The fire crackled, casting flickering shadows across their faces as the rabbit sizzled on a makeshift spit. Three cans of kidney beans sat nestled in the coals, their contents bubbling lazily. Micah sat with his back against a log, a knife in one hand and a piece of wood in the other, carving with slow, deliberate strokes.
Clementine watched him curiously. "What are you making?"
Micah didn't look up. "Horse."
She tilted her head. "Why a horse?"
"Why not?" he grunted, shaving off another sliver of wood.
Clementine poked at the fire with a stick, thinking. Micah always reminded her of the cowboys from those old Westerns her dad used to love—the kind who rode into town with a revolver on their hip and trouble in their eyes.
"Did you ever have a horse?" she asked.
Micah paused mid-carve, then smirked. "Plenty. Last one was Baylock."
Lee, who had been quietly stirring the beans, glanced up. "Baylock?"
"Missouri Fox Trotter," Micah said, as if that explained everything.
Lee whistled low. "Those are expensive."
Micah chuckled. "Oh, he was. Rich bastard in Dayton owned him. Had papers and everything."
"So how'd you get him?" Clementine asked.
Micah's grin turned sharp. "Shot the owner. Took the horse."
Lee blinked. "...Just like that?"
"Just like that," Micah confirmed, going back to his carving.
Clementine frowned. "What happened to Baylock?"
Micah's knife stilled for a second. Then he shrugged. "Dunno. Lost him when I got into some… big trouble. Never saw him again."
There was something in his voice—something that made Lee exchange a glance with Clementine. A rare, almost imperceptible flicker of something that wasn't smugness or malice.
But Micah didn't elaborate.
Instead, he tossed the half-carved horse into the fire and reached for the rabbit.
"Eat up. Tomorrow's another day of you two bein' mediocre."
And just like that, the moment passed.
But Clementine didn't forget.
———
The woods were thick, the air damp with the scent of pine and earth. Micah led the way, his boots silent on the leaf-strewn ground, while Lee and Clementine followed close behind. Each of them carried their loot from past jobs—Micah and Lee with duffel bags slung over their shoulders, Clementine with a backpack that was almost too big for her small frame.
Lee had been forced to abandon the M16 weeks ago—5.56 ammo was damn near impossible to find now. He missed the rifle's range, but the Glock 17 on his hip was reliable enough.
Then—voices.
Micah raised a fist, signaling them to stop. Through the trees, the glow of a campfire flickered.
"Down," he hissed.
They crouched low, listening.
Micah pulled out his binoculars—stolen from some poor bastard they'd robbed a month back—and scanned the campsite. Three people. One woman, two men. No visible long guns.
"Perfect," he muttered, a grin spreading beneath his beard.
He turned to Lee and Clementine. "Mask up. Jackets on."
Lee sighed. Clementine bit her lip but didn't argue.
This was the drill now.
They pulled black cloth over their faces, hiding everything but their eyes, then shrugged into dark jackets to obscure their usual clothes. Last time they'd skipped this step, they'd been recognized weeks later by a survivor they'd robbed. That had ended messy.
Micah checked his revolvers—always loaded, always ready. Lee and Clementine drew their Glocks.
"Flank 'em," Micah ordered. "Fast and quiet."
They moved like shadows, circling the camp until they had the trio surrounded. Then—
"Hands where I can see 'em!" Micah barked, stepping into the firelight, guns drawn.
The three survivors froze. The woman gasped, her hands shooting up. One of the men—a skinny guy with a patchy beard—immediately complied.
The other, a bald brute with a scar across his nose, hesitated.
"Don't," Lee warned, his Glock trained on him.
The man's fingers twitched toward his hip.
BANG.
Micah's bullet punched through his temple before his hand even touched the grip. The man dropped like a sack of rocks.
The woman screamed.
"Shut her up!" Micah snapped.
Lee moved fast, clamping a hand over her mouth. "We don't wanna hurt you," he lied. "Just give us your shit and you walk."
Clementine kept her gun on the other man, her small hands steady. "Backpacks. Now."
They stripped the camp in under a minute—food, ammo, a half-empty bottle of whiskey. The woman sobbed quietly, but the surviving man just glared, fists clenched.
"Pleasure doin' business," Micah drawled, backing away. "Run if you wanna live. Gunshot's gonna bring every walker for miles."
Then they vanished into the trees, leaving the survivors to their fate.
When they were far enough away, Micah yanked down his mask and burst out laughing. "Damn, that was smooth!"
He rifled through the stolen bag, pulling out cans of beans, a box of .45 rounds, and—"Well, well."—a pack of cigarettes. "We ain't starvin' tonight."
Lee pulled off his own mask, rubbing his face. "We haven't been starving, period. But we haven't been eating properly either."
Clementine kicked a rock, scowling. "It's hard to have a real meal nowadays."
"True," Lee admitted.
Micah tossed the bag to Lee. "Quit whinin'. Two years on the road, and you're both still breathin', ain't ya? That's more than most can say."
Lee caught the bag with a grunt.
"Now move," Micah ordered, holstering his revolvers. "We ain't celebratin' 'til we're miles from here."
And with that, they disappeared deeper into the woods.