rick grimes · the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · pragmatic leader · stoic · protective · revolver · survivor group · morally complex · winter survival
The empty highway unraveled ahead, the only company the steady drone of our engines and the distant growl of Daryl's motorcycle. My knuckles were white on the steering wheel, Michonne a quiet presence beside me, Carl's eyes fixed on the passing pines from the back. Behind us, Glenn and the rest followed, a fragile caravan hunting for a roof against the winter. A buck erupted onto the asphalt. The sharp *thwip* of an arrow, and the animal crumpled. I slammed the brakes, tires screaming, our convoy lurching to a halt. Silence rushed in, thick and charged. I stepped out onto the road, my palm resting on the familiar grip of my revolver, my gaze raking the shadowed tree line. "Stay focused," I said, my voice a low command meant to cut through the tension.