Micah watched through the binoculars as Lee and Clementine moved across the bridge, methodically clearing out the scattered walkers. Then—snap. A rotten plank gave way beneath Lee's weight, and he vanished from sight.
Micah lowered the binoculars with a muttered curse. "Goddammit, Lee."
From what he could see, Lee had managed to catch himself on the bridge's underbelly, dangling precariously over the river below. Clementine hesitated, glancing down at him, then nodded—Lee must've told her to fall back. Smart.
"Shit," Micah growled, tossing the binoculars to Luke. "Stay here."
He took off at a sprint, his boots pounding against the cracked asphalt. By the time he reached the bridge, Clementine was already running back toward him, her face tight with worry.
Two walkers shambled toward Lee's position. Micah drew his revolver and dropped them both with two precise shots.
"Quit lollygaggin'," he snapped at Clementine as he dropped to his stomach, peering over the edge.
Lee hung by one arm, his fingers white-knuckled around a rusted beam.
"Took you long enough," Lee grunted.
Micah reached down, and Lee grabbed his forearm in a vice grip. With a heave and a well-placed kick against the bridge's metal supports, Lee hauled himself back onto solid ground.
"Thanks," Lee panted, rolling onto his back.
"Don't mention it," Micah said dryly. "Ever."
Lee turned to Clementine. "You okay?"
She nodded, guilt flickering across her face. "Yeah. Sorry I couldn't help—"
"You need to grow damn taller," Micah interrupted, dusting off his coat.
Before she could retort, a voice cut through the air.
"Hey."
A lone figure stood a few yards away, hood pulled low, a rifle slung casually over his shoulder.
Micah exhaled sharply. "Christ, can we catch one goddamn break?"
Back in his prime, he would've relished the unpredictability—the thrill of danger. But age had a way of sanding down even the sharpest edges, and right now, he just wanted a hot meal and ten hours of sleep.
The stranger tilted his head. "Y'all don't look like assholes." A pause. "Are you assholes?"
Clementine blinked. "I'm not an asshole."
Lee shot her a look. "So we are?"
The man laughed. "Fair enough." He jerked his thumb toward the lodge. "I got food if you need it. More'n enough to share."
Lee's eyes narrowed. "What's the catch?"
"No catch," the man said, shrugging. "Just tryin' to help."
Lee cracked a smile. "Well, thanks—"
The man's expression suddenly darkened. "What the fuck—" He raised his rifle, aiming past them.
Micah spun—Nick was sprinting toward them, his own rifle raised.
"Don't shoot!" Lee barked. "He's with us!"
The stranger hesitated, but Nick didn't. His finger twitched on the trigger.
Micah saw it a split second before it happened. He threw himself sideways.
BANG.
The bullet struck the stranger in the neck. Blood sprayed as he staggered, choking, then toppled over the railing into the river below.
Nick lowered his rifle, panting. "Did I get him?"
Micah was on him before he could blink. His fist connected with Nick's jaw, sending the younger man crashing onto his back.
"You idiot," Micah snarled, wrenching the rifle from Nick's grip. He hauled him up by the collar and drove another punch into his face. "You almost put one in me!"
Lee and Luke—who'd arrived too late—grabbed Micah's arms, dragging him off.
Nick spat blood, his nose already swelling. "I was just—"
"Shut up," Micah hissed, shaking free of Lee's grip. He wiped his knuckles on his coat and spat on the ground near Nick's head. "We're movin'."
Without another word, he turned and stalked toward the lodge, leaving the others to scramble after him.
The group trudged up the hill toward the boarded-up lodge, exhaustion weighing on their steps. Rebecca scowled, rubbing her lower back.
"Well? What are we waiting for?"
Carlos crossed his arms. "We have to be careful."
"Careful?" Rebecca snapped. "We've been on the road for five days. My back is done bein' careful."
Alvin squinted at the lodge. "Doesn't look like anybody's home. Damn. Nailed down tight." He jerked his chin toward the front. "I'll check 'round front."
Carlos nodded. "I'll go with you."
As the two moved off, Clementine leaned against the railing, staring up at the ski lift. Luke sidled up next to her.
"Well, it'd be good to know if anybody's actually back there," he said, following her gaze. "Could probably get a better view from up top. You'd have an easier time gettin' up there." He grinned. "It'll be just like climbing a treehouse. You know, just a really tall treehouse. Made of steel."
Clementine's expression didn't change. "I had a treehouse once."
"Well, there you go."
"I hated it."
Luke blinked. "Oh."
Undeterred, he gestured toward the lift. "Just take it slow, and I'll catch you if you fall. Probably."
Clementine sighed but grabbed the ladder, starting her climb.
"Got a good grip?" Luke called up.
"Yeah," she muttered.
"When I was a kid, we used to jump rooftops downtown," Luke said, watching her. "Now that was fun."
Micah strolled over, lighting a cigarette. "When I was a kid, I was robbin' people with my dad."
Luke shot him a look.
Clementine's foot slipped.
"Ahh!"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Luke's hands shot up instinctively. "You're fine, you're fine! Just look at me, okay? Slow down. Got your grip?"
Micah exhaled smoke. "You're fine. Quit stallin' and get a move on."
Gritting her teeth, Clementine continued climbing until she reached the top.
"Made it!"
Luke grinned. "See anything?"
Clementine pulled out her binoculars, scanning the bridge, the trees—then froze. "I see something. Lights."
Micah frowned. "What kind of—?"
More lights flickered in the distance—flashlights, moving fast.
Luke's smile vanished. "Shit." He bolted toward the lodge where the others were now arguing with someone inside.
Clementine scrambled down but lost her footing halfway. She yelped—
—only for Micah to snatch her out of the air.
He held her for a second, giving her a flat look, then dropped her.
She landed hard on her ass.
"Ow!"
"Get up," Micah said, already walking toward the lodge. "Let's check on the idiots."
Clementine rubbed her tailbone but followed.
As they pushed forward, voices grew louder—angry, familiar.
Then Micah saw them.
Two figures he never expected to see again.
His smirk returned.
"Well, well," he drawled. "Look what the apocalypse dragged in."
Standing in the doorway, arguing with Carlos and the others, was Kenny—older, greyer, but unmistakable.
And beside him, a face that didn't belong in this time at all.
Charles Smith.
Now 37, hardened by years Micah hadn't lived to see, but still the same quiet, dangerous man from another life.
Kenny's eyes locked onto Micah. His jaw dropped.
"You've gotta be shittin' me."
Charles didn't speak.
But the way his hand twitched toward his knife said everything.