As the camp bustled with activity—fires crackling, pots clinking, people reuniting—Grant quietly peeled away from the main group. With hands tucked behind his back and eyes scanning, he moved along a gravel path that wound upward toward a high rise of earth and shale.
The old quarry pit stretched wide below, a yawning basin carved from decades of digging, its walls jagged with stone, iron-red in color, layered like time. The main camp sat on one of the flatter ledges carved into the walls, while far below, the hollowed-out floor, once bustling with heavy machinery now held patches of tents, makeshift lean-tos, and clusters of campfires flickering against the deepening sky.
From this higher vantage, Grant could see it all: Dale's white RV, parked near the edge of the ledge; the core group's firepit; children moving between tents. But what caught his attention most were the four other camps, dotted farther along the quarry wall and nestled against rocks or brush with barely any separation between them and the open wilderness.
He pulled a compact monocular from his vest pocket and extended it, the glass catching light as he brought it to his eye.
"One… two… three… four... five, including us."
His voice was low, analytical.
He observed the other groups, loose clusters of survivors, some seated on rocks, others cooking or simply sitting motionless in exhaustion. No clear perimeter. No barriers. No guards.
Grant exhaled slowly. "Too exposed."
———
Daryl Dixon emerged from the treeline, a bloodied burlap sack slung over his shoulder and a crossbow in hand. He looked grumpy and scratched, but satisfied. From the bag protruded two squirrels, a rabbit, and what looked like a skinned possum.
He trudged up to his brother Merle, who was seated on an old crate next to their tent, sharpening a combat knife on a rusted whetstone. A cigarette burned slow in the corner of Merle's mouth, one boot resting over the other knee.
Without warning, Daryl lightly thumped Merle's head with the stock of his crossbow.
"The fuck happened to your ear?"
Merle didn't flinch, just let out a dry laugh.
"None of your damn business, little brother."
Daryl circled him, smirking. "You probably tripped over your own mouth and clipped it on a rock. Clumsy motherfucker." Daryl muttered, not missing a beat.
Merle looked up with a crooked grin. "Then you must be the clumsiest sumbitch I know, 'cause I ain't never seen someone fall face-first into a deer carcass like you did last winter."
Daryl huffed. "Fuck you."
"Love you too, baby brother," Merle muttered, returning to his blade.
Daryl walked past without looking back, headed toward the fire pit.
Carol was kneeling over a simmering pot, stirring with a wooden spoon, the scent of broth thick in the air. Sophia helped by handing her chopped roots.
Daryl approached, still lugging his bag.
"What the hell's all this?" he asked, eyes narrowed.
Carol looked up with a soft smile. "Rick," she said simply. "Lori's husband. He made it. He's alive."
Daryl shrugged, unimpressed. "Yeah? Don't know him. Don't give a shit."
Carol frowned a little but said nothing. She'd gotten used to Daryl's short fuse and straight edges.
Daryl grunted and shifted the small game from his shoulder, holding them out. "You know how to gut these?"
Carol reached out, taking the squirrel and rabbit from his hands, giving the opossum a glance.
"You taught me, remember?"
Daryl scratched the back of his neck. "Whatever," he said gruffly, already turning away, heading back toward his tent without waiting for a thank-you.
Carol watched him go for a moment, then got to work silently gutting the animals, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
———
The inside of the tent was small but tidy—neatly folded blankets, a few plastic containers, a hanging lantern, and signs of a life lived on the move. Lori gently pulled back the flap, leading Rick, who had one arm resting on Carl's shoulders, into their modest home.
Rick moved slowly, eyes adjusting to the dim light, then dropped his backpack beside a crate. He knelt, unzipping it, and after rummaging for a second, he pulled out a small plastic knight in faded armor.
Carl's face lit up.
"You brought Sir Lancelot!" he said with pure joy.
Rick smiled, holding it out. "Figured he might still want to ride with you."
Carl took it with both hands, beaming, and hugged Rick tight.
"I can't wait to show him to Sophia, and Louis, and Eliza!"
Rick ruffled his son's hair. "Go on, play outside a bit. Me and your mom need to talk."
Carl nodded eagerly and ran to the tent's flap. As he opened it, Lori called after him:
"Stay where Dale can see you!"
"I will!" Carl shouted back before disappearing outside.
A quiet settled in the tent. Rick exhaled slowly, still on one knee. Lori stood across from him, eyes red with emotion but holding back.
"I thought you died," Lori said, her voice cracking slightly as she stepped forward. She cupped Rick's face gently, searching it like it might disappear again. "Shane told us you were gone."
"He had every reason to think I was," Rick said softly. He stood and pulled Lori into his arms. "I would've thought the same."
She held him tight. For a few seconds, there were no more words.
When they broke apart, Lori looked down at Rick's tactical vest.
"Where'd you get that? You and the others, you're all wearing the same gear."
Rick glanced down, then unbuckled a strap casually. "Grant gave it to me. Back at the fort. He outfitted us before we left."
"The fort?" Lori asked, puzzled. "That their base or something?"
"It's what they call it," Rick said. "Fort Emberfield. It's... more than just a base. Lori, it's a whole community."
Lori's brow furrowed. "A community?"
"Yeah," Rick said with a half-chuckle, like he could hardly believe it himself. "Real reinforced concrete walls. Watchtowers. Power. They've got doctors, hot meals, clean water, hell—they've got electricity. Full-on grid. It's... safe. Safer than anything I've seen since waking up."
Lori sat slowly on a nearby crate, stunned. "Electricity?"
Rick nodded, his voice steady. "And Grant—he's in charge. The one who found me at the hospital. I was a total stranger to him, Lori. And he didn't owe me a damn thing. But he still took the risk. He offered to help me find you and Carl without blinking."
Lori shook her head, trying to wrap her mind around it.
"Maybe he saw something in you. Something worth believing in."
Rick looked down, thoughtful, then back at her. "Maybe."
She lifted her eyes, heart pounding. "Rick… is there any chance—any chance we could go there? That we'd be welcome?"
Rick didn't hesitate. "He already told me you are. All of you."
Lori's face buckled, emotion crashing over her like a tide. Her hand covered her mouth as the tears came—tears of relief, exhaustion, hope. She stood again and wrapped her arms around Rick, sobbing quietly into his shoulder.
Rick held her close, voice barely above a whisper.
"We're gonna be okay now, Lori. We made it."
———
T-Dog, Glenn, Dale, and Jim stood near the RV, watching the slope where Grant stood motionless, scanning.
"What do you think he's doin' up there?" Glenn asked.
T-Dog shrugged, opened his mouth to reply—but was cut off by Shane arriving from the other side.
"What's going on?" Shane asked.
T-Dog pointed. "Grant. He's up there."
Dale squinted through his glasses. "Was he military?"
"All three of 'em were," Glenn said. "But not your average G.I. Joes."
"What do you mean?" Jim asked.
"I've seen him take out walkers like it was nothin'," T-Dog said. "Just… calm. Like he's done it a thousand times."
Glenn nodded. "And the way they move—tight, smooth. Not like the grunts I saw back at the refugee checkpoint."
"What's he doing up there then?" T-Dog asked.
Shane kept his gaze locked on Grant. "He's watching the other camps."
"For what?" Glenn asked.
Shane didn't hesitate. "Threats."
He turned and walked off, leaving the rest to trade looks.
From the cooking area, Miranda—Morales' wife—called out: "Dinner's almost ready! Carol made stew!"
As they turned to head over, Dale noticed three large sealed boxes by the fire.
"What's in those?"
"MREs. Bottled water," Miranda said. "The ones Grant's group brought."
All four men looked at each other—tired, dirty, hungry—and smiled like they hadn't in days.
x
The sky had darkened, and the flicker of the campfire cast dancing shadows on the weathered faces gathered around it. Bottled water clinked. Metal utensils scraped gently in bowls of hot stew. A rare, temporary sense of normalcy hovered over the camp.
Rick sat close to Lori and Carl, one arm slung behind them protectively. Across the fire, Shane sat with Glenn and T-Dog, arms resting over his knees, nodding occasionally as T-Dog spoke in a low voice. Amy leaned into Andrea, whispering something that made them both smile. Morales held his youngest while Miranda soothed their other child. Jacqui chuckled softly at something Dale muttered, their seats positioned close to the RV.
A little farther off, Carol tended to Sophia, ladling a second helping of stew. She handed a bowl to Ed without meeting his gaze. Her posture was careful—submissive but alert. She sat beside them, back slightly turned to Ed, but her eyes occasionally flicked toward him, guarded.
Daryl had already grabbed his portion, muttered a gruff thanks to Carol, and stalked off with a canteen of water. Merle, following suit, made no effort to speak, just snatched his bowl and retreated. In the distance, Ghost was likely doing another perimeter check—silent, unseen. Jack sat on the hood of the Humvee, bathed in moonlight and smoke, legs hanging, eating from a steaming bowl.
Carl, cradling his own bowl of stew, looked up at Rick with eyes wide with curiosity.
"Dad, can I try the MRE they brought?"
Rick smirked, amused by the sudden craving.
"You can. But I don't know if you'll like it."
Carl scampered over to the supply crates, rummaged, and returned with a brown pouch in his hands: Chili with Beans.
"Here," Carl said, handing it over. "I don't know what to do with it."
Rick took the MRE, settling it on his lap.
"Alright, watch closely. First, you tear open the top—like this."
He split the seal cleanly and pulled out the inner components.
"This here's the entrée. And this little packet? That's the heater. You slide the food pouch into the heater like so… then you add just a tiny bit of water—right here."
He poured water into the chemical heater sleeve.
"Once the water hits the chemicals inside, it starts heating up real fast. You prop it up on a rock or something and wait a few minutes."
Carl leaned in, eyes wide as the pouch started puffing and steaming.
"Whoa! It's getting hot!"
"That's the point," Rick said, chuckling.
A few minutes later, Rick handed Carl the now-hot pouch.
"Careful—it's spicy. You take the first bite."
Carl took a mouthful and immediately began waving his hand in front of his mouth, eyes watering.
"It's good… but spicy!" he said, flapping his hand dramatically like a cartoon dragon breathing fire.
The group chuckled around the fire. Even Andrea cracked a smile.
"Kid's got grit," Shane said from across the flames. "He'd fit right in the Corps."
Carl lit up at the praise.
"You're gonna grow fast if you keep eatin' like that," Lori teased gently.
Rick ruffled Carl's hair, smiling with warmth rare in these times.
"That's my boy."
Not to be left behind, Luis, Morales' young son, stood up and mimicked holding a rifle, aiming it around and making pew-pew noises.
"Papa! I wanna be a soldier too!"
Morales chuckled, ruffling his son's hair.
"You're the same size as Carl, hijo. Gotta eat more before they hand you a rifle."
Laughter circled the firelight again.
Grant returned, boots crunching on the gravel. He stopped by the Humvee, standing beside Jack who was nursing the last of his stew.
"Where's Ghost?"
Jack didn't look up.
"Probably out there somewhere. You know how he is."
Grant nodded. His eyes scanned the darkness, ever watchful.
"What's that you're eating?"
"Stew. A woman named Carol made it. Hot, too. Real good."
As if summoned, Carol stepped over with quiet footsteps, holding another full bowl in both hands.
"You're Grant, right?" she asked softly. "Here. I made this stew from the game animals Daryl brought in. If you don't know him, he's one of us—goes out hunting sometimes."
Grant accepted the bowl with a warm smile.
"Thanks, Carol. Smells amazing."
Carol gave a small smile, nodded politely, and returned to her family—shoulders stiff as she neared Ed.
Grant dipped his spoon into the stew, tasted—and paused. His expression shifted subtly. It wasn't just food. It was comfort.
The meat had been simmered to tenderness, the gamey flavor balanced with herbs and wild roots. A hint of garlic and crushed dried peppers gave it depth and warmth.
"This is excellent," he muttered to Jack.
The voices settled into a lull as Rick stood up, the firelight catching his sheriff's badge and the worn grip of his holstered Colt. He looked around—at each face. Tired. Wary. Hopeful.
He caught Grant's gaze across the fire. Grant gave a subtle nod.
Rick turned back to the group.
"I wanted to say something."
Everyone turned toward him—Shane straightened slightly, arms crossing; Andrea and Amy paused mid-bite.
Rick's voice was clear but calm.
"The men who came with me—Grant, Jack, Ghost—they're from a place called Fort Emberfield. It's not just a hideout. It's a community."
He glanced at Lori, then at Carl, before continuing.
"Fort Emberfield is surrounded by reinforced concrete walls. They've got security. They've got food. Clean water. Doctors, medical care. Even electricity."
Murmurs rose from the group. Dale's eyes widened. Glenn leaned forward.
"Yeah, you heard me right. Electricity. Lights that stay on after sundown."
He let it hang there. The idea alone was enough to feel like a miracle.
"They didn't have to help me. I was a stranger. But they did. And now—they're extending that help to all of us."
His eyes swept the camp.
"We're all welcome. If you want to come… you can. There's room."
Silence fell for a heartbeat. The only sound was the crackle of the fire. Then, whispers broke out—half-disbelief, half-hope.
Morales and Miranda exchanged a glance. Amy grabbed Andrea's hand. T-Dog muttered, "Holy shit." Dale whispered, "They have electricity…"
Rick sat back down beside his family, his hand finding Lori's.
Hope—tentative and fragile—flickered like the fire itself.