I stepped around to the front of the house, staying low.
The front windows were completely boarded up just like the back, with thick wooden planks nailed tight from the inside.
I took two steps up the creaking wooden stairs of the porch and stopped. Right at the base of the door was a thin fishing line stretched taut across the entry, rigged to a stack of empty tin cans.
'Early warning system, huh?' I muttered. Crude, but effective.
I carefully stepped over the tripwire, raised my hand, and knocked hard three times.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound echoed down the quiet street like a gunshot.
Inside, the muffled hum of the generator was instantly drowned out by sudden movement—a heavy chair scraping against hardwood, followed by frantic, thudding steps that hurried up, then the metallic racking of a shotgun slide.
"I'm armed!" a loud, booming voice barked from behind the door, full of raw aggression that bordered on madness and forced confidence. "You force your way through that door, and I will blow a hole in your chest so big you'll be able to look right through it!"
I took my hand off my gun. And just stood on the porch with my hands down at my sides.
"I mean no harm, friend," I said, keeping my voice calm and steady. "I'm not here to break in, and I'm not looking for a fight."
Silence hung heavy in the air for a few long seconds.
"Who the hell are you?" the voice demanded, tighter this time. "What do you want?"
"My name is Zephyr," I said, leaning my shoulder casually against the porch pillar to show I wasn't in a firing stance. "I come from a community down south. We've got real walls, running water, plenty of supplies, meds, and actual doctors, as well as families and kids."
I heard a sudden shift behind the wood—the subtle sound of someone faltering. The mention of a doctor struck a nerve, just like I knew it would.
"Where is this place?" the man asked, his tone laced with heavy hesitation now.
"Georgia," I answered honestly. "A couple hundred miles from here."
A sharp laugh came from behind the door, dry and bitter. "Georgia? That's miles away, man. You're out of your mind if you think I'll believe that you traveled all that distance alone."
I shrugged. "You can believe whatever you want. It's the truth anyway."
Silence fell again for the second time before the man broke it. "So what do you want?"
"What I want is not something you can give me, friend. The question is, what do you want? Do you wish to continue living like this?"
"Do I want to..." the man started off, only to chuckle again, a dry and bitter one. "Would anyone sane enough want to keep living like this?"
"Then join me," I gently cut him off.
Negan took his time before he replied. "No," he said weakly. "Georgia's way too far, man. I can't travel across state lines, not with..."
He trailed off, catching himself before he mentioned his wife.
"Besides," he continued, "I don't know if you're lying to me."
"I can prove the supplies part at least," I said. "I brought some medical supplies and fresh food with me from home. They're back in my truck parked a few streets over. I can go grab them and bring them right here." Not a lie but not the truth either, I do have the supplies i mentioned, but they're inside my inventory.
The deadbolt unlocked with a heavy click, and the door opened an inch. A single dark, tired-looking, suspicious eye stared at me through the gap, the barrel of a 12-gauge shotgun resting against the opening, pointed straight at my midsection.
"What guarantee do I have that you won't simply go back to call for help or bring a whole crew back here?" Negan growled, his knuckles white on the gun.
I held my hands out slightly, showing I was unarmed and posed no threat. "You just have to trust me."
Negan retorted back with a harsh snort. "That's asking an awful lot these days."
I chuckled softly, shaking my head. "Yeah, I guess you're right."
Then my smile faded, and my face turned serious as I looked him dead in the eye through the crack in the door. "So, are you willing to bet if I'm telling the truth or not?" I asked him. "Your call."
Negan hesitated. The door opened up a bit more, and I could finally see him properly. He looked thinner than when he was first introduced; dark circles were prominent under his eyes. I guess taking care of his sick wife in this fucked up world took a toll on him.
Negan stood there for a long, agonizing minute, calculating the risks in his head. I could see the sheer exhaustion written in the lines around his eyes. He was running on fumes by now, desperate for a lifeline, and he knew it.
Finally, his shoulders dropped a bit in resignation.
"If you're lying to me," he hissed, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low whisper, "if you bring a gang back to my door, I swear to God I will take you down with me, even if it's the last thing I do."
"Fair enough," I said with a faint smile. "Stay here. I'll be right back."
I turned around, stepped over the tripwire on the porch, and walked back down the wooden steps, heading down the street toward my truck to grab the supplies.
As I'm walking back toward the truck, all I could think of was how thankful I am that the risky move i took payed off and that Negan was not in a trigger-happy mood. Otherwise, this encounter would have turned out way, way worse.
(To be continued...)