Chapter 33: Atlanta
Saturday Afternoon
Rick's reunion lasted twenty minutes before reality intruded. Through binoculars, I watched Shane pull him aside, animated conversation, hands gesturing. Then the raised voices—audible even at this distance.
"—left you there! You were dead!"
"I was in a coma!"
"How was I supposed to know that? You had no pulse!"
"So you just abandoned me?"
The fight escalated. Dale intervened, separated them. Rick stormed off toward the RV. Lori chased after him. Carl stood alone, confused, scared.
"This is going to get worse," I said.
"Should we approach now?" Madison asked. "Offer mediation?"
"No. Let them work through it. Interventions work better when people are desperate, not just angry."
We waited. The camp settled into uneasy routine—people preparing dinner, children playing, guards posted. But the tension was visible even from a distance. Two camps within one camp: Rick's supporters and Shane's loyalists.
Sunday morning, the CB radio crackled with activity again. Glenn's voice: "We need to go back to Atlanta."
"Why?" Shane's voice, sharp.
"Merle. We left him handcuffed on a roof. We can't just leave him there."
"He was a racist asshole who endangered everyone."
"He's still a person. And his brother's here. Daryl will want to know we tried."
Silence. Then Rick: "We go back. Get Merle, get the bag of guns I lost, come home. In and out."
"That's suicide," Shane protested.
"That's responsibility. We don't leave people behind."
The transmission cut off. I smiled.
"What?" Alicia asked.
"Rick's establishing his leadership style. Shane would have abandoned Merle. Rick won't. That's the difference."
"And we care about this why?"
"Because it gives us an opportunity. They're going back to Atlanta. We can provide support—extra guns, medical supplies, a second vehicle for backup. Prove we're valuable."
"Or we could let them go alone and not risk ourselves."
"Where's the fun in that?"
An hour later, we drove down to the quarry camp. Ten people in two trucks, weapons visible but not threatening. The camp guards raised rifles. I raised my hands.
"We're here to talk to Rick Grimes. Tell him Jax Mercer wants to discuss the Atlanta run."
The guards conferred. One ran to get Rick. Five minutes later, Rick appeared, Shane beside him, hands on their weapons.
"Jax," Rick said. "Didn't expect to see you so soon."
"Heard you're going back to Atlanta. Thought you might want backup."
"We can handle it."
"I'm sure. But extra guns never hurt. And I've got medical training—useful if anyone gets injured."
Shane stepped forward. "We don't need outsiders."
"With respect, Deputy Walsh, you don't speak for Rick." I kept my eyes on Rick. "Your call. We help, or we don't. Either way, we're offering."
Rick studied me. "Why? What do you get out of this?"
"Credibility. Goodwill. Proof we're not a threat." I gestured at my group. "We could have attacked your camp while you were gone. Could have taken supplies, weapons, people. We didn't. We're offering alliance. This is how alliances start."
"And if we refuse?"
"Then we part ways. No hard feelings. You go your direction, we go ours."
Rick looked at Shane, then at Dale watching from the RV, then back at me. "You're a medical resident?"
"Three years. Trauma and emergency medicine."
"We could use someone with medical training. Our nurse left before I woke up."
"Then I'm offering. For the Atlanta run and after, if things work out."
Shane was fuming. "Rick, we don't know these people."
"We don't know anyone anymore. Everyone's a stranger until they prove otherwise." Rick extended his hand. "You can come. But you follow my lead. Any trouble, and you're out."
I shook his hand. "Fair enough."
Shane stormed off. Lori watched from a distance, assessing the new arrival. Dale climbed down from the RV to introduce himself properly.
"Dale Horvath. I run watch on the RV. You're the group that's been observing us?"
"Yeah. Sorry for the surveillance. We needed to know if you were stable before approaching."
"Smart. Cautious. I like that." He lowered his voice. "Shane's not going to welcome you. Just so you know."
"I gathered."
"Rick's a good man. But he's walking into a mess he doesn't fully understand yet. Be careful how you navigate it."
"Always am."
We spent the afternoon integrating. Madison shared supplies with the camp's cook—an older woman named Carol who seemed nervous around everyone. Alicia helped organize ammunition. Nick talked with Glenn about supply routes.
I treated minor injuries—Andrea had a cut from the department store escape, Morales had an infected splinter. Built credibility one bandage at a time.
That evening, Rick gathered the Atlanta team: himself, Glenn, T-Dog, Daryl Dixon (demanding they rescue his brother), and me. Five people in two vehicles—Rick's truck and our pickup.
"We leave at dawn," Rick said. "Get Merle, get the guns, get out. No heroics, no deviations."
"Merle's on a roof," Daryl said. "Surrounded by walkers. How we supposed to get up there?"
"Same way Glenn escaped before. Walker guts disguise. We go in pairs—one covered, one clean as backup. Quick extraction."
Daryl looked at me. "You know how to fight?"
"Well enough."
"Well enough ain't good enough. This is Atlanta. You freeze, you die."
"I won't freeze."
"We'll see."
The group dispersed. I found Alicia sitting by our truck, sharpening her knife.
"You're going into Atlanta," she said. "Into the middle of thousands of walkers."
"Yeah."
"That's insane."
"That's necessary. Rick needs to see I'm useful in crisis."
"And if you die proving it?"
"Then I die. But I won't."
"How can you be so sure?"
Because I've seen this scene play out. Because I know Glenn survives, Rick survives, T-Dog survives. Because the script says so.
"Because I'm good at staying alive. It's kind of my specialty."
She grabbed my arm. "Don't do anything stupid. Don't try to be a hero."
"I'm not a hero. Never have been."
"Then what are you?"
"A survivor. That's all anyone is now."
She let go, turned back to her knife. "Come back. That's all I'm asking."
"I will."
[ TIMER: 62:15:47 ]
Two days, fourteen hours. Plenty of time.
That night, I lay in my sleeping bag under the stars, listening to the camp sounds. Shane and Lori arguing quietly in their tent. Carl crying for his father, who was sleeping in the RV. Dale's footsteps on the roof, keeping watch.
This was The Walking Dead's beginning. The quarry camp, pre-farm, pre-prison, pre-everything. When hope still existed and people still believed rescue was coming.
I knew better. I knew the farm would burn, the prison would fall, Alexandria would be attacked. I knew who would die and when and how.
And I was trying to change it.
Can I? Can one person with knowledge of the future actually change anything? Or am I just rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic?
No answer. Just the stars and the darkness and the weight of impossible responsibility.
Monday morning, we drove toward Atlanta as the sun rose. Rick at the wheel of his truck, Glenn beside him. I rode with Daryl and T-Dog, Daryl's crossbow across his lap, T-Dog's machete within reach.
"You ever been to Atlanta?" Daryl asked.
"Passed through. Didn't stay."
"Smart. Place is a graveyard now."
"Everywhere's a graveyard."
"Yeah. But Atlanta's special. Five million people turned into five million walkers. Density makes it worse."
We reached the outskirts by mid-morning. The city sprawled before us—buildings standing but silent, cars choked the streets, walkers shambling in clusters of hundreds.
Through binoculars, I could see the department store roof. No movement. Either Merle was dead or hiding.
"We go on foot from here," Rick decided. "Cover ourselves in guts, move through the horde. T-Dog and Daryl get Merle. Glenn and Jax recover the bag of guns. We meet back here in two hours."
"And if something goes wrong?" T-Dog asked.
"Then we improvise. Everyone stay sharp."
We found fresh walker corpses—casualties from the previous day's escape. Cut them open, harvested the gore. The smell was overwhelming, nauseating, but necessary.
I covered myself thoroughly, smearing rotten flesh across my jacket and jeans. The Pheromone Cloak helped—the walkers would sense me as one of their own, wrong on two different levels.
We moved into the horde. Thousands of walkers surrounded us, shambling, moaning, searching for prey that wasn't there. I walked among them, expression blank, movements slow and deliberate.
This is what I am now. Something that walks among the dead, pretending to be alive. Or maybe something alive pretending to be dead. I can't tell anymore.
We reached the department store. The roof access was blocked by walkers, but they didn't register us as threats. We pushed through, climbed the stairs.
The roof was empty. No Merle, no handcuffs, just blood and a hacksaw.
"He cut off his own hand," Daryl breathed. "Jesus Christ, he cut off his own hand."
"And cauterized the wound," I added, examining the burn marks on the pipe. "Smart. Prevented blood loss."
"My brother's out there somewhere, one-handed, in the middle of Atlanta."
"Then we find him. After we get the guns."
We descended, moved through the building. Found Rick's bag of weapons in an alley, covered in debris but intact. Loaded it, started back toward the trucks.
A horde shifted, cutting off our route. Too many to fight, too dense to sneak through.
"Alternate path," Glenn whispered. "Through the hospital."
We diverted, moving through abandoned corridors that smelled like death and disinfectant. The hospital was mostly empty—walkers elsewhere, drawn by sounds in the streets.
In the main lobby, we found a man. Alive, huddled behind a desk, clutching a revolver.
He saw us, raised the gun. "Stay back!"
"Easy," Rick said, hands up. "We're alive. Just passing through."
"Liar. You're covered in them. In their blood."
"Disguise. We're survivors. Like you."
The man's hands shook. "There's no survivors. Just dead people and dead people walking."
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Dave. I was a security guard here. Been hiding since the first day. Running out of food, running out of bullets." He looked at us with hollow eyes. "Why are you here?"
"Retrieving supplies. Heading back to our camp."
"Camp? You have a camp?"
"North of the city. Quarry area. Couple dozen people."
"Can I... can I come with you?"
Rick looked at me. I shrugged. "Your call."
"You armed?"
"Just this revolver. Six rounds left."
"You know how to fight?"
"I've killed three of them. The dead ones."
"Good enough." Rick extended his hand. "Dave, welcome to the group. Now let's get out of this death trap."
We extracted Dave, made it back to the trucks by early afternoon. Daryl was furious about Merle, but Rick promised we'd look for him on the next run.
The drive back to the quarry was quiet. Dave sat in the back, processing his rescue, still half-convinced we were a hallucination.
When we reached camp, Rick introduced him to the group. Shane looked suspicious, Dale welcoming, Lori indifferent. Another mouth to feed, another person to protect.
Rick pulled me aside. "You handled yourself well in there. Didn't panic, didn't freeze. I appreciate that."
"Just doing what needs doing."
"That's what I need. People who do what needs doing without making it complicated." He offered his hand again. "You and your people—you're welcome here. At the camp. Long as you want to stay."
I shook his hand. "Appreciate that."
[ TIMER: 60:47:22 ]
Two and a half days. Plenty of time.
[ QUEST COMPLETE: MAKE CONTACT WITH RICK GRIMES ]
[ REWARD: GROUP INTEGRATION SUCCESSFUL ]
[ NEW QUEST: SURVIVE THE QUARRY CAMP ]
I smiled. The script was changing. New variables, new possibilities. The Walking Dead's story was moving forward, and I was finally part of it.
For better or worse.
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