The Walking Dead: Survival Code

"In times of difficulty, persistence is what separates the strong from the weak."

— Unknown

...

Mountains Around Atlanta – One Month After the Fall

|October 18, 2010|

The thin mist hovered among the mountain pines, carrying the earthy scent of the damp forest. The morning sun cast beams of golden light through the branches, dancing gently with the movement of the breeze. An unsettling silence dominated the environment, broken only by the rustling of leaves and the cautious steps of a man with a crossbow in his hands.

The hunter, a Caucasian man with a face weathered by time and struggle, moved with precision. His eyes were fixed on the deer ahead, which was grazing calmly among the trees. He took a deep breath, adjusting his aim. The calloused fingers squeezed the crossbow trigger, and the arrow sliced through the air with a sharp whistle.

For a moment, it seemed that the shot had been perfect, but the deer, at the last moment, took a step forward. The projectile lodged itself in its torso, and the animal let out a guttural groan before darting into the forest, its hooves pounding against the soft ground.

"Damn," the hunter growled through clenched teeth, pulling out the quiver to reload. But he didn't give up. With swift steps, he followed the trail of blood that the animal left on the ground.

The deer, although wounded, moved quickly, its silhouette disappearing and reappearing among the tree trunks. When it seemed he was about to escape, a deafening sound echoed through the forest: the crack of a gunshot.

The deer fell abruptly, its legs buckling under its weight. The hunter stopped, frowning. He didn't need to look to know what had happened. Resigned, he walked over to the animal's body.

There he was, lying on the floor with glazed eyes, a pool of dark blood forming around his head. A clean hole marked the center of his forehead. The hunter crouched down, examining the wound with an expression that mixed frustration and a hint of admiration.

"Right in the middle of the eyes," he murmured, pulling the arrow still lodged in the deer's torso. "Damn Rhee."

He stood up, raising his gaze to the trees around him. It didn't take long for a figure to emerge from the forest, moving with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where they were. The newcomer carried a hunting rifle with steady hands and a calm but vigilant gaze.

"The deer didn't stand a chance," said Glenn Rhee, with a half-smile, as he approached.

"You like to ruin the fun, don't you?" the hunter retorted, wiping the arrow on his pants.

"We can't take the risk," Glenn replied, his tone more serious. "A wounded deer attracts attention, Daryl... and you know what else that attracts."

The hunter sighed, resigned. He knew Glenn was right. The sounds of the forest could mask many things, but the silence broken by gunshots was like a scream amid the chaos.

"Let's finish this quickly," said the hunter, pulling the deer's body by its legs. "Before we have company."

Glenn nodded, observing the forest around them. The danger was never far away, not even in the mountains.

...

|Atlanta Camp - 30 minutes later|

The old pickup truck roared down the dirt road, swaying slightly over the exposed rocks and roots. The smell of fresh blood and wet skin hung in the air, coming from the truck bed stuffed with hunting trophies: the slain deer, squirrels hanging from improvised ropes, and hares carefully stacked. In the passenger seat, Daryl Dixon chewed on a piece of wood, calm but always keeping an eye open, while Glenn Rhee kept his hands steady on the wheel and his gaze fixed on the winding road.

Glenn whispered, "We're almost there," breaking the cozy silence.

Daryl, without saying a word, raised his right arm and made a sign with three fingers. The response was immediate. A few meters ahead, a man emerged from the vegetation, camouflaged with leaves and branches that barely managed to hide the shine of his rifle. He cautiously stood up, looking around the car and its contents, then took a walkie-talkie that was attached to his belt.

He said, "Rhee and Dixon are coming back," in a low voice with an almost nonchalant tone. The man raised an eyebrow and smiled maliciously as the truck approached. "You better have brought something better than squirrels, you bastards."

Daryl, who was already half-leaning out of the window, raised his middle finger without hesitation, accompanied by a smile that revealed both irritation and amusement. "Go to hell, Morales!" he shouted, almost throwing himself out the window while Glenn let out a muffled laugh at the wheel.

Morales, now with his arms crossed, shook his head in disbelief, but the smile on his face showed that it was all part of the daily routine.

Glenn continued to laugh and said, "Leave him alone, Daryl." "You know he only says that because he wants a piece of the deer."

With his arms crossed now, Morales shook his head in shock, but his smile indicated that it was all part of his daily routine. "A deer, huh?" he retorted, retreating to the makeshift observation post. "At least you haven't lost your touch." I just hope you left something for me and my family.

Daryl murmured something unintelligible as he settled back into his seat, still with a smile on his face. Glenn sped up a bit, and the two passed through the temporary barricade at the entrance of the camp. A rare relief in such difficult circumstances was the sense of relative safety that permeated the atmosphere. They were home for now, as the sound of the truck blended with the cries of children running between the tents.

The old pickup truck stopped with a creak next to a row of makeshift tents. Glenn and Daryl got out slowly, their bodies already accustomed to the weight of the weapons and tools they carried daily. The camp was alive, pulsating with a routine that bordered on normal.

Children played around the tents, their laughter echoing as they ran between the bushes and pieces of metal used to improvise toys. A boy was trying to hit a can with a stone, while a girl with curly hair was skipping rope with what seemed to be an old electrical extension cord. The scene was a rare remnant of innocence in a world that had long lost its charm.

The adults, however, bore the weight of survival on their shoulders. Some stopped to greet Glenn and Daryl, waving or making comments:

"Good job, guys!"

"I hope you brought something to spice up the menu!"

"Glenn, you are a legend with that rifle!"

Daryl responded with short nods and the occasional grunt, while Glenn, always more approachable, offered a tired smile and a quick joke.

The center of the camp was an open space where the largest tents were, intended for storage and group work. An almost extinguished campfire in the middle still released faint wisps of smoke. Around, life went on: women hung washed clothes on ropes between trees; a few men repaired tools and weapons; and some set up traps for defense.

While Glenn and Daryl unloaded the fruits of the hunt—the deer, squirrels, and hares—a man appeared, walking with long and confident strides. Shane, a former police officer, was one of the leaders of the camp. His hair was messy, and his wrinkled clothes suggested he had just woken up from a nap.

"How was the hunt?" he asked, crossing his arms and casting an evaluative glance at the load.

"Good enough," Daryl replied, with a slight touch of sarcasm. "It could have been better without rifle interference."

Shane smiled slightly, ignoring the comment while helping to carry the deer. Glenn, being more practical, pulled a rope to drag the squirrels together.

"Let's take this to the processing tent," Shane suggested, and the trio began to walk, avoiding the children who were still playing around.

In the middle of the path, Glenn called two women who were talking near a pile of firewood. Andreia, a blonde with a determined look, and Jacqui, a brunette with short hair and a confident posture, approached with curiosity.

"We need help with the deer and the others," said Glenn.

The two hesitated for a moment but soon followed. Shane made a brief farewell gesture upon arriving at the tent:

"I have to take care of some things." I'll see you later.

As he walked away, Daryl grabbed a few squirrels and left without ceremony, carrying them as if they were a trophy. Glenn watched without arguing. He knew that was for Daryl and, probably, for his brother, whom no one in the camp could stand.

"Why did you call us?" Andreia asked, frowning. "Isn't this Mark's job?"

Glenn looked at the tent, where Mark, a newly arrived former butcher, was already sharp and ready to start processing the animals. He shrugged. "Because you need to get used to blood and guts before the first group trip to the city." And you volunteered, remember?

Andreia made a face. "How great..."

"Ah, and the shooting classes start in two days," Glenn added as he placed the materials on the makeshift wooden table. Without waiting for a response, he left the tent with a hurried wave.

Before Andreia could murmur another complaint, T-Dog and Morales entered the tent with smiles on their faces and an energy that somehow made the heavy work more bearable. The question she didn't ask out loud—about why only the women had been called—was answered immediately upon seeing the two men.

"Come on, ladies," T-Dog said, grabbing a knife and winking at Jacqui. "The lunch for tomorrow won't prepare itself."

Jacqui let out a low laugh, and Andreia, even reluctantly, couldn't help but smile too. The routine could be brutal, but they had each other—and that was enough to keep the flame alive.

...

Walking through the camp, Daryl headed towards the trailer he shared with his brother, his steps firm and purposeful. The camp was bustling, with survivors tending to daily tasks, but Daryl paid little attention. He had the work ahead in mind: preparing the squirrels for dinner and, inevitably, dealing with Merle, who rarely contributed without complaining.

As he crossed the campsite, a deep voice caught his attention. He looked up and saw Dale, the elderly man with gray hair and a thick beard, sitting on the roof of his trailer with a worn fishing hat and a rifle resting on his knees."Was everything alright on the hunt?" asked Dale, his voice calm but attentive.

Daryl gave a slight nod, without stopping his walk. "It was." "We brought enough."Dale observed as Daryl continued, a slight smile appearing on his lips. He knew that the youngest of the Dixons wasn't one for many words, but his presence in the camp was a reminder that not everyone had lost the will to fight.

-The Dixon Trailer-

Approaching the trailer, Daryl stopped and shouted, his voice cutting through the air. "Merle!" "Merle, damn it, get up!"There was a long pause, followed by a mumble coming from inside the trailer.

"Damn it!" "I'm coming!" Merle's voice was laden with irritation, clearly marked by the effects of a heavy hangover. The trailer door creaked open, and Merle appeared, adjusting his belt with a crooked smile on his face. His hair was disheveled, and his half-closed eyes revealed how much he had abused alcohol and probably drugs the night before.

"Hey, little brother," said Merle, stretching his arms with a provocative air. "Good hunt with that Chinese guy?" I hope you brought something good.Daryl narrowed his eyes but responded with the same practicality as always. "Yes, we brought it." Now help me make dinner.

Merle shrugged, following Daryl to the small makeshift table next to the trailer, where they began to prepare the squirrels. Daryl's knife slid with precision through the carcasses, while Merle, as usual, couldn't keep quiet.

"So, who killed the deer?" You or the yellow guy? asked Merle, with a smile that mixed sarcasm and contempt, his comments imbued with a casual racism that Daryl was already tired of hearing. "Rhee fired the last shot," Daryl replied without looking up, continuing to cut the meat calmly. "Right between the eyes."

Merle let out a short laugh. "Well, for someone with slanted eyes, he sure knows how to use a rifle." Daryl continued working, without even looking up. He didn't care about issues of color or race; in the apocalypse, what mattered was who survived and who didn't. But he also wasn't the type to catch Merle's attention.

It was easier to let the comments slide than to waste energy on discussions that would never lead to anything."Just focus here," murmured Daryl, closing the subject as he cleaned the knife and began to prepare the campfire. Dinner would be served soon, and in the end, survival was all that mattered.

...

< Glenn Rhee P.O.V >

As I left the butcher's tent, I felt the weight of another long day on my shoulders. The metallic smell of blood still lingered in my nose, mingling with the fresh night air. I walked slowly towards my cabin, my footsteps echoing the last month I lived in this new world infested by the undead.

After the fall of Atlanta, T-Dog and I joined other survivors and set up camp here in the mountains. At the beginning, there were many of us. People from all over, waiting for the National Guard or someone to come and save us. But, as the days went by, hope withered. Many left, trying their luck out there. Some never returned, and those who stayed here decided that the fear of leaving was greater than hunger or cold.

I did what I could to help. I taught what I knew, shared what I had learned. I would go out to get supplies in the city—I was the only one who could come and go freely. Not because I was braver, but because I learned to be. There was no other option. I took care of the wounded with the little we had, but... sometimes, it wasn't enough. Some people died, and I never forgave myself for it.

Hunting has become routine. Daryl Dixon, the hillbilly I started going into the woods with, ended up becoming someone I respect. It's strange, but I think I can even call him a friend. He speaks little but does a lot, and in this world, that's what matters. Together, we brought animals to feed the camp, planned escape routes, and set traps. The protections and signals we use—like that gesture from Daryl at the entrance—are ideas I developed to keep us alive. But living here is not easy.

As I walked, I heard the gentle sound of Lori comforting Carl. The boy was crying, missing his father. I can't blame him. Losing someone like that... is a kind of pain you never forget. Shane, standing a few meters away, looked as lost as the boy. Maybe more. He was Carl's father's partner, but he didn't know what to do now.

I entered my cabin, grabbed some comics I found on one of my excursions: Invincible. I was thinking about Carl when I brought them from the city. I walked back to him and Lori. "Hey, Carl, I've already finished these here." "Keep them." He took the comics with wide, curious eyes while Lori insisted that he thank her. "Thank you, Glenn," he said, and I could only smile. "You're welcome, champ."

Returning to my cabin, I saw something that chilled my blood: Ed gripping Carol's arm tightly, that furious look I know all too well. The anger rose inside me like a wave, and before I knew it, my hand was already on the gun in the holster.

"Is there a problem here, Ed?" My voice came out louder than I intended, laden with a threat I couldn't avoid.

Ed looked at me with hatred before letting go of Carol and murmuring, "No, no problems here." He entered his cabin, but his eyes said otherwise.

I turned to Carol, but she just lowered her head, murmuring that everything was fine. I knew it wasn't. Everyone knew. But what can I do? People like Ed... Leeches, this world seems made for them, and that scares me more than the dead outside.

Finally, I entered my cabin and threw myself onto the makeshift bed. Every muscle in my body screamed with fatigue. But my mind wouldn't stop. We were preparing for a big mission with Andreia, Jacqui, Morales, T-Dog, and Merle Dixon. The dumbest man I've ever met. That says a lot, coming from a former pizza delivery guy.

As I threw myself onto the makeshift bed, I felt the fatigue of the entire day accumulating in my muscles. I closed my eyes, trying to push away the thoughts and rest, at least until the food was ready and someone came to wake me up. They always woke me up. It was funny how this had become a kind of routine. As much as the people here had their own problems, there was something comforting about the fact that, when they needed something, they came to me.

I earned that respect, and it was something I had never had before when I worked as a pizza delivery guy. There, I was just another guy, invisible to others. But here, in this camp, in this broken world, my skills made me someone indispensable. That dream... or whatever it was... gave me more than I could have ever imagined.

Now, I was fast, efficient, and skilled in ways I never dreamed I could be. My aim was impeccable. No matter the weapon or the distance, I simply never missed. My balance? Perfect. I never stumbled, slipped, or lost control again. It was as if my body and mind were in absolute harmony, each movement calculated and precise.

While my thoughts wandered, the idea struck me, and a small, weary smile formed on my face. It was as if I were... invincible.

The pun with the title of the comics I had given to Carl made me chuckle softly, alone there in the cabin. Maybe that was what kept me going, day after day: the idea that, no matter what happened, I would be able to endure. For me. For everyone. Even though, deep down, I knew that invincibility was just an illusion.

But, for now, let me believe. Just for one more night. Tomorrow, it would be another day. Another battle. Another chance to stay alive and, who knows, help others do the same.