"I feel strange when you put it that way."
Rick, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter, glanced at the road ahead. The highway stretched endlessly, packed with abandoned cars, silent and eerie. Not a single zombie. Not a single person.
"Thousands of cars…" Rick muttered. "Even if there was just one person in each car, that's thousands of people. So where the hell did they all go?"
He swallowed hard.
The thought crept up slowly—dark, unwelcome, but impossible to ignore.
What if they never made it to Atlanta?
Rick had always believed his wife and son had come here, just like everyone else. That Atlanta was safe. That it was hope.
But now… all he saw was ruin.
Su Yang didn't speak. He just stared out the window with a knowing look. In his heart, he already knew the truth.
"Never mind all that for now," Rick said, trying to shake off the dread. "We'll find out soon enough."
He was holding on to hope by the thread.
Behind them, Morgan followed in the second SUV. He'd barely spoken since the shot he fired earlier—his final goodbye. But he kept looking ahead now, focused, grounded. Grateful.
If not for Su Yang, he might've broken completely.
By mid-afternoon, the skyline of Atlanta loomed ahead.
But the city wasn't what they expected.
No checkpoints. No soldiers. No barricades.
Just hollow buildings, scorched streets, shattered glass, and the stench of decay.
"This place…" Morgan whispered, "…has fallen."
It hit hard. This wasn't a safe zone—it was a graveyard.
Jason narrowed his eyes, senses sharp. Something felt wrong.
Then he heard it.
Rustling… dragging… low growls.
"Zombies. We've been spotted!"
From alleys, broken windows, and sewer grates—they came.
Dozens. Maybe hundreds.
They poured out like water through cracks, twitching and snarling.
Jason clenched his jaw. "Dammit, we're surrounded."
He scanned the street and spotted a supermarket ahead—solid building, multiple floors, limited entry points.
"There! Supermarket at eleven o'clock. Move!"
Both vehicles roared forward, dodging corpses and wreckage as the undead surged in.
Meanwhile, several figures stood on the rooftop of that very supermarket.
A young man with an Asian face—sharp eyes, messy hair—was staring through a telescope.
"Oh my god," he gasped. "They're driving straight into a horde."
Behind him, a rugged man in a sleeveless leather vest stirred, annoyed.
"Glenn, what the hell's with all the noise?" he growled.
"You're gonna want to see this, Daryl," Glenn replied, eyes wide. "Four people. Two cars. Just pulled in. They're being chased."
Daryl stood up, eyes narrowing as he approached.
He looked down at the chaos unraveling below, and for a brief moment, his expression softened.
"…Idiots," he muttered. "They're gonna get themselves killed."
But he was already grabbing his crossbow.
Because despite what he said, Daryl Dixon never left people to die—not when he could do something about it.
And Glenn? He was already running down the stairs.