Aiden hunched low over his map once more, crouched inside the dim shelter of an abandoned tailor's shop, the broken glass of the front window webbed like ice behind him. The flickering flame of a scavenged candle danced gently across the page as his sharp eyes scanned every street, alley, and marked zone.
Four alleyways.
Four possible escape routes for Merle once he broke free from the cuffs and descended into the chaos of the city, likely disoriented, panicked, and bleeding from the stump where his hand used to be.
Aiden ran a finger across each path, lips drawn into a tight line of focus. He replayed the streets in his mind—he knew the layout now, better than some of the locals had back when the city was alive. He could picture every corner, every pile of wreckage, every wall, fence, or ruined car that could work in his favor.
Three would be sealed. One would be left open.
He started with the alley behind the old print shop, four blocks north. Already jammed with a tipped-over garbage truck and a half-melted sedan. Easy to finish the job. He gathered a few pieces of old metal siding and nailed them across the remaining gap with a hammer muffled by cloth to avoid drawing attention.
First alley—blocked.
Next was the narrow lane between a bookstore and a pharmacy. There were already two burned-out motorcycles and a rusted dumpster clogging most of the way. Aiden hauled over a few boards and used nails from his salvaged kit to reinforce the obstacle. Then, he added an extra touch—smashed bottles along the ground, coated in oil. Even if Merle tried to run through it, he'd make noise and risk slipping in the chaos.
Second alley—blocked.
The third route, just behind an auto garage, had wider access. Aiden used a makeshift pulley system to drag down an old signboard and stacked sandbags from the adjacent military checkpoint debris he'd previously marked. He topped the barricade with a row of jagged metal piping and tied off the ends with barbed wire he'd scavenged from a fence.
Third alley—impassable.
Now only one route remained: a single alley that led directly behind a shuttered office building. This one had a dual access point—a back door and a rusting fire escape that zig-zagged up the wall to the second floor. Aiden deliberately left it untouched.
If Merle was going to make it out, this was the route he would take. The only one that wasn't cut off or filled with walkers. It would appear like a miracle to a panicked, half-dead man desperate for escape.
But it was no miracle.
It was a trap.
Aiden set about his work silently, methodically. He scouted the fire escape and ensured it was still stable—worn, but usable. On the back door, he lightly wedged a stick between the hinges to make it creak loudly when opened. Aiden then climbed up to the rooftop nearby, settling into position with his bow beside him, the infected arrow still sealed tightly in its labeled bag.
He took in the sight, the city stretching out before him under the silver glow of the moon. Walker groans echoed far off, barely noticeable now, like the lull of ocean waves in the distance. But Aiden's eyes never drifted.
They were locked on the alley.
The last way out.
It was here that he would wait.
Not for a rescue. Not for a partnership.
But for justice. For vengeance.
For the man who pointed a gun at him unprovoked and took a piece of his flesh.
Merle Dixon wouldn't even realize he was walking into a web.
And when he did?
It would already be far too late.
Perched atop the roof of a low-rise commercial building adjacent to the open alley, Aiden crouched low against the concrete ledge, eyes locked on the shadowed pathway below like a hawk watching a wounded rodent stumble into its snare.
The night had deepened into that strange, almost holy silence that blankets a dead city—only broken by the occasional shuffle of distant walkers, the moaning wind through the broken windows, and the low creak of metal signage swaying overhead. The moon hovered at its zenith, cold and merciless, casting long, silver bars of light through the skeleton of the ruined world below.
Aiden's breath was steady now. Focused.
His bow was already drawn—not to full tension, but enough. His fingers rested against the string, just behind the arrow's nock. That arrow was special. It had been dipped in the saliva of a walker, the plastic bag still tied over its cruel, barbed head to keep the virulent poison sealed away until the perfect moment. A strike from this wouldn't kill instantly. It would let infection bloom like rot through wood, a slow, inevitable downfall.
He rolled his shoulder silently, adjusting the bowstring, feeling its familiar pull against his back muscles. Everything was prepared. The shot was less about marksmanship, and more about timing.
Below, the alley yawned like a throat ready to swallow the damned.
Aiden had no idea how soon it would be. An hour? Two? Dawn? But it would happen. Rick's group was currently escaping, retreating in chaos. Merle would be left behind, cuffed to the rooftop pipe like some bad joke. And if history ran true—if the show he remembered was more than just fiction here—Merle Dixon would soon sever his own hand in desperation and rage, then flee.
Bleeding. Dying. Lost.
And he would come running—stumbling—down that very alley.
Aiden's jaw tightened at the memory. The sudden crack of a gunshot. The burning pain as the bullet grazed the edge of his ear. The sticky warmth of blood dripping down his neck. The way Merle had grinned and jeered from afar like it was a joke. Just a game.
But this?
This was no game.
This was a reckoning.
Aiden didn't speak. Didn't breathe too heavily. He simply sat there, hunched in silence, eyes unmoving, watching the open alley below as a predator waits at the edge of a watering hole. His pulse was calm, measured, one with the stillness around him.
And there, sitting beside him on a cracked vent, was the arrow sealed in plastic, its deadly payload waiting patiently.
All it would take was a flick of his wrist to rip the bag off, draw fully, and send it sailing with one whisper of the string—straight into Merle's chest.
Aiden could already see it now.
The moment of surprise. The confusion. The pain. And then... the fear. The dawning realization that he wasn't just dealing with a random survivor anymore.
He was being hunted.
And Aiden?
Aiden was done playing the passive watcher.
Now he was the reaper in the rafters.
The city groaned with distant echoes as Aiden's ears caught the familiar wail of a car alarm, shrill and piercing in the night. It rang out somewhere a few blocks away—Glen's distraction. Just like in the show. Moments later, the low rumble of an engine revving followed, growing louder before fading into the night, carrying Rick and the rest of the group to temporary safety.
The plan was in motion. The timeline held true.
Now came the real moment.
Aiden's breath froze in his lungs as he caught movement.
There—Merle Dixon.
He burst out from the fire escape door, panting, wild-eyed, half-limping, his left sleeve soaked in blood, tied tight with a grimy tourniquet just below the shoulder. The man was drenched in sweat and dirt, the thick vein in his temple pulsing with rage and pain as he stumbled into the alley. The sawed-off bone of his wrist, now just a crimson stump, still oozed through the cloth. His jaw clenched, his eyes darting everywhere like a cornered animal.
And just as predicted…
He chose the only path left open.
The clear alley.
The trap.
Aiden's muscles coiled tighter behind the ledge. He was crouched low, every part of him still and focused. He slowly reached for the arrow resting beside him, its black shaft marked with a thin strip of red tape—the infected one. He gripped the shaft with two fingers and in a single smooth motion, tore the plastic away, exposing the glistening tip. The reek of decay drifted faintly upward, the sickly scent of walker saliva tainting the air.
Merle was muttering curses to himself, staggering forward, gripping a jagged piece of rebar in his good hand like a makeshift blade. He was too focused on escape to even consider he might be watched. Blood loss, shock, and desperation clouded his senses.
Aiden waited, motionless, eyes narrowing as he raised the bow, not fully drawing yet—no. He wasn't a trained marksman. He knew his limits. The bow would sway too much at full draw if he held too long. Instead, he let Merle get closer.
Twenty meters.Fifteen.Ten.
Aiden slowly stood, rising just enough from the rooftop's edge to get the angle right. His hands were steady, heart pounding in his chest like a drum, every instinct screaming for precision.
"Almost there…"
Merle staggered directly into the killzone, illuminated by a shaft of moonlight between the buildings, his silhouette laid bare to the rooftop above.
Aiden drew. Fully this time.
The string creaked slightly under the pressure.
He exhaled long and slow—then released.
Thwhip!
The arrow whistled through the air in a low, arcing flight.
Merle's head snapped up just in time to see the dark shaft plunge deep into his right shoulder, the barbed tip burying itself with a meaty, wet crunch. He let out a howl of pain and stumbled sideways into a wall, collapsing to one knee, dropping the rebar.
"ARGH! WHAT THE FUCK!?" he screamed, grabbing at the wound, not yet understanding.
Aiden ducked low again, sliding back into the shadows. He didn't need to follow up. That wasn't a kill shot. It was never supposed to be.
It was a sentence.
A slow, irreversible infection. The arrow's payload—walker saliva, saturated on the tip—was already working its way into Merle's bloodstream, mingling with the blood of his amputated stump.
And Merle didn't even realize it.
Yet.
Aiden sat back against the cool rooftop bricks, breathing in deep and slow, listening as Merle staggered down the alleyway screaming curses into the night, unaware that every step was just one more beat toward his demise.
No dramatic fight.
No exchange of words.
Just quiet vengeance.
And justice—dealt from the shadows.
iden moved like a phantom along the rooftops, sticking to the shadows cast by broken vents and satellite dishes, careful not to silhouette himself in the moonlight. Below, Merle's blood trail wound through the alley like a crimson thread, smearing across cracked pavement, walls, and dumpsters where the man had leaned for balance. Drops turned to splashes, then smears, then staggered blots. The deeper into the city Merle stumbled, the more erratic the trail became.
Aiden didn't rush.
He watched.
Studied.
He observed every stagger, every moment Merle collapsed to one knee to catch his breath, how he would jerk his head side to side, clearly trying to orient himself but already losing focus. The wound from the arrow hadn't killed him—not right away. But the payload was working its way inward now. The walker saliva, teeming with the virus, had entered Merle's bloodstream.
The symptoms had begun.
Aiden pulled a small notepad from the pocket of his jacket and, using a penlight clipped to his shoulder rig, began to write as he walked silently behind the man—keeping just enough distance to stay invisible.
[Personal Log – Infection Observation]Subject: Merle DixonExposure Type: Infected walker saliva via arrow wound (right shoulder)Initial Condition:— Severe blood loss from self-amputation (left wrist)— Agitated, mobile, able to wield weapon— Lucid but aggressive, shouting incoherently
Progression Timeline:
10 minutes post-exposure – No visible change, except pain and blood loss
20 minutes – Subject begins staggering more frequently; heavy perspiration
25 minutes – Gripping the arrow shaft, attempting to pull it out. Poor motor control
30 minutes – Audible signs of labored breathing. Coughing. Shortened steps
35 minutes – Disorientation. Walks into wall. Stumbles on uneven pavement
40 minutes – Stops completely to rest. Talks to himself. Slurred speech
45 minutes – Vomits. Likely fever onset
50 minutes – Hallucinations. Yelling names (Daryl? God?)
1 hour – Begins crawling. Legs failing. No longer coherent.
1 hr 10 minutes – Still alive. Barely. Twitching. Skin paling. Veins blackening.
Aiden paused at the edge of an old loading dock, crouched behind a stack of rusted barrels, and peered down into the open lot below. There, barely lit by a flickering streetlamp, lay Merle Dixon—collapsed on his side, trembling.
He had managed to pull the arrow halfway out before his grip failed. It now stuck awkwardly from his shoulder, the shaft trembling with every ragged breath. His mouth hung open, gasping, lips dry and crusted with spittle and blood. One eye was rolled back, the other wide open but unfocused, staring at something far away.
Aiden jotted down more notes, recording the final stages.
The transition had begun.
Soon—very soon—Merle would stop being Merle. His muscles would lock, his heart would cease, and then…
Reanimation.
Aiden could've ended it now. A clean arrow to the head. Mercy.
But he didn't.
This wasn't about kindness.
This was about watching the transformation. Learning. Understanding.
And maybe—just maybe—delivering a final reminder to the man who thought shooting at strangers from rooftops was a game.
Aiden remained crouched for nearly another hour, unmoving, letting the wind roll over him, watching as Merle's body twitched, slowed… then stilled.
And at last—
The corpse took its first breath.
Wet. Gurgling. Wrong.
Merle's fingers twitched. His back arched slightly.
Then the head jerked upright.
Eyes clouded white. Veins pulsing black.
Aiden wrote down the time:
[Reanimation Confirmed – 1 hr 54 min post-exposure]
He stared for a while longer, eyes narrowed.
Then quietly, coldly, and without a word…
He drew a clean arrow.
Nocked it.
Aimed.
And ended it.
[Ding!]
Aiden blinked as the faint, synthetic chime echoed inside his mind—sharp, clean, emotionless. The air around him seemed to still for just a moment as the glowing blue text of the system flickered to life in the center of his vision.
[ Hidden Quest Complete: Shadow's Justice]Objective: Infect and eliminate Merle Dixon without direct confrontation.Result: SUCCESS
Rewards:→ +400 EXP→ +1 INT(Observation and tactical logging)→ +1 WIS(Cold judgment, patience under stress)→ New Title Unlocked:"Patient Predator"→ Skill Acquired:"Infection Studies Lv.1" – Grants insight into zombie virus effects. +10% effectiveness when crafting infected weapons or traps.→ Bonus Unlocked:"Hunter's Composure" – +10% accuracy on first stealth attack when not under direct threat.
Aiden's pupils tightened as the overlay faded, leaving only the distant, gurgling silence of Merle's now-motionless reanimated corpse. The faint wind brushed his coat as he slowly rose from his crouched position on the rooftop.
He didn't smile.
There was no satisfaction in it.
Just a deep, cold clarity.
He reached down and picked up the bloodied, half-extracted infected arrow—now useless—and snapped the shaft clean in two, letting the pieces fall to the ground. One more piece of evidence erased.
The hunt was done. The test had succeeded. The streets were still thick with danger, but Aiden had gained something far more important than a clean kill:
Knowledge.Control.Precision.
He melted back into the darkness, mind already working on the next move.