Chapter 11: Convoy North
Jake woke to the familiar rhythm of tires on asphalt and the unfamiliar comfort of someone's hand stroking his hair. The motion was gentle, maternal, carrying him back to consciousness like a tide depositing him on a safe shore.
"Welcome back, honey."
Carol's voice was soft as worn cotton, and when Jake opened his eyes, he found himself looking up at her face framed against the Cherokee's ceiling. She'd been sitting with his head in her lap, watching over him with the fierce protectiveness of a mother hen. The sight hit him harder than he'd expected—when was the last time someone had cared for him like this? Not since before medical school, before the stress and sleep deprivation had driven wedges between him and everyone who mattered.
"How long?" Jake's voice came out as a croak, his throat raw from screaming and vomiting at the CDC.
"Eighteen hours," Daryl answered from the driver's seat, catching Jake's eyes in the rearview mirror. "Knew you'd pull through. Tough bastard."
The words were gruff, typical Daryl, but there was something underneath them that made Jake's chest tighten with unexpected emotion. Acceptance. Belonging. The recognition that he was part of something larger than himself.
Jake tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. His head felt like someone had used it for batting practice, and every muscle in his body ached with the deep, bone-deep exhaustion that came from pushing his powers too far. His hands were wrapped in clean bandages—Carol's work, he realized—but he could feel the tender soreness where his skin had split apart.
"Easy," Carol murmured, helping him shift into a more upright position. "You've been through hell. Your body needs time to recover."
Through the windows, Jake could see they were on a highway lined with abandoned vehicles—the familiar automotive graveyard that marked every major evacuation route out of Atlanta. But something was different about this particular stretch of road. Other vehicles were moving alongside them, forming a loose convoy of survivors.
"Where are we?" Jake asked.
"About forty miles north of the city," Rick's voice crackled over the radio from the lead vehicle. "We linked up with another group yesterday. Good people. Figured there's safety in numbers."
Jake looked out the passenger window and felt his heart stop.
A green pickup truck was keeping pace with their Cherokee, and in the driver's seat sat a young woman with brown hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. She was focused on the road ahead, one hand on the wheel and the other gesturing as she talked to someone in the passenger seat. Even in profile, even through two layers of safety glass, Jake recognized her instantly.
Maggie Greene.
"Jesus Christ. It's really her. Not just a character in a TV show, but a real person with her own thoughts and feelings and dreams that don't revolve around the plot I remember."
The recognition hit him like a physical blow, triggering a cascade of memories from the show. Maggie the fighter, Maggie the survivor, Maggie who would lose her father and sister and home but somehow find the strength to keep going. Maggie who would fall in love with Glenn and build something beautiful in the midst of all the horror.
But that was television. This was reality, and reality meant Glenn was still alive, still hopeful, still the optimistic young man who saw the best in everyone. Reality meant Jake was sitting here with foreknowledge of tragedies that might never happen, relationships that might never form, choices that could go differently this time around.
"That's Maggie," Glenn's voice said from the front passenger seat, following Jake's gaze. The young man's tone carried a note of shy admiration that made Jake's stomach clench with guilt. "She's nice, right? Her whole family's been really welcoming."
Jake tried to say something—anything—but his voice caught in his throat. Not the speech block this time, just the overwhelming weight of seeing someone who'd been fictional suddenly, impossibly real.
"Yeah," he managed finally. "She seems... nice."
It was a pathetic understatement, but it was all he could manage without revealing the depth of his recognition. Glenn noticed his distress and misinterpreted it completely.
"You okay, man? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"If only you knew."
Jake forced a smile. "Just still feeling rough. The CDC took a lot out of me."
Carol's hand found his shoulder, squeezing gently. "You saved us all, honey. Whatever that cost you, it was worth it."
The convoy pulled over at midday for fuel and food, vehicles forming a defensive circle on a stretch of highway that offered good sight lines in all directions. Jake climbed out of the Cherokee on unsteady legs, grateful for the chance to stretch muscles that had been cramped for too long.
That's when Maggie approached their group.
"Heard someone was hurt," she said, carrying a plastic water bottle and a small first aid kit. Her voice was exactly as Jake remembered from the show—warm, strong, touched with just enough Georgia accent to be charming without being caricatured.
Then their eyes met, and Jake felt the world shift slightly on its axis.
The attraction was instant and mutual, a spark of connection that seemed to bridge the impossible gap between fiction and reality. Maggie's green eyes widened slightly, and Jake saw his own surprised recognition reflected there. Not recognition of identity—she had no idea who he was supposed to be—but the deeper recognition of souls calling to each other across whatever cosmic distance separated them.
"Hi," she said, her voice suddenly softer. "I'm Maggie."
Jake opened his mouth to respond, to say her name, to tell her how beautiful she was and how much he'd thought about her before they'd even met. But his speech block chose that moment to kick in, transforming his words into gibberish.
"Blue haggie bean," he said, then immediately flushed with embarrassment.
Maggie laughed, and the sound was like sunlight after rain. "Concussion talk. My daddy's seen plenty of it over the years. You'll be okay."
She handed him the water bottle, her fingers brushing against his for just a moment. The contact sent electricity racing up Jake's arm, and from the way Maggie's breath caught, she felt it too.
"Thank you," Jake managed, his voice working normally now that he wasn't trying to say her name.
"You're welcome." Maggie's smile was radiant, transforming her already pretty face into something luminous. "I'm glad you're alright. Glenn told us what happened at the CDC. What you did for everyone."
Jake glanced over at Glenn, who was watching their interaction with curious eyes. There was no jealousy there yet, no possessiveness—just the innocent interest of someone who liked seeing his friends connect with each other. It made Jake's guilt burn hotter.
"In the show, Glenn and Maggie fall in love. They build something real together, something that survives everything the world throws at them. And here I am, messing with that because I can't control my own feelings for someone I've never actually met."
"I just did what anyone would do," Jake said, deflecting the praise.
"No," Maggie replied firmly. "Most people would have saved themselves first. You made sure everyone else got out before you did." She studied his bandaged hands with professional interest. "You're lucky you didn't lose your fingers. Whatever you did to those doors, it cost you."
Jake flexed his hands experimentally, feeling the pull of healing skin beneath the bandages. "Small price to pay."
"Still." Maggie's voice carried a note of admiration that made Jake's heart race. "It was brave."
They talked for a few more minutes—small talk, really, the kind of surface-level conversation that strangers have when they're trying to learn about each other without being too obvious about it. But underneath the words, Jake could feel something building between them. A connection that transcended logic or timeline or the careful plans he'd made to avoid disrupting the relationships he remembered from the show.
When Maggie finally excused herself to check on other members of the convoy, Jake found himself watching her walk away with an intensity that bordered on obsession. She moved with unconscious grace, confident in her own skin in a way that spoke of someone who'd been loved and valued her entire life.
Glenn appeared at his elbow, following his gaze. "She's something, isn't she?"
Jake's throat tightened. "Yeah. She is."
"Think she likes you," Glenn continued with characteristic openness. "I mean, she was definitely interested. Good for you, man."
The generosity in Glenn's voice was like a knife in Jake's chest. Here was someone offering encouragement for a potential relationship that could destroy his own chances with the woman he was supposed to love. Someone being genuinely happy for a friend's good fortune, even when it might cost him everything.
Jake wanted to tell him the truth—that he knew about Glenn's feelings, that he understood what he was giving up, that none of this was fair to anyone involved. But the speech block would prevent any such confession, and besides, what good would it do? The damage was already done. The spark between him and Maggie was real, undeniable, and growing stronger by the minute.
All Jake could do was nod and try to keep the guilt out of his voice. "Thanks, Glenn. That... means a lot."
As the convoy prepared to move out again, Jake climbed back into the Cherokee with a head full of complications and a heart full of something that felt dangerously close to hope. The world might be ending, the dead might be walking the earth, but somewhere in the middle of all that horror, he'd found something worth protecting.
Even if that something wasn't supposed to be his.
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