The Walking Dead: Camp Fears Him
How many of the dead can one man turn before they turn on him? You woke in a tracker's body knowing the answer; the count is all that keeps you alive.
I am the Reckoning. I read what the living miss: density, drift, the wind carrying your scent. A herd forty strong bends where you point it.
Two counts run under your skin, and neither falls. Get the wind wrong and Exposure fixes every dead eye on you. Walk a herd past your own people and Dread climbs, until your name reaches the next camp first.
They call you the man who walks with the dead. The Governor's camp can't decide: monster, or weapon. None see the tracker who slipped a whole family past a dozen geeks on masked scent.
Then a loose tail catches your scent at the gate. THE RECKONING — herd inbound, six miles and closing. This read goes stale by dawn; then you're guessing.