The Walking Dead: Survival Code

< Third Person POV >

The footsteps of the other Vatos—Diego, Pedro, Miguel, and González—echoed off the walls as they spread out to surround the man. Renzo did not look away, his finger steady on the trigger.

"Take his weapons," he ordered, but before anyone could act, everything happened in an instant.

The man in the cap moved like lightning. He turned, gripping Renzo's armed arm and twisting it with surgical precision. Renzo grunted in pain as his wrist was pressed down, the revolver falling to the ground with a dull thud. A precise blow to the throat brought him to his knees, gasping and powerless.

It was Glenn.

The next attack came from Pedro, who was advancing with a crowbar. Glenn dodged easily, grabbing the attacker's arm mid-movement and delivering a brutal elbow to his face. Pedro fell backward, and Glenn threw the crowbar towards Renzo, hitting him as he tried to reach for the revolver on the ground.

Diego tried to get closer with a wrench, but Glenn was faster. He dodged the blows with precision, taking advantage of a gap to land a precise kick on the man's knee, who fell screaming in pain. Without hesitation, Glenn delivered a final blow, leaving Diego out of action.

The young Miguel hesitated, holding only a piece of wood. He advanced, but his attack was slow and uncoordinated. Glenn knocked him down with a single kick to the stomach, leaving him groaning on the ground.

Only González remained, a burly man with a long beard. He roared and tried to hit Glenn with a punch, but Glenn dodged, using the momentum of the attack to push the man against the wall. A quick blow to the face knocked him down, leaving him unconscious.

Glenn grabbed his backpack and shotgun and climbed the stairs to the roof while the Vatos were still recovering. He knew he needed to get out of there quickly. But when he reached the top floor, he heard the echo of a gunshot.

Renzo's shot grazed his arm, leaving a painful burn. Glenn moved forward, ignoring the pain. He locked the access door to the roof with a rusty iron bar, buying time to escape.

Looking around, he spotted the neighboring building. Without thinking twice, he ran and jumped, landing with an agile maneuver on the adjacent roof. When Renzo and the others finally reached the roof, they only saw Glenn's figure disappearing into the distance.

Furious, Renzo raised the revolver and fired his last two shots, but both missed. He let out a scream of rage while Glenn, on the other side, looked back and raised the middle finger.

"Better luck next time, idiots!" Glenn shouted before disappearing among the buildings.

Renzo and the others ran down, getting into the car in a desperate attempt to follow him. But Glenn was fast and knew the terrain well. When the Vatos arrived on the street, he had already disappeared.

Inside the car, Renzo was furious. He slammed the dashboard hard, the shout echoing through the cabin:

"Hijo de Puta!"

But while the anger burned in his chest, a part of Renzo knew that "El Fantasma" was not just anyone. He was skilled, relentless, and dangerous. And that made him a target that Renzo was not willing to let slip away.

Renzo gripped the steering wheel so tightly that the knuckles of his fingers turned white, the echo of Glenn's mocking laughter still hammering in his head. He looked at the other Vatos in the car, all injured, panting, and as furious as he was. The heavy silence in the vehicle was broken only by the groans of pain from Miguel and Pedro.

"He's messing with us," Renzo growled, more to himself than to the others. "But he will pay for this." He will pay.

Diego, sitting in the passenger seat, looked at his cousin with a hard but tired expression.

"Renzo, he is lucky, and more than that, he has skill." You saw what he did in there. We're out of ammunition, out of supplies, and now with more problems than before.

"Shut up, Diego!" Renzo retorted, his voice a mix of anger and frustration. "This guy thinks he can go around taking what's ours?" He's only breathing because I haven't managed to get my hands around his neck yet!

The group drove silently through the deserted streets of the city, their eyes alert for any sign of Glenn. But he had already vanished like a ghost in the night.

In Renzo's mind, the confrontation from moments ago replayed like a broken record. He felt the humiliation of being disarmed, the pain in his throat from the blow, and now, the shame of having failed. For him, this was not just a matter of supplies or survival—it was personal.

As the car turned the corner towards the Vatos' hideout, Renzo broke the silence:

"He has to return to his hideout at some point." And when he comes back..." He stopped, looking at the others. "We'll be waiting."

Diego sighed, tired of his cousin's obsession, but he knew Renzo wouldn't give up so easily. El Fantasma was no longer just an enemy; it was a matter of pride, and Renzo wouldn't let it go unpunished.

When the car stopped at the hideout entrance, Guilhermo was there, waiting with his arms crossed, a serious expression on his face. He saw the state of the men and shook his head.

"I told you." "Don't try to be heroes," Guilhermo began, but Renzo interrupted him.

"That guy took what was ours!" Renzo shouted, getting out of the car and slamming the door hard. "Do you want to sit here waiting for him to come negotiate?" He won't. He will keep plundering everything he can while we are left with nothing!

Guilhermo stared at him, his voice firm but calm.

"And do you think going after him like this will solve anything?" We need a plan, Renzo. Not impulses.

Renzo clenched his fists but did not respond. He knew that Guilhermo was right, but his pride wouldn't allow him to admit it. As he entered the hideout, still full of rage, he swore to himself that next time would be different. Next time, El Fantasma wouldn't escape.

...

< Glenn Rhee POV>

I moved from one building to another, crossing makeshift planks and keeping my body weight balanced to avoid falling. The shopping center was nearby, but my arm throbbed, still dripping blood from the graze.

"Damn, this hurts," I complained to myself, pressing the wound in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

"Son of a bitch," I cursed softly, my anger growing as I remembered the man who shot me.

My thoughts wandered to the mistakes of the night. 'I should have taken the gun or at least the bullets.' The feeling of vulnerability bothered me. 'Or maybe I should have shot them.' The idea crossed my mind, but I quickly dismissed it. I wasn't a killer, despite everything.

I arrived on the street and immediately went into stealth mode. I avoided drawing attention while the walkers wandered nearby. I entered an alley, pulled out my tactical hunting knife, and silently eliminated two dead ones, piercing their heads one by one while their jaws still sought to bite the air. I looked around, ensuring that no one, living or dead, was watching me.

I climbed a fire escape that led to the top of a building and crossed another wooden plank that I had placed there myself weeks ago. The connection between the buildings allowed me to move safely, even with the city infested. I carefully descended another staircase, opened a metal door, and entered my base of operations.

It was an old abandoned boutique, full of fine items and pieces of clothing that no longer held any value. The three front glass doors were reinforced with wood, a measure I had implemented myself. This way, I bought time in case zombies or curious people decided to try to get in.

I headed straight to the hideout where I kept my first aid kit. One of the most important rules in this new world was to always have a plan B and even a plan C. I grabbed the kit and started the process of taking care of the wound.

I put on disposable gloves and pressed a clean gauze against the bleeding site. The pain was like a wave, growing and spreading through my arm. I used saline solution to clean the area, letting out a groan of pain.

"Ah! This shit burns!

With the wound clean, I applied an antiseptic solution around it. Even so, the open edge left no doubt: stitches would be necessary. "Damn, it's going to need stitches," I murmured, gathering the necessary materials—a curved needle, suture thread, forceps, and sterilized needle holder.

"I should have shot," I said aloud, trying not to think about the fact that there was no anesthesia. The pain would be inevitable. Clean the wound again before starting. I passed the needle from one side of the edge to the other, starting about 3 mm from the edge. I made a firm knot, but without tightening too much, repeating the process until the entire length of the wound was closed. Each stitch felt like a stab, but I continued until I finished, cutting the excess thread and covering the wound with sterilized gauze, secured with adhesive tape.

"I think I've never felt so much pain in my life," I murmured, exhausted. Still, I forced a smile while thinking, 'At least I'll have a cool scar.'

I got up, stored the remaining materials in the hideout, and put on my backpack with the supplies and weapons. I needed to return to the camp. Outside, night had already fallen. I paid attention to my surroundings before leaving.

The walkers were scattered, but the main horde had moved to the other side of the city. It was only a matter of time before these dead began to migrate to more remote areas. 'Before long, they'll run out of food around here and start climbing the mountains,' I thought as I killed a few zombies with the knife, making my way to the car.

I got into the Subaru Outback and started the engine, listening to the discreet rumble that gave me a certain tranquility. I started driving towards the campsite while a new concern took hold of my mind. Maybe it was time to start planning a permanent exit from the city. The world was changing too fast. And, to survive, I would have to change with it.

...

< Third Person POV >

Glenn chose a longer route to throw off any potential pursuer. Even tired, paranoia kept him alert. On the road, he spotted a small horde of walkers. He pulled the Subaru Outback to the side, turned off the engine, and remained silent, watching them pass slowly. The group continued on their way, ignoring the parked car. Glenn waited a few more minutes before starting the engine again and heading to the camp.

As he approached the perimeter, he signaled with the car's headlights. Soon, a figure emerged from the shadows: T-Dog, camouflaged and with a rifle in hand, approached cautiously. Glenn opened the door for him to enter.

Finally, man! I've been in that bush for over an hour. "My butt was freezing out here!" complained T-Dog as he settled into the passenger seat.

"Sorry." You know how it is, man. These dead are all over the city." Glenn apologized, aware of the discomfort of waiting in the open air.

Despite the complaining tone, Glenn knew that T-Dog wasn't really angry. He just needed to vent. Glenn confirmed that the trip had gone "well enough," but decided to save the details of what had really happened for a conversation with Shane and Dale.

"Are you okay?" asked T-Dog, observing the makeshift bandage on Glenn's arm.

"Yes, nothing serious." "I already informed them over the radio that we were arriving." Glenn changed the subject, flooring the accelerator towards the camp.

When they arrived, Shane and Dale were already waiting for them at the entrance. They helped unload the supplies into an improvised tent, where the provisions were stored.

"Everything calm in the city?"" asked Dale, while grabbing a can of food.

"It was okay, more or less." Glenn replied briefly, avoiding prolonging the conversation in front of others.

When they finished, T-Dog said goodbye, tired, and headed to his cabin. Glenn, on the other hand, approached Shane and Dale, looking around to make sure no one was listening.

"I need to talk to you." Glenn said, in a serious tone.

Inside the weapons tent, he recounted what had happened in the city: the encounter with the hostile group, the fight, and the decision not to confront them directly. Dale agreed that it was a good idea to bring the matter to them first.

"You did the right thing, Glenn." The last thing we need right now is panic in the camp," said Dale, crossing his arms.

"Yes, but we need to stay alert." How many were there? asked Shane, getting straight to the point.

Glenn explained the details: the number of hostile individuals, the weapons he spotted, and their aggressive and desperate behavior. He also mentioned that the group appeared to be of Latin origin and was far from the route leading to the mountains.

"I think it's better to reinforce the rounds, just to be safe," suggested Dale, and the others agreed promptly.

Glenn continued:

"Tomorrow I will return to the city early." I want to see if I can find them again and assess if they are a continuous threat or if there is a chance for dialogue. We need to know if they are raiders or something more dangerous.

"Be careful, Glenn." We don't know how many of them there really are," warned Shane.

I'll have it. In the meantime, you can start the shooting training with the team tomorrow without me." Glenn trusted Shane's skills as a certified instructor.

Before ending the conversation, Glenn mentioned the items he managed to recover: some pistols and revolvers, ammunition clips, three smoke bombs, and canned food.

After the meeting, Glenn grabbed his tools and began reinforcing the entrances and vulnerable points around the camp fence. He knew that the group's safety depended on these small measures.

Meanwhile, Shane and Dale were storing the supplies and weapons, exchanging worried glances. Both knew that the world outside was becoming increasingly hostile, and Glenn, as resilient as he was, could not bear this burden alone.