Lee stepped off the final rung of the ladder, his boots splashing into the stagnant water below. Instantly, the stench hit him—a thick, rotting reek that clung to the back of his throat.
"Jesus..."
He swept his gaze across the tunnel, the his sight catching on something strange. Rats—dozens of them, their bloated bodies torn open, innards ripped out like grotesque offerings. The wet glint of half-eaten flesh shimmered in the damp air.
Lee's grip tightened on his weapon. "Walkers. Close."
Oberson materialized behind Lee, waving a hand in front of his nose. "Christ, this certainly ain't the Ritz," he remarked, clicking on a flashlight that cast shaky beams across the tunnel's slime-coated walls. "Well then... after you, friend." The last word dripped with false warmth.
Lee shot him a withering sidelong glance before shrugging off his pack. His hands worked methodically - unspooling duct tape from the Marsh House haul, wrapping thick layers around his forearm until the padding could withstand a dozen sets of rotting teeth.
"Guess I am the point man then," Lee muttered, securing the final strip of duct tape around his other forearm. The silver binding gleamed dully in the dim light as he flexed his fingers.
Hefting his fireaxe, Lee pushed forward through the ankle-deep water. The stagnant liquid swirled around his boots with each cautious step, the sound echoing unnaturally off the curved tunnel walls.
Oberson's flashlight beam suddenly froze on a hunched silhouette ahead. The figure turned with jerky, unnatural movements - a walker missing its left arm from the elbow down, its remaining limb outstretched as it lurched toward the living feast before it.
"All yours," Oberson announced, taking an exaggerated step back.
Lee didn't hesitate. One smooth swing sent the axe blade crunching through rotten bone, embedding deep in the walker's skull with a wet thunk. The force carried the corpse sideways, pinning it against the tunnel wall like a grotesque trophy. Lee wrenched the weapon free with a sickening pop.
Oberson arched an eyebrow, his flashlight revealing the fresh brain matter dripping from Lee's axe. "Efficient," he remarked, though his voice carried new wariness.
Lee moved forward without breaking stride, his boots sending faint ripples through the shallow water. He paused at a collapsed section of tunnel, pressing himself against the damp concrete as he scouted ahead.
There, perfectly visible:
A rusted service ladder - half its rungs missing -besides a surely locked door. Beneath it, a faded sign clung stubbornly to the wall, its peeling letters still legible enough to confirm what Lee already knew. This was the place. Vernon's last refuge.
"It's there," Lee said, pointing to the blue 'No Dumping' sign. "Behind that leads straight to the hospital morgue. That's where they're holed up with your supplies."
Oberson's grin looked almost feral in the flashlight's glow, before faltering at the sight ahead. "You mean past that welcoming committee?" He gestured to where eight walkers writhed in a grotesque pile, their rotted hands clawing at some unseen prey - probably the source of those wet chewing sounds. "Gonna be hard to stay quiet through this."
Lee counted the shambling figures with deliberate slowness. "Only two each." He met Oberson's gaze with a challenge in his eyes. "Unless that's a problem?"
For a heartbeat, Oberson's smile vanished. Then it returned twice as sharp. "Now that sounds like fun." He turned to his men, rolling his shoulders. "You heard the man - two apiece. Let's show our guest how Crawford handles business."
Whiiistle!
The sharp sound cut through the tunnels as Oberson lowered his fingers from his lips. Every walker's head snapped toward the noise in perfect unison. Metal rasped against leather as he drew his wrench, while his men produced serrated combat knives with practiced efficiency.
The first two walkers fell almost gracefully - twin blades finding eye sockets with surgical precision. But the victory lasted only seconds. The remaining creatures surged forward, rotting fingers snagging on fabric as the two men staggered back.
"Let me show you how it's done, boys." Oberson stepped forward, driving his boot heel into a walker's sternum. The force sent it crashing into two others, buying precious seconds.
When a rotten hand grabbed for his throat, Oberson pivoted just enough for the fingers to brush air. His wrench came down in a brutal arc - CRACK - splitting the skull like overripe fruit. The thing kept growling.
"Persistent fucker," he muttered, before delivering the coup de grâce with a baseball swing that painted the walls. Another walker approached from his blind spot. One spin, one swing - this one dropped instantly.
Oberson wiped gore from his cheek. "There's my quota met." The smirk returned as he gestured to the remaining walkers. "Your turn, gentlemen."
Lee's competitive fire ignited as he shouldered past the men. Four walkers remained, and they'd all be his.
The first lurched forward, jaws unhinged - until Lee's boot shattered its kneecap with a sickening crack. The creature dropped perfectly into his swinging arc. His axe cleaved through rotten flesh and spine, sending the head tumbling back to the other's feet like a grisly bowling ball.
A sharp pain flared in his shoulder, but Lee pushed through. His next kick connected with a walker's sternum, sending it crashing into its companion - just as Oberson had done. Only Lee didn't stop there. As the first walker tried rising, he seized its skull and whipped it sideways, using its own momentum to slam it against the tunnel wall.
THWIP!
An arrow sprouted from its temple, pinning it to the concrete like a macabre specimen. The body went limp instantly.
"Man's showing us up," Oberson chuckled, though his smile didn't reach his eyes. A new calculation flickered behind his gaze. "Might need to revise my plans..."
The last two walkers writhed on the ground. Lee approached the nearest one calmly, raised his axe like a golfer addressing a tee shot, and sent its skull flying with a wet thock. The force lifted the entire corpse off the ground before it collapsed in a twitching heap.
Lee hissed through clenched teeth as fire lanced through his injured shoulder. One more swing might tear something permanently. Instead, he raised the crossbow with practiced ease, exhaling as he squeezed the trigger. The bolt found its mark with a wet thunk, piercing the final walker's eye socket.
"Damn, Lee," Oberson whistled, wiping gore from his wrench. "You've got some serious skil—"
THWIP!
An arrow buried itself in the decapitated head near his boot, stopping snapping jaws mere inches from his ankle. Even the usually unflappable Oberson paled, his Adam's apple bobbing as he stared at the still-twitching skull now pinned to the concrete.
Lee lowered his crossbow, locking eyes with Oberson. "Seems you owe me." Without waiting for a response, he turned toward the weathered sign, leaving the guards exchanging uneasy glances between their leader and the retreating figure.
Oberson stared after Lee, his jaw working silently before releasing a frustrated sigh. "Move out," he barked at his men, who scrambled after them with poorly concealed confusion.
The broken ladder loomed above them, sunlight streaming through its gaps like heavenly spotlights. Lee ran his fingers along the sign's chipped blue paint before addressing the group. "Ready?"
Oberson studied the entrance, fingers drumming against his wrench. "How about you play ambassador?" His smile didn't reach his cold eyes. "They see us all armed, they'll shoot first. And then..." He gestured to his men, who nodded along like puppets. "Well, we're going to have to retaliate, won't we?"
Lee crossed his arms, the movement making his jacket creak. "Let's not pretend you weren't planning to kill them anyway." He studied Oberson's face, reassessing. "Mercy doesn't seem your style."
"Oh, it ain't." Oberson leaned in, the scent of gun oil and mint toothpaste washing over Lee. "But this?" He gestured to bloody wrench in his hands. "This is civic duty. Those supplies kept Crawford alive." His voice dropped to something almost intimate. "So I'll make it quick. Just one example. The rest can watch."
Lee paused, staring for a moment beofre squeezing his voice out through cleched teeth. "Just remember our deal."
The silence stretched until even the dripping pipes seemed to hold their breath. Then he turned, fingers finding the hidden groove behind the sign. With a scrape of rusted metal, he revealed the jagged maw of the passageway - just tall enough for a man to step through.
Lee stepped into the darkness, the stale air thick with the scent of antiseptic and damp concrete. He clapped twice - sharp echoes that revealed no shuffling footsteps, no telltale moans. Safe.
Then his eyes adjusted.
Shelves upon shelves stretched into the gloom, overflowing with canned goods, medical supplies, and water jugs. Enough to feed a small army for months. His stomach twisted. How many in Crawford went hungry because of this hoard?
Oberson might be a real bastard—someone Lee wouldn't trust an inch—but that didn't mean everyone in Crawford was like him. Somewhere in that settlement, there had to be innocent survivors. People just trying to make it. People who needed these supplies.
The thought ate at him, chewing through his resolve. But the hard truth remained: behind that door waited people who were about to get exactly what Oberson had always claimed they deserved. The irony wasn't lost on Lee. They'd stolen, yes—but only after Crawford had tried to throw them to the wolves, branding them useless mouths to feed when they could no longer pull their weight.
The door ahead loomed like a verdict. In his dream, Vernon had been waiting on the other side, trigger finger itchy. Lee's grip tightened on his rifle. Negotiation? Pointless with Oberson's crew at his back. And he wasn't about to take another bullet playing peacemaker.
"Fuck it."
He kicked the door open with a resounding boom.
The morgue had been transformed into a grim parody of home - body drawers converted to bunk beds, IV stands repurposed as clothing racks. The warm glow of gas lamps cast long shadows across terrified faces. A dozen people froze mid-motion, their complexions bleaching like deer caught in headlights.
Lee spun to face Vernon just as the older man's hand flew to his hip - hovering over a holstered pistol. "Don't," Lee warned, rifle steady. "I don't want trouble. Don't make me start any."
Vernon's eyes darted between his companions, fingers twitching above the weapon. Sweat beaded on his forehead. "W-who the hell are you?" His voice cracked with tension.
"Lee." He nodded at Vernon's hip. "Hands up. Slowly. Let's not do anything we'll regret."
"Vernon, don't!" Brie lurched forward, her face pale. "He's from Crawford! You know what they—"
"Easy!" Lee's barrel didn't waver. "You want to get your friend shot?" In one fluid motion, he snatched the pistol while Vernon was distracted. The cold weight settled in his grip. "There. Now we can talk."
He lowered the rifle, tucking Vernon's gun in his waistband. The air still crackled with tension, but at least now they weren't one twitch finger away from bloodshed.
"Dammit, Vernon!" Brie snapped, startling Vernon as she suddenly turned to Lee. "So it was you out there, causin' all them walkers to get amped up."
"Yeah, I took care of them," Lee agreed with a small nod.
"And who was it up top? Some of your Crawford butchers?" She jerked her chin toward the hospital above them. "They've been making one hell of a racket up there."
Lee's eyes widened - it had to be Kenny and Mark. His gaze darted past Brie to the elevator doors, muscles tensing as if they might explode open any second. If they make it down in time... A new plan began to form.
His fingers twitched at his sides. Oberson wasn't going to honor their deal - Lee knew that in his bones. He'd served his purpose leading them here, and now? Expendable. A bullet to the skull was the only thanks he'd get. But Kenny and Mark changed the equation. With them, they could flip this whole damn game. Without them... well, he'd keep playing his part until the cards fell.
"I told you before, I'm not from Crawford. I'm from Macon," Lee said as he scanned the room, seeing more supplies.
Finally, Vernon spoke, his voice tentative. "Macon? I got a brother from Macon. How was it there? As bad as here?" There was little hope in his tone, but he was calming down now that the rifle was no longer pointed at him.
Lee's mind flashed to Macon—to his own brother, the one he'd had to put down. The words slipped out before he even realized he'd said them. "I'm sorry."
Clang!
The group flinched as one, their eyes snapping past Lee to the door behind him. The sudden noise drained the color from their faces, sending them stumbling back a step.
"I-I thought you said you took care of the walkers," Vernon stammered, his voice shaking as heavy footsteps echoed from beyond the door—each one a slow, deliberate beat that coiled dread tighter in their chests.
Lee exhaled, his shoulders sagging under the weight of what was coming. He met each of their wide-eyed stares before stepping aside, his voice hollow as he repeated the only words left to him:
"I'm sorry."
The door groaned as fingers curled around its edge, nails scraping against rusted metal.
Then it swung open.
Every member of the group froze, their hearts seizing mid-beat before hammering against their ribs like trapped animals. A cold sweat slicked their necks; their stomachs plummeted as if the floor had dropped away.
And there he stood—Oberson, their worst nightmare, his mustache framing a grin that was all teeth.
"Housekeeping."