It was just a normal cleanup. We were taking care of the walkers outside the walls so they wouldn't accumulate and cause trouble. This horde was small, so I went out with two other men. Machete in hand, we began to stab them and watch them fall to the ground, staining my clothes and machete with their dried, dark blood. The forest air smelled of decay and pine, the sound of groans and rustling leaves surrounding us.

When I was about to decapitate one walker - same height as me but definitely older - he dodged my swing. My heart raced as he grabbed me by the wrist with unexpected strength and pulled me behind a bush. Through the foliage, I could see the horde growing larger, more walkers converging on our position.

"Just be quiet," he whispered, his voice human and clear, not the guttural moan of a typical walker.