Chapter 55: He's Still Just a Kid
Fear filled the boy's eyes, reflecting the figures of Hanks and Kenny back at him like warped shadows.
Kenny caught the fleeting glint of killing intent in Hanks's gaze, and his heart lurched.
Looking at the boy's still-immature face, he finally couldn't hold back. He grabbed Hanks's arm.
"Hanks! Don't—he's just a kid!"
"He didn't attack us. We got what we needed—just knock him out, tie him up, and leave!"
"There's no need… no need to kill him!"
Hanks froze.
He turned his head slightly to look at Kenny, silently weighing risk against consequence.
"Kenny," Hanks said quietly, "in the apocalypse, doing good without the strength or leverage to back it up will come back to bite you."
"Kindness has a price."
Kenny felt a chill crawl up his spine under that stare—but he didn't back down.
Lowering his voice, he insisted, "We're… we're not like them. Right, officer?"
He deliberately stressed the word officer.
The alley fell into dead silence, broken only by the boy's suppressed, panicked breathing.
Hanks's gaze shifted back and forth between Kenny's anxious face and the boy's deathly pale one.
At last, the cold killing intent in his eyes slowly receded—though the temperature there never truly warmed.
Suddenly, he raised his hand and slammed the pommel of his knife hard into the back of the boy's neck.
The boy let out a muffled groan, his eyes rolling back as his body went limp, collapsing to the ground unconscious.
"Drag him into the corner. Hide him."
Hanks sheathed the knife, his voice calm, as if that moment of murderous resolve had never existed.
They weren't here to slaughter bandits—and there was no rope to be found nearby anyway.
If they weren't going to kill him, the only option was to silence him and stash him out of sight.
Kenny let out a long breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
He rummaged through a nearby pile of trash and pulled out a filthy rag. Without hesitation, he stuffed the foul-smelling cloth into the boy's mouth.
"Ugh!" Kenny gagged, recoiling as he shook his hand. "That's disgusting."
"Let's go," Hanks said, already standing. "Post office."
Before leaving, he glanced once more at the unconscious boy hidden in the shadows.
His eyes were deep, unreadable—no trace of emotion on the surface.
Surviving is hard enough for anyone… maybe this is—
He cut the thought off.
Shoving aside the fleeting philosophy, Hanks moved east, following the direction the boy had given.
Kenny followed close behind.
As they drew closer to the post office, scattered walkers began to appear.
Most wandered aimlessly along the streets or lingered inside ruined houses, drifting without purpose.
Hanks noticed something unsettling.
By all logic, walkers should rot and weaken over time. Yet these looked… fresh—almost as if they'd just been bitten.
Aside from obvious wounds, their bodies were taut, full of vitality, barely distinguishable from the living.
One or two could be explained away as newly turned.
But this was everywhere.
Something was wrong.
Hanks thought of the blood moon from before.
Had it triggered another kind of mutation?
After all, the walkers had already shown signs of berserk behavior.
A nearby walker snapped him back to the present. Hanks slid the tactical knife from his thigh and signaled to Kenny.
Kenny understood immediately. He crouched, bracing the shotgun against the edge of a drainage ditch, muzzle tracking slowly.
His job was overwatch—watching a wider area, especially for any living patrols.
Hanks hugged the wall of a weathered building. A walker stood with its back to him, mindlessly clawing at the door of a sedan.
He closed in without a sound.
His left hand clamped down on the crown of its head.
His right hand drove the blade cleanly into the back of the skull.
The walker stiffened—then collapsed, never making a sound.
Hanks dragged the body into the shadows with practiced efficiency.
He moved forward, using debris and broken walls as cover, dispatching several isolated walkers the same way.
From behind, Kenny watched with a mix of dread and awe.
It was infiltration turned into art—cold, efficient, not a single wasted motion.
He kept scanning their surroundings, palms slick with sweat, terrified of being the weak link.
Hanks stopped at a street corner and cautiously leaned out to observe.
Across the road stood their objective.
A low building with a green slanted roof, a wooden sign hanging above the entrance.
The post office.
The problem was the walkers.
At least seven or eight of them loitered around the entrance and nearby street.
Hanks motioned for Kenny to hold position.
Using overgrown weeds as cover, Hanks advanced alone.
Each time he burst from shadow, the knife found its mark—eye socket or brain stem—followed by a quick drag into concealment.
Kenny gripped his shotgun, fingers tight on the fore-end, silently praying nothing went wrong.
Minutes later, the area around the post office fell into an uneasy stillness.
Hanks waved him over.
Kenny ducked low and hurried across the street, meeting him at the entrance.
They slipped inside.
The interior was dim and stale, thick with dust, moldy paper, and a faint stench of decay.
The lobby was in shambles—overturned desks, scattered letters and parcels.
Behind the counter lay a decomposed corpse in a postal uniform, long dead.
Hanks gestured for them to split up.
Kenny nodded, shotgun trained on the hallway leading to the offices.
They followed the signs, rummaging through shelves and drawers.
Most of it was useless paperwork.
Then Hanks opened a filing cabinet and finally found what he was looking for.
A stack of pristine maps, sealed in plastic—detailed road maps of Georgia, along with enlarged layouts of Creekwood Town and the surrounding area.
"Got it," Hanks whispered, rolling the maps and stuffing them into his pack.
At that moment—
A crash echoed from a door marked Break Room, followed by a hoarse snarl.
Kenny snapped his shotgun toward the door.
Hanks instantly drew his P226.
BANG!
The door burst open.
Two walkers in postal uniforms staggered out, lunging straight for Kenny.
He fired on instinct.
BOOM!
The deafening blast exploded through the confined lobby.
Buckshot shredded the first walker's chest, hurling it backward into the second.
But the noise was like a siren.
The town's deathly silence shattered.
"Shit!" Kenny cursed under his breath.
He knew he'd screwed up.
Hanks didn't hesitate. He stepped forward and put a precise round into the head of the twitching walker.
BANG!
"Move!" he growled, grabbing Kenny and bolting for the door.
But it was already too late.