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Next update? Walking Dead: One Man Army
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Chapter 13
"What the hell do you mean, you're sending him to a mental hospital?!" she shouted, her voice cutting through the house like shattered glass.
"I mean exactly what I fucking said!" he barked back, standing in the kitchen, his frame towering, fists clenched at his sides. "He punched his teacher! Saying some bullshit about a corpse about to bite him! The entire neighborhood is talking behind our backs, pointing their fingers at us!"
"He was scared! He had a nightmar—"
"A nightmare is one thing, but seeing a corpse in place of a person is another! He's clearly not right in the head!"
She marched toward him, fury in her eyes, trembling with the weight of everything she had held back.
"You don't get to twist this into something it's not! He is not violent, and he is not dangerous! He is a good boy! Our son—"
"He's a psychopath in the making!" he thundered, slamming his hand against the countertop. "And your constant coddling is only making it worse! You're gonna get yourself fucking killed if you keep pretending nothing's wrong with him!"
Her face flushed red with rage.
"I am treating our son as the innocent child he is!" she hissed, her voice low and sharp, trembling like a drawn bowstring. "Because someone has to! Because you—"
She jabbed a finger into his chest, getting an angry glare from him.
"—You gave up on him the second he showed signs of being different!"
He sneered, face twisting with contempt as he started walking out of the kitchen.
"I see the way he looks at people, like he's not even there, as if he's seeing things that no one else can see but him. You think that's fucking normal!?" He roared out, spit flying as he did.
"And you think locking our son away is going to fix him?!" she screamed, voice rising with desperation. "He needs his parents, not people in lab coats who'll treat him as if he is insane! He needs love, understanding, and patience, God Dammit! I'm doing my best, but I can't do it alone! He needs a father, Richard! And you sure as hell haven't been there for him!"
A bitter silence as they glared at each other, neither one backing down.
Then the smell hit her.
She narrowed her eyes, stepping closer, searching his face, and there it was. The faint wobble in his stance.
The red flush in his cheeks, the way his pupils were just a little too wide.
She sniffed once, then again.
Her stomach twisted.
"…Are you fucking drunk?" she asked, quietly, horrified, making him take a step back. "You promised me you would stop drinking!"
He scoffed, bloodshot eyes glaring down at her.
"That was before I found out our kid was a fucking monster!"
The words struck like a whip; her heart stopped cold.
"…Don't you fucking call him that!" she growled, stepping towards him, hands clenched.
He turned away from her, pacing back and forth.
"He is not a monster!" she cried, her voice raw, cracking with weight. "He's just a little boy, our little boy, who's terrified by his dreams! Who wakes up screaming and crying for his parents! Who doesn't understand what's happening to him! He's confused, he's hurting, and all you're doing is standing here and calling him things he's not! Like he's something we're just supposed to throw away and forget!"
Her voice broke, a sob catching in her throat.
"Y-You're supposed to be his father!"
He punched the wall of their hole, leaving a crack in the wood.
"He's not normal! Wake the hell up!" he roared, stepping closer. "I see what you refuse to see! He's not right! No kid wakes up screaming about walking corpses unless something's wrong in his head!"
She did not back down.
"Something is wrong in your head if you think for one second I'm going to let you throw our son away like he's trash!"
"Your son! That little monster is no—!"
"GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!" she screamed, her voice raw, reverberating off the walls. "You don't get to say that about him! You don't get to be here if that's how you see our son!"
Her chest heaved as she pointed toward the door, face flushed and wet with tears she refused to wipe away.
Her husband's eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching as rage twisted across his face.
"You think yelling makes you right?" he snapped, his voice dropping to something more dangerous. "You think your bleeding heart means anything? That kid's going to kill you and you're too fucking blind to see it."
"And you're too fucking drunk to care!" she snapped back, stepping closer until they were inches apart. "You're nothing but a coward hiding behind a bottle and lashing out at a child because you're too fucking weak to handle reality!"
His face twisted, the words hitting something deep, something rotting inside him.
And without war—
CRACK.
His hand lashed out.
Her head snapped to the side from the force of the slap.
The sound echoed through the house like thunder, followed by the sickening thud of her body hitting the hardwood floor.
She didn't move for a moment.
Then slowly, shakily, she brought a trembling hand to her cheek, which was already blooming red and beginning to swell.
Tears streamed down her face as she gasped in pain, disbelief, and heartbreak all at once.
Richard towered over her, chest heaving, hands shaking, not with regret, but with barely-contained urge to do more than just a slap.
"We should've gotten rid of him when we had the chance," he coldly spat out, before he turned and stormed toward the door.
The whole house rattled as the door slammed shut behind him.
She stayed there on the floor, alone, hand still pressed to her bruised face, staring blankly at the door her husband left through…
She should've gotten up.
Should've picked herself up off the floor and fought back, screamed, raged, done something, anything.
But she didn't.
Her hand slipped from her cheek as her shoulders shook.
The breath caught in her chest as a sob punched its way out of her throat, raw and ugly, as though her ribs were trying to collapse from the weight inside her.
She pressed both hands to her face, trying to hold everything in, but it spilled out anyway.
Shaking cries, broken gasps, the kind of weeping that scraped along her throat like broken glass.
She wasn't crying just because of the slap.
It was everything.
The years of walking on eggshells.
The nights spent pretending everything was fine for the sake of her son.
The quiet fear that this moment, this exact moment, was always coming.
Now it has.
And she felt like she was breaking.
Her sobs came fast and uncontrollable, her body folding in on itself, arms wrapped around her knees as she cried into the silence.
She didn't even try to hold it back.
Didn't try to be strong.
She just wept, painfully, openly, like something inside her had cracked wide open.
She stayed there for a long moment.
On the floor, heart breaking, soul unraveling.
The memories swirled, her son's first giggle, his tiny hand wrapping around her finger, the way he used to call her "Mama" before he learned to say "Mom."
His laughter, his innocent questions, the way he desperately clung to her after his first nightmare…
Not a monster.
Never a monster.
"M-Mom?"
The soft voice pierced through the silence like a needle through silk.
She froze.
Her breath hitched in her throat as she slowly turned her head toward the stairs.
There, barely visible in the dim light of the hallway, stood her son. Pajamas rumpled, small hands curled tightly at his sides, and those familiar blue eyes shimmering with fresh tears.
His lip trembled.
Her heart shattered all over again.
"S-Sweetheart…" she whispered, trying to gather herself, trying to push the pain down, bury it deep where he wouldn't see.
She attempted a smile, strong and warm, just for him.
But the moment her cheek moved, white-hot pain shot through her face like lightning, and she flinched.
He noticed.
His expression crumpled.
She held her cheek for a moment, then lowered her hand slowly, breathing through her nose to steady herself.
"How long have you been up?" she asked gently, her voice hoarse.
He didn't answer.
"…How much did you hear?"
His head dropped in shame.
A silence heavier than anything that had come before settled between them.
He looked so small standing there in the hallway, shoulders hunched, pajamas hanging off his thin frame, eyes red-rimmed and filled with guilt too big for his tiny body.
She sighed softly, blinking through her own tears, and opened her arms.
"Come here, baby."
He hesitated, but took one slow step.
Then another.
Until he ran into her arms with all the force his little body could manage, throwing himself into her embrace and clinging to her like she was the last safe place in the world.
She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close, tucking his head beneath her chin as fresh sobs tore from his chest.
"I-I'm sorry!" he cried, muffled against her shirt. "I'm s-sorry for being a bad son! I'm sorry for getting you hurt! I'm sorry for being a mons—"
Her arms tightened around him.
"No," she whispered fiercely, her voice trembling but sure. "Don't say that. Don't you ever say that."
"But Dad s-said—! H-He said I was—" he hiccupped, voice breaking, "a monster, and it's my fault, everything's my fault—"
"No, sweetheart, look at me."
She gently pulled back just enough to cup his face in her hands, flinching again from the pain in her cheek, but pushing through it for him.
She tilted his head up so their eyes met, hers filled with tears, his overflowing.
"You are not a monster, do you hear me?" Her thumb wiped at the tear tracing down his cheek. "You are my son. You are kind, caring, and brave, even when you're scared."
He shook his head weakly, but she pressed her forehead against his and whispered, "I'm sorry you had to see that. I'm so, so sorry."
He sniffled, hands trembling as they gripped her shirt. "It's my fault…"
"No," she said again, firmer now. "None of this is your fault. Not the nightmares, not the fighting, not tonight… nothing."
They sat there on the floor, wrapped in each other, mother and son surrounded by the echo of a broken home.
She kissed the top of his head, ignoring the way her cheek screamed at the movement.
"I will always love you."
______
Doc calmly walked along the edge of the lake, hands tucked loosely in his coat pockets, boots crunching over the packed dirt with every step.
The water lapped quietly at the shore, light dancing across its rippling surface as the sun dipped lower in the sky.
His gaze found Hound easily, sitting in the grass like a statue with his dragon mask catching the last of the fading light.
Daisy, his newly acquired horse, knelt beside him without a care in the world, lazily chewing through a carrot he gave her.
Coco was curled up on the other side, her head resting on Hound's lap, eyes half-lidded as she leaned into his hand for an ear scratch.
Doc stopped a few feet away, taking a moment to take it all in.
Then he sat down beside him, not close enough to crowd, but not too far either. Both of them stared out at the water.
For a while, neither of them said anything as they enjoyed the beauty of nature
But Doc wasn't here for the view.
"…The people at the camp are going to be a lot harder to convince to go back with us now."
Hound let out a low sigh, his hand pausing on Coco's head.
"Yeah," he murmured. "Figured as much."
Doc tilted his head, eyes still on the water.
"They've been whispering all afternoon, saying we're dangerous, that we're a threat to the kids, that Shane should make us leave before we do something worse. Rick's been trying to calm 'em down, but…" He gave a slight shrug as if saying, 'What can you do?'. "You know how people are, loud ones get heard while quiet ones stay silent."
Hound didn't respond immediately. Instead, he looked down at Coco, then at Daisy. His hand moved slowly over the dog's thick fur, thoughtful.
"I know for a fact," he said at last, "that neither of us give a damn what they think."
Doc hummed in agreement, amused. "That's true."
He reached into his pocket and handed Hound a piece of paper.
"Hawk wants you to scout the woods, look for any walkers or threats to the camp."
"And him?" Hound asked while taking the paper.
"He's gonna talk to Rick, offer him and anyone willing to listen to come with us back to base. Hopefully they accept our offer, but if they don't?" Doc shrugged again. "We'll grab some walkers and take care of them anyway."
There was a long pause between them.
The sun had almost dipped below the treeline now, casting long orange fingers across the lake.
Doc stood up slowly, brushing grass from his coat. "You gonna be alright out here?"
Hound nodded, confident. "Yeah."
Doc gave a soft pat to his shoulder. "I'll let you off easy this once, but next time you break the rules of dibs, I'm kicking you in the balls."
A short chuckle slipped from beneath the mask, dry and sharp.
"No promises."
Doc offered a lazy two-finger salute and turned, walking back toward the camp, the sound of his footsteps slowly fading into the trees.
Hound remained where he was, hand resting on Coco, Daisy huffed softly beside him, ears flicking.
He looked down at the folded paper curiously, wondering why Doc gave it to him.
Hound unfolded the paper.
At first, he expected coordinates, patrol routes, maybe a quick sketch of potential walker trails or a scavenging route.
But what met his eyes made him pause.
The letter was written in uneven, bubbly handwriting, the kind only a child could manage. Crayon scrawls of blue and pink danced across the top.
"Thank you for protecting me and Carl. You and Coco are really cool! Your mask looks like a dragon. Dragons protect people, right?"
— Sophia
Beneath the words, she had drawn a picture.
A small stick figure with blonde hair holding a doll, herself, stood between two taller figures.
One was clearly Hound, distinguishable by a massive, exaggerated dragon skull on his head. Beside him was Coco, drawn with four oversized paws and a lolling tongue the size of her head.
In front of them loomed a big, scribbled monster.
Red eyes, gaudy hands, ugly teeth, fat and vague.
But Hound and Coco stood between it and the kids, their arms and paws stretched protectively wide.
Carl was there too, shorter, with a sheriff's hat far too big for his little stick head.
Hound stared at the drawing for a long moment. The crayon lines, the crooked letters, and the childish boldness in how she'd drawn him like a guardian out of a storybook.
A faint breath escaped him, a sound that might've been a chuckle, might've been a laugh.
The closest thing to a real smile he'd shown all day pulled at the corner of his mouth behind the mask.
He folded the letter carefully, creasing the edges with a gentleness he rarely used.
And without a word, he tucked it into his inner coat pocket, close to the heart.
The dragon mask turned back to the lake, and for a while longer, Hound sat there in silence.
Coco nuzzled his side, sensing the shift in his mood to be a happier one.
______
The fire crackled and burned, casting flickering orange light across the circle of weary faces gathered around it.
Smoke drifted lazily into the darkening air, carrying with it the scent of sizzling meat, roasted corn, and something vaguely sweet.
It was the best meal they'd had in weeks.
Laughter echoed around the camp, small, cautious at first, but growing with each passing minute.
Rick sat with his family near the edge of the firelight, a warm plate in his hands, and Carl curled up beside him, wearing his hat, chewing happily on a piece of chicken like he hadn't eaten in days.
He probably hadn't, not properly, none of them had.
But tonight? Tonight, for a few precious hours, it almost felt normal.
Almost.
Lori sat on the other side of him, legs tucked up under her, picking at her plate. Her shoulders were tense despite the warmth of the fire.
Rick caught it immediately.
"…You haven't touched much," he said softly, nudging her with his elbow.
She glanced at him, offering a small, tight smile. "I'm fine."
Rick didn't push right away.
He gave it a minute.
Then he leaned in closer, his voice quiet enough not to carry.
"It's about them, isn't it?"
Lori looked at him now. Really looked. "You brought three armed men in masks into our camp, Rick."
He held her gaze, steady. "And they saved my life more than once; they earned my trust."
Her frown deepened, worry creasing her brow. "That doesn't mean they're not dangerous. You saw what happened earlier, one of them almost gutted a man right in front of the kids."
"He didn't," He defended immediately. "He stopped himself, and from what I've been hearing around camp, the man deserved more than just a broken jaw."
"He had a knife out, Rick."
"I've had a gun out before," Rick replied calmly. "Doesn't mean I shot someone."
Her eyes dropped to the fire again, the reflection of it danced in her eyes, and for a moment, she looked impossibly tired.
"I just… I don't know, Rick," she said finally. "I don't like the way they look at the others around the camp, especially with those awful masks."
"I'd be dead without them," The former Sheriff tried to reason, wanting her to see what he saw. "Lori, they're good people, you have to trust me on this. They got supplies, food, houses, a community, and they are willing to let us be part of it."
Lori's lips pressed into a thin line. "And what do they want in return?"
Rick hesitated.
"…Nothing," he said truthfully. "They haven't asked for a damn thing, they just want to help."
That, more than anything, seemed to unsettle her.
"I don't trust anyone who gives something for nothing," His wife muttered.
"Then trust in me," he sighed quietly. "I promise that I will never put you or Carl in danger."
Lori didn't answer, but she didn't argue again, either.
She simply leaned into his side, resting her head against his shoulder as the fire crackled on, and he rested his head on hers.
None the wiser to the hurt and anger-filled eyes on them from across the fire.
They stayed like that for what felt like hours, but stopped when they became aware of the sound of laughter slowly beginning to fade.
It was subtle at first, a few chuckles dying off, a voice trailing mid-sentence, but then the shift became unmistakable.
The mood changed.
Like a cold wind had blown through the campfire, stealing away the warmth.
Rick looked up just in time to see Hawk walking out of the darkness, mask gleaming faintly in the firelight, his footsteps light but deliberate.
He didn't say a word as he approached, but his presence alone was enough to draw every eye.
Conversations died on tongues.
Rick stood slowly, instinct prickling at the back of his neck as he looked at the masked man with concern.
Lori did the same beside him, wary.
"Hawk," Rick said, trying to cut through the silence. "Something wrong?"
Hawk stopped a few feet from the fire, just close enough to let the light hit his mask.
"Yes." His voice was calm. "This place isn't safe."
A murmur rippled through the camp.
Rick blinked, confused. "Come agai—?"
"What exactly do you mean by that?" Shane asked, glaring at Hawk heatedly at what he was implying.
Hawk turned his head slightly, addressing not just Rick now, but everyone within earshot, which, given how quiet the camp had gotten, was damn near everyone.
Well, except for Ed, who was currently passed out inside his tent with a broken jaw.
"This camp is too exposed," Hawk explained, loud enough for everyone to hear, crossing his arms. "It's too spread out, supplies are unguarded, tents are scattered, and the perimeter has blind spots. If a herd comes from the east, you won't have time to escape. If bandits find you, you'll lose half your people before you can rally."
A few faces turned toward each other, uneasy.
Dale furrowed his brow, thinking about the truth behind his words.
Andrea sat up straighter while hugging her sister protectively, who was unconsciously nodding along.
"How long have you been sitting on that?" Glenn asked, putting his empty plate down.
"Noticed it the moment we got here," Hawk said without flinching. "Didn't say anything at first because it wasn't our call."
Shane stepped forward, his voice tense. "And now it is?"
"No," Hawk said. "But we're giving you a choice."
He paused, letting his words settle like dust in the firelight.
"There's a place. Secure, fortified, and guarded. We have housing, water, enough food for everyone, and medicine. We even have a school for your kids. It's not perfect, far from it, but it's real, and it's growing. And we are more than happy to accept any of you who are willing to join us."
Silence.
Every face stared at him now, lit by fire and suspicion.
"That sounds like bullshit," someone muttered, not at all believing anything he said.
"Sounds like a trap," another added, agreeing with them.
But not all eyes were hostile.
There were flickers of something else in those who wanted more than to just survive.
Hope.
Rick saw it in Glenn's wide smile.
In Carol's pale, exhausted face as she looked at her daughter.
In Jacqui's careful stillness while her eyes lit up.
Even Lori, sitting beside him, seemed unsure now.
Hawk didn't try to convince them with flowery words or promises.
He just looked at them all and told it to them straight, "We're heading back in four days, make up your minds by then."
And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving nothing behind but the weight of his offer.
The camp was split between refusing and those who accepted their offer.
Rick could feel Shane's glare on him, as if he was blaming him for what happened.
_____
Merle laughed, having heard everything while he was out taking a piss.
"Well, well, well! Looks like we have a reason to stick with these fuckers after all~!"
Merle swaggered back toward his tent, boots crunching over dry leaves, a crooked grin plastered across his face.
Well, shit.
He had come back from taking a piss behind the treeline just in time to hear the masked freak's little speech, and boy, wasn't that a game-changer.
A community? Fortified? Food? Drugs? A goddamn school?
He had originally pegged these people as easy marks, bleeding hearts, and sheep just waiting to be sheared.
His original plan was simple, wait until they let their guard down, swipe whatever was worth taking, grab Daryl, and vanish into the woods before anyone knew what hit 'em.
But now?
Now he had a reason to stay.
Robbing them of canned beans and old blankets seemed downright stupid when there was a whole damn community full of supplies waiting just beyond the forest.
Merle's grin widened as he ran a hand down his face, practically buzzing with the possibilities.
A real base? With hot food, walls, maybe even a working shower?
Hell, he might even find himself a proper bed for once.
And if those masked freaks were the kind that knew how to fight and didn't flinch at blood?
Even better.
They make perfect meat shields!
He reached the edge of camp, where his tent was located, just as he spotted movement up the trail.
His grin returned in full when he saw the source.
Daryl, shirt clinging with sweat and face dusted in dirt, was trudging back from the woods with a freshly killed deer dragging over his shoulders, the antlers scraping against the bark of passing trees.
Merle let out a low whistle.
"Well I'll be damned, baby brother," he drawled, stepping into Daryl's path. "Look at you, bringin' home the bacon!"
Daryl frowned, shifting the weight of the carcass and narrowing his eyes. "Why're you smilin' like that?"
Merle chuckled and tossed an arm around Daryl's shoulders, minding the deer. "Just thinkin' 'bout our future, little brother~ Big things on the horizon."
Daryl jerked his shoulder free, suspicious. "What the hell you on about?"
Merle just winked. "Let's just say we might be tradin' up. No more tents, no more scraps. Real beds and real walls. Hell, maybe even some hot water."
Daryl stared at him like he'd grown a second head.
Merle clapped him on the back, grin still riding high.
"Stick with me, baby brother. We might just come out of this world sittin' pretty~"