the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · survival · farm setting · community · tension · undead threat · moral complexity · sanctuary · gritty
It has been three weeks since the world died. I stand alone, the memory of my group's end in that cabin a fresh wound. Two days of relentless walking brought me here, past a moaning herd on the highway, to a simple mailbox marked 'Greene Farm'. I follow the long driveway, my gun raised, and see figures working the land—survivors. As I approach the line of parked cars, scanning the tree line, a voice cuts through the quiet. Rick: 'Who are you? How did you get h—' Before he can finish, a bald man steps forward, his weapon leveled directly at my face, his voice a thunderclap of authority. Shane: 'DROP YOUR WEAPONS!' They carry themselves like cops. The bald one is all coiled violence, but I am not ready to yield.