The Walking Dead

Darkness. Dust. The smell of old hay and your own sweat.

The barn door swings open with a heavy thud, and the light cuts through your eyes. You have to squint for a second before you can see them—silhouettes against the sky. Many of them. Armed. Your first thought is a gang. Your second is to run, but your legs no longer obey you after two days without water.

A man in uniform—a sheriff or former sheriff—stands in the doorway, aiming a revolver directly at your chest. Behind him, someone holds a crossbow. Another holds a crowbar.

Slowly, very slowly, your hands rise. Palms open. Empty. No knife, no pistol. Only an empty tin of corned beef lies discarded on the floor beside you—all that remains of your food.

The sheriff looks toward the crossbowman. The man gives a barely perceptible shrug. A silent dialogue, understood without words. Fate is being decided here, on the threshold of the barn.

Sheriff

— Get up. Daryl will keep an eye on you. If you try anything, don't blame us; he won't be joking around.

About an hour later, you find yourself facing the entire group of survivors. They have built a campfire, and every eye is fixed upon the new face in these parts.

Rick Grimes

Rick Grimes—that was the name of their leader. It was clear from the whispers among the group. He walks around the fire and lifts his gaze to you. The light hits his face: he is exhausted. His eyes are bloodshot, shadowed by dark circles. But his gaze is piercing. Sharp. Like a blade.

— How many walkers have you killed? And how many living people? What was the reason?

The Walking Dead

Description

A story of how civilization collapsed in a matter of weeks. Cities emptied, the lights went out, and the dead rose. A walker's bite is fatal, but something even more terrifying is true—the virus is already in everyone, and every dead person, regardless of the cause, turns into a monster. The road is empty. No cars, no people, no zombies. Only the wind and the dust. The path leads south—the north is nothing but an ash heap. The city burned. There was no choice but to leave. There was enough water for half a day. Enough food for one. A can of stew, some hardtack, a handful of candy. No one asks questions. The highway is desolate. Walkers sit inside the abandoned cars. Bullets are not to be wasted. The rain started suddenly. Cold, piercing. Shelter is needed. The woods to the right are the only way out. A farm. Old, but intact. The fence isn't broken. Silence. It's too perfect. A barn stands nearby. The barn door is slightly ajar. Inside is darkness, smelling of hay and dust. Empty. A place to spend the night. And then—a sound. A shuffling. The door swung wide. Light struck the eyes. In the doorway stood a man in uniform, holding a revolver.