The streets of Atlanta were eerily quiet, save for the faint groans of Jim's ever-growing horde. The Prophet, as he now called himself, moved confidently at the head of the group, his black priest robes billowing in the wind. His pale skin glowed faintly in the dim light, and his eyes gleamed with purpose. Beside him walked Morales, a fellow intelligent walker like himself, who had been part of Jim's flock for only a few days. Morales wore the tattered remains of a button-up shirt and jeans, the bloodstains stark against the faded fabric. His eyes glinted with a mixture of rage and satisfaction, as though his purpose had only just begun to be fulfilled.
Behind them, the horde stretched out in a seemingly endless tide. The walkers wore the remnants of their former lives: business suits shredded at the seams, floral dresses streaked with grime and dried blood, work uniforms that clung loosely to decayed frames. They moved with a sense of purpose, their steps eerily synchronized as they followed their Prophet.
Gunshots echoed in the distance, and both Jim and Morales froze, their heads snapping toward the sound. Jim's lips curled into a grim smile. "A sign," he said softly, his voice carrying only to Morales and the walkers closest to him. "Someone is in need of salvation."
Morales's expression darkened, his jaw clenching as he growled, "It's them. The bandits who killed my family. I can feel it."
Jim placed a hand on Morales's shoulder, his touch both calming and commanding. "Then let us bring them justice," he said. "Your vengeance will serve the greater purpose. They will be the first to fall."
The retirement home loomed ahead, its fortified walls and barricaded windows standing as a desperate attempt at security. Inside, the Vatos gang was engaged in a frantic battle against the bandits who had ambushed them. The bandits were ruthless, their ragged clothes and makeshift armor splattered with fresh blood as they fired into the building. Their faces were twisted with cruel intent, their voices raised in shouts of derision and glee.
Jim and Morales stood at the edge of the chaos, their horde waiting silently behind them. Jim's pale face was calm, almost serene, as he observed the scene. Morales, in contrast, radiated barely contained rage, his hands twitching at his sides.
"They think they're safe," Morales muttered, his voice dripping with venom. "They think they can do whatever they want."
Jim nodded, his eyes narrowing. "We will show them the truth," he said. "Send in the flock."
With a single gesture, Jim commanded the horde forward. The walkers surged ahead, their groans rising in a deafening chorus as they moved toward the bandits. Some of the walkers, more coordinated than others, picked up nearby objects—broken boards, metal pipes, and even bricks—to use as weapons. Their movements were faster than typical walkers, their intent clear as they reached the bandits.
The first bandit turned, his eyes widening in horror as the horde descended upon him. "What the hell? These things are running!" he shouted, raising his gun. He fired wildly, hitting a few walkers, but it wasn't enough. The others reached him, their decayed hands grabbing and tearing at his flesh.
Jim and Morales stayed back, watching as the bandits' confidence crumbled. The walkers overwhelmed them one by one, their groans mingling with the screams of the dying. Morales's lips curled into a vicious smile as he stepped forward, his eyes locking onto a bandit who was trying to climb a nearby barricade.
"This one's mine," Morales growled. He lunged, his movements unnaturally fast, and grabbed the man by the leg. The bandit screamed as Morales dragged him down, his teeth sinking into the man's shoulder. Blood spattered the ground as Morales tore into him, his face a mask of satisfaction.
Jim approached another bandit who was pinned beneath several walkers. The man's eyes were wide with terror as he looked up at the Prophet. "Please," he begged, his voice trembling. "Have mercy."
Jim crouched beside him, his expression calm. "Mercy?" he repeated. "I am mercy. You will become part of something greater."
With that, Jim leaned down and bit into the man's neck, his teeth tearing through flesh. The hunger flared within him, but it was more than just hunger now. It was purpose.
Once the bandits were dealt with, Jim turned his attention to the retirement home. The main entryways were sealed off, barricaded with heavy furniture and reinforced with metal plates. Jim's eyes scanned the building, his mind racing. He turned to Morales, who was wiping blood from his face with the tattered sleeve of his shirt.
"They've sealed themselves in," Jim said. "But no wall can keep us out."
He gestured to the walkers nearest him. "Climb," he commanded. "Use each other. Reach the roof."
The walkers obeyed without hesitation. They began forming a gruesome ladder, their decayed hands and feet gripping onto each other as they climbed upward. The lower ones groaned under the weight, their bones creaking and snapping, but they held firm. Higher and higher they went, their movements disturbingly coordinated.
Jim and Morales followed, using the makeshift ladder to scale the building. The rough stone scraped against Jim's hands, but he paid it no mind. His focus was unwavering as he pulled himself onto the roof, his black robes billowing in the wind.
From their vantage point, Jim and Morales could see the chaos below. The remaining Vatos gang members were fighting desperately to hold the line, their faces pale with fear. Jim's lips curled into a smile as he spread his arms wide.
"Your time has come," he called out, his voice carrying over the noise. "Join us, and you will be spared. Resist, and you will fall."
The Vatos hesitated, their weapons trembling in their hands. Morales stepped forward, his face twisted with fury. "You think you're safe?" he shouted. "You're nothing! You'll all join the flock soon enough!"
Jim placed a hand on Morales's shoulder, his expression calm. "Patience," he said. "Let them see the truth for themselves."
He turned to the walkers on the roof with him, gesturing toward the building's skylights. "Break them," he commanded. "Enter. Spread the word."
The walkers moved quickly, their clawed hands shattering the glass with deafening crashes. Shards rained down into the building as the undead began pouring inside, their groans echoing through the halls. Jim stood at the edge of the roof, watching as his flock executed his will.
The battle inside the retirement home was brutal and unrelenting. Gunfire echoed through the halls, mingling with the agonized screams of the dying. The Vatos gang fought desperately, their makeshift barricades barely holding against the relentless onslaught of the Prophet's horde. The flickering emergency lights cast eerie shadows across the blood-streaked walls, highlighting the panic in the survivors' faces as they struggled to fend off the inevitable.
Jim and Morales dropped through the shattered skylights, landing gracefully amid the chaos. Jim's black priest robes billowed around him as he stepped forward, his face eerily calm despite the carnage. Morales, in contrast, was a vision of pure rage, his tattered shirt soaked in fresh blood as he lunged at a survivor who tried to flee.
The man screamed as Morales tackled him to the ground, his decayed fingers tightening around the struggling survivor's throat. The man's eyes bulged in terror, his hands clawing weakly at Morales's grip, but it was useless. With a twisted grin, Morales sank his teeth into the man's neck, tearing flesh away in thick, bloody chunks.
Jim moved methodically through the room, his intelligent eyes scanning the terrified faces of those who still stood. "You had your chance," he said, his voice calm yet filled with undeniable authority. "You could have joined us. You could have found salvation."
An elderly woman clutched at her chest, her frail frame trembling as she whispered a desperate prayer. Jim knelt before her, his expression one of genuine pity. "God is not here," he murmured. "But I am."
Before she could scream, he silenced her with a swift, merciful bite, consuming her before she could turn. Around him, his walkers moved in synchronized brutality, dragging the weak and wounded to their doom. The smart walkers, unseen and unheard by the living, whispered to Jim in hushed voices.
"She was afraid. She never wanted to fight."
"He was willing to join us, but the others stopped him."
Jim sighed, closing his eyes briefly. "Then they chose their fate."
The remaining survivors fought desperately, wielding broken chairs, kitchen knives, and whatever weapons they could find. A man lunged at Jim with a metal pipe, his face contorted with grief and fury. Jim sidestepped gracefully, his movements smooth and effortless. With a single motion, he caught the man's wrist and twisted, forcing him to his knees.
"You fight for a dying world," Jim said, almost gently. "Let me show you what comes next."
With that, he opened his mouth and bit into the man's face, feeling the warm flesh give way beneath his teeth. The screams were short-lived, replaced by the sound of Morales finishing off another survivor behind him.
As the last of the defenders fell, Jim and Morales stood amidst the carnage, their hunger finally sated. The once-bustling retirement home was now silent, the air thick with the stench of blood and death.
Jim wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, his expression unreadable as he surveyed the scene. Despite the power he felt, a strange sorrow settled deep within him.
"They were given a choice," Jim murmured, almost to himself. "Yet, they chose death over salvation."
Morales, crouching near a body, looked up at Jim with a smirk, his dark eyes gleaming with hunger and purpose. "Their loss," he said, licking his bloodied fingers. "We move forward, Prophet. The weak fall so the strong may rise."
Jim exhaled, his gaze distant. "Perhaps." He turned slowly, the folds of his black robe sweeping across the blood-soaked floor. His followers, his flock, stood silently behind him, their hollow eyes fixed on their leader, awaiting his next command.
Morales stood beside him, licking the last traces of blood from his lips, his body still humming with the satisfaction of revenge. His mind had been clouded by the overwhelming need to exact justice on those who had taken everything from him. The scent of blood, sweat, and fear had driven him forward, making him oblivious to everything else. But now, as the rage ebbed and the fire of vengeance dimmed, something new cut through the carnage—something he should have noticed before.
His nostrils flared, and his entire form went rigid. His breath hitched, his head snapping up as his pupils dilated. A scent unlike anything he had ever encountered filled his senses, thick and intoxicating. It was unlike the acrid decay of the dead or the warm musk of the living. It was something more. Something unnatural.
"What is it?" Jim asked, sensing the shift in his companion.
Morales turned to him, his expression one of complete bewilderment. "I've… I've never smelled anything like this before," he murmured, his voice almost reverent. "It's… powerful. Rich. Not like the living or the dead." He swallowed hard, his fingers twitching at his sides. "It's Murphy."
Jim's face darkened, his lips pressing into a thin line. He had expected this moment, yet he did not welcome it.
Morales's eyes flickered with recognition. "I saw him. Back at the camp, with Rick. I didn't know him then, just another survivor passing through… but now…" He took another deep breath, his teeth clenching. "He's something else. Something… wrong."
Jim nodded slowly. "You have seen the False Prophet with your own eyes. But do not be deceived, brother. Murphy is not merely another man." His voice grew lower, richer, carrying the cadence of a preacher. "He is the Antichrist. A being that walks outside the natural order. His blood is poison to our holy mission. He is a mockery of resurrection. A deception in the flesh."
Morales's jaw tightened, his breath growing heavier. "Then let me hunt him. Let me put an end to him."
Jim's expression did not change, but his fingers twitched slightly at his sides. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes. And then, as if summoned by a force beyond mortal comprehension, a voice rang through his mind—commanding, omnipotent, divine.
Gather. Build. Strengthen the flock.
The vision was brief yet absolute. Images flooded his mind—waves of the undead, millions strong, an army greater than any kingdom had ever known. They moved as one, a divine force, sweeping across the earth. And at the heart of it, Murphy stood defiant, untouched, an aberration among God's chosen.
Jim's eyes snapped open, a flicker of conflict behind their cold certainty. He exhaled slowly, then placed a firm hand on Morales's shoulder. "It is not yet time," he said, his voice heavy with authority. "God has spoken to me. I must first gather my flock in the millions before we strike down the False Prophet. Only then will we be strong enough to end him."
Morales frowned, his body tense. "Then why wait? If we know where he is, if I can track him—"
Jim cut him off with a shake of his head. "Because I will not fail," he said firmly. "To strike at Murphy before we are ready is folly. We cannot risk him slipping through our grasp. But…" he paused, allowing his gaze to soften slightly, "God believes in free will. And so do I."
Morales's expression shifted, his fingers flexing before forming fists. He understood the meaning behind Jim's words. He had been given permission—but not endorsement.
"You believe I'll fail," Morales stated.
Jim did not answer right away. Instead, he took a slow step back, lifting his hands as though blessing Morales before a great pilgrimage. "You must make your own choice, brother. If this is the path you wish to take, then I will not stop you." His voice dropped into something lower, almost sorrowful. "But know this—I do not wish for you to fail. I only wish for you to see the truth in time."
Morales hesitated, his hunger battling his logic. Then, with a slow nod, he turned his gaze to the distant city. "I won't fail," he said, his voice quiet but filled with determination. "I'll find him. I'll end him."
Jim watched as Morales stepped away, his form blending into the darkness. He exhaled, a heavy weight settling onto his chest as he whispered a final prayer for his misguided brother. Then, turning back to his remaining flock, he straightened his posture and raised his arms.
"The world is not yet ready for salvation," he murmured. "But it will be. And when the time comes, we will rise as one."
The horde groaned in agreement, their voices blending into a haunting chorus.
Jim cast one last glance toward where Morales had vanished, his expression unreadable. Then he turned, walking away to prepare for the war that was yet to come.