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Ch21: Now I'm pissed
🕑 Added 2025-05-26 07:59:20 +0000 UTCAiden crouched low once more, hidden in the shadows near the roof's edge of the neighboring office building, binoculars steady in hand. The dying sun had slipped fully below the horizon, casting the city of Atlanta in a hazy blend of orange and steel gray. The streets below still groaned with the weight of the horde, but his focus was no longer on them—it was on the rooftop across the way.
There, the chaos was unraveling in real time.
Merle Dixon. Loud, unstable, and exactly the walking disaster Aiden remembered.
The man stood near the edge of the department store rooftop, hunting rifle gripped tight, sweat soaking through his tank top, a wild look in his eyes. He had that twitchy posture of a man long gone from reason, the kind that only gets worse when the pressure mounts. And right now, the pressure was volcanic.
BANG.
The rifle cracked, muzzle flashing as Merle fired into the crowd of walkers below. Aiden flinched, though he was half a block away—the shot echoed off the surrounding buildings like thunderclaps, causing the horde to jolt and shift, their attention snapping back toward the department store.
Merle laughed—high, ragged, unhinged. "Come on, ya dead freaks! You want some of Dixon?! COME GET IT!"
The rest of the group scrambled to stop him. Glenn reached out first, trying to reason with him, only to be shoved back. Andrea said something that was lost in the wind, her face twisted with frustration. Morales tried a calming hand, but Merle spun on them, faster than expected.
And then—he raised the rifle again.
Not at the walkers.
At the group.
Aiden tensed.
Merle's finger curled around the trigger, his expression twisted into something venomous. The slur that followed was as vile as it was familiar.
"You shut the hell up, boy, before I put you down like the mutts my daddy used to shoot on the farm," he snarled at T-Dog, his voice dripping with rage and hate. "You think you can order me around? You people think this is your world now?"
Aiden's eyes narrowed. He didn't need to hear every word to understand what was happening. He knew Merle's type—all fire, no brakes. A storm wrapped in flesh, toxic and unstable. The worst kind of man to have in a world already falling apart. Dangerous when cornered. Deadly when in control.
The group had backed off slightly, weapons half-drawn, unsure of how far Merle was willing to go. The tension was knife-thin, hanging in the air like a drawn bowstring.
Aiden sighed, resting back on his heels, eyes still trained on the scene. He could take the shot if he wanted to. One well-placed arrow from the composite bow on his back. Merle wouldn't even see it coming. The man was exposed, screaming at ghosts, too absorbed in his own anger to realize death might already have eyes on him.
But again… why?
This was their story.
They had to learn how to handle men like Merle. If Aiden stepped in now—if he bailed them out—it would just keep happening again. Next time, it wouldn't be Merle. It'd be someone else. A different bad call. A new disaster waiting to happen.
Let them fight their own battles. Let them earn their survival.
Still, he made a mental note. Merle Dixon: active. Dangerous. And more of a liability to Rick's group than any walker.
He pulled his hood a bit lower and turned away from the edge, the cityscape spread before him like a canvas waiting to be drawn. With his map half-finished, his system inventory brimming with supplies, and a growing sense that this world was more than just a setting—it was a living stage—Aiden knew one thing for certain:
He wasn't the hero of their story.
He was building his own world.And if their path ever crossed his again… they'd better hope they were on the right side of it.
The bullet's crack shattered the calm like a hammer through glass.
BANG!
Aiden barely registered the flash from Merle's rifle before instinct took over. The glint off the scope was all the warning he had. His body twisted hard to the right, and the round sliced past his head—hot pain tearing across the edge of his left ear. The impact was small, but sharp, like someone had slashed him with a razor made of fire.
He hit the rooftop gravel in a roll, boots scraping against the surface as he dove behind the steel ventilation housing, heart pounding like a war drum. The distant sound of walkers and wind was gone—replaced with a high-pitched ringing in his left ear and a warmth running down his jaw.
"Shit!" Aiden growled through gritted teeth, yanking his hood back and pressing a gloved hand to his ear. Blood smeared his fingers, warm and slick. The ear wasn't gone—but it was torn, a nasty graze that burned with fury and adrenaline.
For a second, the world was still.
Then his voice broke the silence, low and laced with venom.
"Ok, motherfucker… now it's personal."
Aiden's entire demeanor shifted. Gone was the quiet observer, the man keeping his distance from the chaos of others. Now, crouched behind cover with blood on his cheek and fire in his eyes, he looked more like a predator that had just been bitten—and was ready to bite back.
He drew a slow, deliberate breath, calming his pulse. The system's interface flickered in his peripheral vision, almost sensing the change in tension. Combat mode. Proximity alerts. Heart rate spike. Nearby threat: Merle Dixon.
The mental map he'd been drawing all day now served another purpose—angles of elevation, line of sight, distance between rooftops. He did the math fast. Merle was at least 150 yards away on a higher elevation with an old bolt-action hunting rifle. Loud. Slow reload. Poor follow-up. That was his edge.
Aiden tapped his bow from its sling and slowly nocked an arrow from the quiver mounted to his new tactical belt. The composite limbs of the bow flexed silently in his grip—a hunter's weapon, built for precision and vengeance.
Merle had made a mistake.
He thought Aiden was just some rooftop looter. Some bystander. He didn't know he'd just tried to kill a tactician with weeks of solo survival training, enhanced senses from his system bonuses, and a chip on his shoulder the size of a military convoy.
From behind cover, Aiden peeked just slightly—enough to catch a glimpse of Merle standing stupidly near the edge of the rooftop, gun lowered, laughing to himself like a lunatic who thought he'd scared off a stray cat.
"Keep laughing, redneck…" Aiden muttered, drawing back the bowstring with practiced fluidity, breath slowing, muscles relaxing into deadly stillness. "I'll show you what a ghost on a rooftop can really do."
The hunter had just been wounded.
Now?
He was hunting back.
Aiden gritted his teeth as he ducked further behind the old ventilation unit, setting down his gear with swift, controlled movements. He reached into the duffel bag beside him, rummaging quickly through the contents of his system inventory—thankfully disguised to the world as just another worn tactical pack. He pulled out a half-empty bottle of strong vodka, one of the few decent bottles he'd found during his first supply run at the grocery store. The scent alone was enough to burn his nose.
He unzipped the trauma pouch from his belt, grabbing a clean gauze pad and a small roll of medical tape. His fingers were steady, but his face was set in a grim scowl. Blood dripped in slow rivulets from the torn edge of his left ear, now crusted along his jaw. The sear of the bullet's passage still echoed in the pain that pulsed with his heartbeat. It wasn't a mortal wound—not by far—but it was the message behind it that burned hotter than the injury itself.
Merle had fired on him.
Not by accident.
Not a warning.
Intentional.
And Aiden didn't forget intent.
He took a deep breath and uncapped the vodka, tipping the bottle slightly over the wound. The liquid hit the exposed flesh and nerves like fire, and his vision went white for a moment. A sharp hiss slipped through his clenched teeth.
"Damn that burns," he growled, holding steady as the alcohol trickled down his neck.
He pressed the gauze against the ear, clenching his jaw tight. Blood soaked the cloth almost instantly, but the worst of the bleeding was already slowing. He wrapped the tape in a firm line around his ear and jaw, securing it in place. Crude, but effective. In this world, there weren't any hospitals—just pain, grit, and what you could make do with.
Once finished, Aiden sat back against the steel housing, eyes narrowing as he stared up at the dark sky. Stars were beginning to push through the urban haze, the full moon casting long silver shadows between the broken buildings. From across the way, he could still hear Merle's muffled yelling. The man had stopped shooting but was pacing like a caged animal—ranting, swearing, still clutching the rifle like it was a trophy and a threat all in one.
Aiden wasn't going to engage yet. No.
He remembered the story.
He remembered what was coming.
Merle would push too far. He always did. The group would cuff him to a pipe on the rooftop, try to keep the peace, try to rein him in. And then the city would swarm. Rick and the others would have to flee, leave Merle behind. It would all unfold like a script—one Aiden knew well.
That's when he'd make his move.
Not out of pity. Not to save the man.
But to send a message.
Merle had made the mistake of thinking Aiden was just another face. Just another nobody passing through a broken city. He'd learn differently, cuffed and sweating on a hot rooftop with no water, no help, and one pissed-off survivor drawing a bowstring in the dark.
But for now…
Aiden cleaned up the blood from his neck and wiped his fingers dry. He ate a high-calorie protein bar in silence, chewing slowly as his eyes stayed fixed on that building across the way.
This wasn't just about survival anymore.
It was about reminding the world—even this broken, undead-infested world—that if you come for Aiden and miss?
You don't get a second shot.
Aiden's boots echoed softly down the stairwell as he descended the office tower, the groaning wind outside now muffled by concrete and drywall. He kept low, bow in hand, movements deliberate and silent. The bandage over his left ear tugged slightly with each step, but he ignored the discomfort—his thoughts fixed firmly on a task far more important than rest.
He needed a walker.
Not a group. Not a horde.
Just one.
He reached the lower floors, sweeping each hallway with the cold precision of someone who'd done this too many times already. Eventually, near the shattered reception desk in the lobby, he spotted his mark—a lone walker, swaying gently near the broken glass doors like a rotted marionette, drawn by the soft shuffle of his steps but not yet alert.
Perfect.
Aiden moved like smoke, his steps silent as a ghost. He came up behind the walker with the swiftness of a predator, unsheathing his knife and driving the blade cleanly into the back of its skull. The undead creature let out a faint groan before collapsing with a heavy thump to the carpeted floor.
[Ding!][+2 EXP]
The familiar sound of the system notification chirped in his ear, but Aiden's focus was already on the task at hand. He knelt beside the corpse, unslinging one of the specialized arrows from his quiver—one he had mentally marked for a "unique modification."
With methodical care, he pried the walker's mouth open, the jaw stiff and cracked with decay. Holding his breath to avoid the worst of the stench, he dipped the arrowhead into the creature's mouth, twisting slightly to collect a generous coating of saliva and necrotic residue. The black-green slime clung to the arrow's edge, coating it like venom on a fang.
"Disgusting," he muttered under his breath, eyes sharp and unblinking. "But effective."
He reached into his bag and pulled out a heavy-duty plastic zip bag, slipping the now-tainted arrow inside and sealing it shut with a crisp flick of his fingers. He labeled it with a piece of tape:"INFECTED – DO NOT USE NEAR SELF"
It wasn't a weapon he planned to use lightly. But in the right moment—against the right person—an arrow coated in walker saliva was a death sentence. Not from the wound. From the infection.
He didn't need to kill Merle outright.
He just needed him to wish he hadn't pulled that trigger.
With the arrow secured and stowed, Aiden stood up and wiped the blade of his knife clean on the walker's ragged shirt. The dead thing's body already seemed to melt into the dimness of the hallway, another corpse in a city littered with them.
But this one?
This one served a purpose.
Aiden turned toward the street exit, cloak shifting around his frame as he adjusted the duffel bag and readied his bow. His expression was unreadable now—calm, composed… and utterly resolute.
Payback was coming.
Not loud.
Not immediate.
But poisoned, precise, and personal.
Merle had fired the first shot.
Aiden would fire the last.
Aiden stood at the corner of an empty alleyway, cloaked in the deepening shadows of late evening. The moon above hung fat and silver, casting his figure in a pale glow as he knelt beside an overturned trash bin and unfurled a carefully kept folded map—a personal project he'd been constructing over the past few days.
The paper crackled faintly as he spread it open across a crate, weighed down at the corners with spent shell casings and fragments of broken glass. With a flashlight in hand and a piece of charcoal gripped between his gloved fingers, he began updating it. The map of downtown Atlanta was already marked with several layers of scribbled notes, sharp X's, and detailed arrows: walker group paths, dead zones, clear routes, and danger zones.
He carefully marked an X over another alley—one he had just confirmed as completely overrun.
"Another one off the list," he muttered.
The undead were mobile in small groups, but patterns had begun to emerge—especially when something disturbed the air. Like a helicopter, or an idiot on a rooftop waving a gun and screaming racial slurs. And now, thanks to Merle's reckless actions, hundreds of walkers were surging in specific directions, creating natural blockades in the streets and alleyways below.
Aiden's eyes narrowed.
This wasn't just survival anymore.
This was tactics.
He circled an intersection with a ring and drew three small arrows leading to it: his planned ambush point.
It was two blocks down from the department store rooftop where Merle was currently cuffed—still raving, still unaware of what fate was about to befall him. Aiden had taken great care to remember the timeline. In the show, Merle would be left behind, cuffed to the pipe, abandoned as the group made a hasty retreat. Eventually, he'd saw through his own wrist and escape—but not before the trauma stripped away whatever scraps of decency remained.
Aiden would let that part play out.
Merle's screaming would stop eventually, either when the pain kicked in, or when dehydration did. Either way, he'd free himself. He'd stagger, broken and furious, into the wreckage of downtown—bloody, manic, and vulnerable.
That's when Aiden would strike.
He took a long breath, adjusting the sling of his bow across his chest as his eyes roamed the newly marked ambush site. It was a narrow corridor between buildings, blocked at both ends by burned-out cars and partially collapsed brick walls. A perfect kill box. Only one way in, one way out. And best of all?
One side had rooftop access.
Aiden could perch up there, watching. Waiting.
He'd already begun to move a few supplies into place—tripwire, broken glass, a few noise traps using cans and fishing line. It wouldn't be today. Maybe not even tomorrow. But the plan was already set into motion.
[System Notice: Strategic Planning Recognized][Temporary Skill Unlocked: Tactical Foresight Lv.1]"You have begun thinking beyond survival. Your ability to anticipate enemy movements has improved. +5% trap effectiveness. +2% to ambush success rates."
A small smirk tugged at Aiden's lips.
"Good," he muttered. "Let's see how loud you scream when no one's around to save you this time, Merle."
He folded the map carefully, tucked it into his jacket, and vanished into the darkness of the alleyway—another shadow among many, armed with patience, precision…
And a growing thirst for quiet retribution.
