Threads of Fate Across Universes

The Greene farm was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt too still, too fragile. The morning sun bathed the fields in golden light, but the air carried a tension that made the hairs on the back of Hershel's neck stand on end. He stood on the front porch, his shotgun held firmly in his hands, his weathered face set in grim determination. The wooden steps beneath his feet creaked as he shifted his weight, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

Then, the sound of engines roared in the distance.

Hershel's grip tightened on the shotgun as a convoy of vehicles came into view—trucks, jeeps, and a massive, rusted armored vehicle leading the charge. The ground trembled as the armored beast plowed through the farm's front gate, splintering wood and scattering debris like it was nothing. The vehicles screeched to a halt, kicking up dust and dirt, and men began pouring out, armed to the teeth.

At the front of the pack stood Tony, a broad-shouldered man with a thick beard and a cruel smirk plastered across his face. He stepped forward, his boots crunching on the gravel, and spread his arms wide as if he owned the land beneath his feet.

"Mighty fine place you got here, old man," Tony called out, his voice dripping with mockery. "Real shame we had to ruin your gate. Hope you don't mind."

Hershel didn't flinch. He kept his voice level, his tone steady. "Ain't interested in trouble."

Tony chuckled, exchanging a glance with one of his men. "Oh, I think you might be. See, I got a problem. Twenty of my men—good men—went missin' a few days ago. Turns out, they ran into a couple of fellas who didn't take too kindly to 'em. Names ring a bell? Shane and Elio?"

Hershel's expression didn't change, but his mind raced. He could feel the weight of his family's presence behind him—Maggie, Beth, Patricia—hidden just beyond the front door. He knew Maggie had a rifle in her hands, ready if things turned.

Tony's smirk deepened. "Yeah, thought so. Now, here's the thing. Those two? They killed my people. Twenty of 'em. Gone. Just like that. And I don't take too kindly to that. So, you're gonna tell me where they are, or this little paradise of yours is gonna burn."

Hershel's grip on the shotgun remained steady. "They're not here."

Tony raised an eyebrow, his smirk faltering for a moment. "Not here? You expect me to believe that?"

Hershel took a step forward, his voice firm. "They were here. But they left this morning. Didn't say where they were goin'."

Tony's eyes narrowed, his smirk twisting into a scowl. "You're lyin'."

Hershel shook his head. "I ain't. They're gone. You're wastin' your time."

For a moment, Tony just stared at him, his jaw clenched. Then, he let out a harsh laugh. "You think I'm stupid? You think I'm just gonna take your word for it?"

Hershel didn't blink. "I don't care what you think. It's the truth."

Tony's laughter died, replaced by a cold, calculating glare. He took a step closer, his voice low and dangerous. "Here's how this is gonna go. You're gonna tell me where they are, or I'm gonna start takin' things from you. One by one. Until you talk."

Hershel's finger hovered just over the trigger. "Ain't happenin'."

Tony's grin faded. "You're makin' this real difficult."

The air was thick with tension, the kind that settled deep in the gut and warned of something coming. Something bad.

One of Tony's men, a wiry figure with a nervous twitch, raised his rifle, aiming it at Hershel. His finger tightened on the trigger, but before he could fire, Tony barked, "Hold it!"

The man flinched, his finger slipping. The rifle went off with a deafening BANG, the bullet tearing through the air and slamming into the barn door. The sound echoed across the farm, and for a moment, everything seemed to freeze.

Hershel's heart skipped a beat as he glanced toward the barn. The bullet had struck the heavy chain securing the doors, and now the chain hung loose, the doors creaking open just a fraction. But no one seemed to notice—not Tony, not his men, not even Hershel's family inside the house.

Tony turned back to Hershel, his smirk returning. "Now, where were we?"

Shane & Elio's POV

The gunshot cracked through the air like a whip.

Shane stopped mid-step, his body snapping to attention. Beside him, Elio did the same, his head jerking toward the direction of the farm.

Carol, further behind with Sophia, frowned. "What was—"

Shane didn't let her finish. "Gunfire."

Carol paled. Even Sophia, who hadn't heard it as clearly as they did, flinched.

"We need to move," Elio said, already starting forward.

Shane didn't hesitate. They took off, moving fast—inhumanly fast.

Carol and Sophia ran after them, but Shane and Elio were already gone.

The trees blurred past as they sprinted toward the farm, their instincts kicking in. They were under attack.

And Shane wasn't about to let some bastard take the farm from them.

Hershel's POV

His hands felt unsteady.

The weight of the shotgun in his grip was familiar, but for the first time in years, he wasn't sure it would be enough.

Thirty men. He couldn't win against that.

He wasn't a soldier. He wasn't some gunfighter. He was a doctor. A father.

He thought of Maggie, Beth, Patricia. Of the people inside. He thought of the barn, the souls inside it, locked away from the world.

And then—

THUNK.

Something whistled through the air like a thrown spear.

A wet, sickening crunch followed.

Hershel barely had time to process it before one of Tony's men—one standing right beside him—collapsed forward, an ax buried deep in his skull.

The blade stuck into the dirt, the handle still vibrating from the force of the throw.

For a moment, silence.

Then hell broke loose.

Shane and Elio moved like demons.

Hershel had seen fast men before—farmhands dodging kicks from horses, young boys tearing across fields on a summer day.

But he had never seen anything like this.

Elio was a blur, moving before the body had even hit the ground. He surged forward, yanking the ax from the corpse's skull and twisting into another swing. The blade tore through a second man's neck, sending his body crumpling before he even had time to scream.

Shane was just as fast.

One of Tony's men tried to raise his gun, but Shane was already there. His fist cracked against the man's skull with a force that caved it in. The sound was thick, wet, and final.

The group panicked.

Shots were fired, but Shane and Elio were too fast.

One man swung a crowbar—Shane caught it mid-air and ripped it from his hands, slamming it back into his face hard enough to break bone.

Another tried to retreat—Elio's ax split his spine open.

Blood sprayed the dirt.

Screams turned to gurgles.

Tony's men were falling like wheat to a scythe.

Hershel stood frozen on the porch, shotgun half-raised, but there was nothing for him to do.

This wasn't a gunfight.

This was a slaughter.

It was over in seconds.

Blood pooled in the dirt, bodies lying still.

Elio turned, eyes sharp. "Make sure to finish them off with a blow to the head."

Shane was already moving, swinging his fists in a final, brutal punch.

One by one, the bodies stopped twitching.

Hershel felt his breath shake.

Tony's thirty men?

Gone.

And Shane and Elio?

They didn't even look tired.

A sharp, panicked inhale broke the silence.

Hershel turned his head.

Tony was still standing.

The bastard was frozen in place, gun hanging limp at his side, his face pale as a ghost. His men—his entire army—had been wiped out in less than a minute.

And now?

Now, he was alone.

His breath was ragged. Eyes wild. He took a slow, trembling step back.

Elio tilted his head, stepping forward.

Tony flinched.

"N-Now, hold on," Tony stammered, his voice cracking. "Let's—let's be reasonable, alright? No need to—"

And then Shane and Elio weren't there anymore.

One second, they were standing near the bodies.

The next?

They were in front of him.

Right in front of him.

Tony gasped. He stumbled back, tripping over his own feet, falling into the dirt.

"No, no, no—"

He scrambled backward, shaking his head. He looked at them like they were demons.

Elio gripped his ax, tilting it lazily in his hand. "Not so talkative now, huh?"

Tony panted, scrambling to his knees. "Please—"

Shane moved.

A single step.

A blur.

And then—

CRACK.

Shane's fist connected with Tony's face.

His head exploded.

Not a crack. Not a break.

It exploded.

Bone, brain, and blood burst outward, a spray of red mist filling the air. What was left of Tony's neck twitched—just a stump, nothing else—before his body collapsed onto the bloodstained dirt.

Silence.

A deep, suffocating silence.

Hershel exhaled slowly, his hands trembling.

He had seen men shot. Seen them turn. Seen what the world had done to good people.

But this?

This was something else.

Shane rolled his shoulders again, looking down at what was left of Tony. "Huh."

Elio glanced at him. "Overkill?"

Shane wiped the blood from his knuckles. "Nah."

Elio smirked. "Thought not."

Hershel swallowed hard.

These weren't men.

These were monsters.

And God help anyone who stood in their way.

The world was still.

Blood soaked the earth, bodies lying motionless in the dirt. The stench of death hung heavy in the air, thick and metallic. The only sound was the distant creak of the barn doors swaying slightly, disturbed by the earlier gunfire.

Shane exhaled slowly, his fist still covered in what used to be Tony's face. He looked down at the lifeless corpses scattered across the ground, then over to Elio, who was already wiping his ax clean against the torn jacket of one of the dead men.

Then Shane's brow furrowed.

"Why'd we have to go for the head?" he asked, voice low. "Why not just kill 'em and leave it at that?"

Elio stilled for a moment, his grip tightening around the ax handle. Then, without looking up, he answered.

"Because we're all infected."

Shane frowned. "The hell you talkin' about?"

Elio finally lifted his gaze, meeting Shane's eyes. His expression was unreadable, but there was something dark behind it—something heavy.

"No matter how we die, we'll turn," Elio said. "Even if it's not a walker bite, even if it's just a gunshot or sickness, it doesn't matter. The virus is in all of us. The only way to stop it is through the head."

Shane stared at him.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

The weight of the words settled between them like a thick fog.

"We're all infected," Shane echoed.

Elio nodded. "Yeah."

A muscle in Shane's jaw twitched. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Shit."

Elio didn't say anything. There wasn't much else to say.

Shane looked down at Tony's remains again.

The truth of it all settled in his gut like a stone.

It wasn't just walkers.

It wasn't just the people who got bit.

It was everyone.

And there was no way out.

The only thing left to do was survive.

And make sure no one got back up.

Shane clenched his fists, his knuckles still slick with blood.

"Then we keep puttin' 'em down," he muttered.

Elio gave a small nod, his face unreadable.

"Yeah," he said. "We do."

Shane's fingers flexed at his sides, still slick with drying blood. His mind was spinning, trying to process what Elio had just said.

We're all infected.

No matter how we die, we turn.

That meant there was no escape. No safety. No hope that death would ever just be death.

Shane exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. "What about us?"

Elio raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Shane gestured vaguely to himself, then to Elio. "You know damn well what I mean. Us. You and me. After that body modification or whatever the hell happened to us—do we have the infection?"

Elio hesitated, rolling his ax in his grip, gaze dropping slightly in thought. Finally, he shrugged. "I guess not."

Shane narrowed his eyes. "You guess?"

Elio let out a short breath, almost a laugh, but there was no humor in it. "Look, we don't know everything about what happened to us. But our bodies aren't normal anymore. We're not just stronger, we're… different. Elevated. Our immune systems must be, too." He met Shane's eyes. "So, if I had to put money on it? I'd say no. We wouldn't turn."

Shane considered that. His gut told him Elio was right. Everything about them now—their speed, their strength, the way injuries barely slowed them down—suggested they were beyond normal human limits. If their bodies could withstand everything else, maybe they could withstand the virus, too.

Still, something gnawed at him.

"What if we're wrong?" Shane muttered. "What if we would turn?"

Elio's lips pressed into a thin line.

"We won't," he said, firm. Then, after a pause, he added, "But I bet it'd still hurt like hell to get bit."

Shane snorted. "Yeah. No shit."

Elio glanced back toward the barn, then at the farmhouse. The weight of what they'd just done—the bodies in the dirt, the stunned silence of Hershel and his family, the carnage—settled over them.

Then he looked back at Shane, voice quieter.

"But if we were to die?" A small shake of the head. "I don't think we'd come back."

Shane studied him for a long moment, then nodded.

"Good," he said simply.

Because as much as he wanted to survive—

As much as he wanted to keep fighting—

The thought of waking up as one of them?

That was a fate worse than death