted direction immediately.
Daryl didn't wait; he jogged toward the tree line east of the house, just fast enough to keep attention.
Five, eight, a dozen—the walkers followed, arms reaching, tripping over each other to adjust direction.
Daryl disappeared into the trees.
The sound of them drifted with him.
I scanned the street again. A few still wandered, but it was much more manageable this time.
Twenty minutes later, Daryl emerged from a different tree line further ahead, breathing hard but steady.
"Lost 'em in a creek bed," he said. "They'll wander."
"Good job," I said.
"Now let's get going."
(To be continued...)