The city was a ghost town as Jim and his growing flock made their way through the desolate streets. Hundreds of walkers shuffled behind him, their movements more deliberate than the aimless stumbling of the mindless undead. Their tattered clothes hung in varying states of decay: a man in a business suit missing its jacket, a woman in a floral dress with bloodied bare feet, and others whose uniforms, casual wear, and street clothes told fragmented stories of lives lost. Jim walked ahead of them, his eyes scanning the horizon until he spotted it—a church, its steeple rising above the abandoned buildings like a beacon.
He smiled, his lips curling with satisfaction. "A house of God," he muttered, his voice carrying a tone of reverence. "A fitting place for us to prepare."
As they reached the church, the walkers slowed, gathering in a loose formation around the entrance. Jim stepped forward, his footsteps echoing on the cracked stone steps. The wooden doors hung slightly ajar, and he pushed them open with both hands, stepping into the dim sanctuary.
The inside was musty and cold, dust motes dancing in the faint shafts of light that streamed through stained glass windows. Rows of pews stood in silent rows, their once-polished surfaces now dulled by neglect. At the far end of the room, a raised altar stood beneath a wooden crucifix, its simplicity stark yet commanding.
Jim moved purposefully, his eyes scanning the area until they landed on a small room off to the side. Inside, he found a wardrobe filled with priest's robes, their fabric faded but still intact. His fingers trailed over the garments, and he selected one of deep black with a crimson sash. Sliding it over his worn clothes, he turned to face the cracked mirror on the wall.
The man staring back at him looked like a specter, his pale skin and hollow cheeks framed by the priest's robe. His blue-tinted eyes gleamed with something almost otherworldly. He smiled at his reflection, a grim, satisfied expression.
"A shepherd needs the attire of his calling," he said softly. He straightened the sash and turned back to his flock, who had filed into the sanctuary and stood silently in the pews, watching him. The sight made his chest swell with pride.
"We have been chosen," Jim began, spreading his arms wide as he addressed them. "This world is broken, but we—we will rebuild it. We will be the foundation upon which a new kingdom rises. And together, we will bring salvation."
The walkers groaned in unison, their guttural voices echoing through the empty church. Jim grinned, his eyes alight with fervor.
The walkers—or his flock, as Jim now thought of them—moved closer to the altar, some settling in the pews while others stood at the edges of the sanctuary. Their clothes, torn and bloodied, hung loosely on their decayed frames. One walker, wearing the shredded remains of a janitor's uniform, stepped forward, its lifeless eyes focusing on Jim.
But then it spoke.
"Why us?" the walker rasped, its voice low and gravelly. "Why do you… lead us?"
Jim's expression softened, though his eyes burned with intensity. He stepped closer to the questioning walker, placing a hand on its cold, decayed shoulder.
"Because you were chosen," Jim said, his voice filled with conviction. "This hunger, this curse… it's not the end. It's the beginning. Together, we can be more than what we were. We can rebuild this world into something greater."
Another walker, this one in a tattered nurse's uniform, shuffled forward, its head shaking slightly. "We… didn't ask for this," it murmured, its voice trembling with anger. "We didn't want… this life."
Jim's smile faltered, but he quickly recovered. "None of us asked for this," he replied, spreading his arms wide. "But now that we have it, we must use it. Don't you see? This isn't a curse—it's an opportunity. Together, we can make this hunger mean something."
Some of the walkers groaned in agreement, their eyes fixed on Jim with something akin to hope. Others, however, exchanged wary glances, their decayed faces twisting into expressions of doubt and disgust.
One walker, wearing a soldier's uniform with the sleeves torn off, snarled. "You talk… like a savior. But you're just… like us. Hungry. Lost."
Jim turned to the soldier walker, his eyes narrowing slightly. "I may share your hunger, but I am not lost. I've found purpose. And you can too, if you'd only believe."
The soldier walker sneered but said nothing more, retreating back into the shadows of the sanctuary. Jim let out a breath, his grip tightening on the crimson sash around his waist. He turned back to the others, his expression softening once more.
"I know it's hard to see now," he said gently. "But this is our destiny. We can bring order to the chaos. We can save this world from itself."
A murmur rippled through the flock, their voices a mix of uncertainty and reluctant agreement. Jim smiled again, his confidence renewed.
Hours passed as Jim continued to speak, pacing back and forth in front of the altar like a preacher delivering a sermon. He gestured passionately, his voice rising and falling with emotion as he laid out his vision for the future.
"We will spread our message," he declared, his arms outstretched. "We will grow our numbers. And when the time comes, we will show the living that they cannot hide from us. They cannot deny the truth."
The walkers groaned in unison, their guttural voices forming a haunting chorus. Jim's smile widened, his eyes shining with fervor.
"This is the beginning," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "The beginning of something beautiful."
As the sun began to set, casting long shadows through the stained glass windows, Jim stood at the altar, his hands resting on its edge. His flock filled the sanctuary, their decayed faces turned toward him with a mixture of hope, doubt, and fear.
He closed his eyes, a quiet prayer escaping his lips. "Guide us, Lord," he murmured. "Show us the way."
When he opened his eyes, he found the nurse walker standing before him once more. Its head tilted slightly, its cloudy eyes searching his face.
"We… will follow," it said softly. "But if you're wrong…"
Jim nodded, his expression solemn. "If I'm wrong, then I will fall with you. But I'm not wrong. I can feel it. This is what we were meant to do."
The nurse walker hesitated, then bowed its head in acceptance. Jim reached out, resting a hand on its shoulder.
"Together," he said firmly. "We will change this world."
Then, gunshots rang out in the distance, sharp and jarring against the city's eerie silence. The sound caused a ripple of movement among the walkers, their heads turning toward the noise. The Prophet's pale lips curled into a thoughtful smile as he rose from his seat.
"Someone's being reckless," he murmured, his voice carrying an almost musical cadence. He turned to his flock, his expression one of calm authority. "Let's see what the commotion is, shall we?"
The intelligent walkers groaned softly in response, their eyes gleaming with faint awareness. One of them, a woman in a torn nurse's uniform, stepped forward. "Hungry…" she whispered, her voice guttural but distinct.
The Prophet's smile widened, his hand brushing lightly against her matted hair. "Patience, my child. There will be plenty to satisfy us soon enough."
With that, he led the horde out of the church, their movements eerily synchronized. The Prophet's robe billowed behind him as he walked, his gaunt figure cutting an imposing silhouette against the backdrop of the crumbling city. The walkers followed closely, their decayed clothes and exposed flesh painting a macabre picture of death and devotion.
The group moved through the streets like a shadowy tide, drawn toward the source of the gunshots. As they approached, the Prophet caught the metallic tang of blood on the wind. His nostrils flared, and a flicker of hunger crossed his face. He licked his lips, his pale skin seeming almost translucent under the fading sunlight.
When they turned a corner, they found the aftermath of a brutal scene. Bodies lay scattered across the pavement, their clothing torn and blood pooling beneath them. Most were riddled with bullet wounds, their lifeless eyes staring at nothing. Among the carnage, a man writhed in agony, clutching his stomach as blood seeped between his fingers. His clothes—a simple plaid shirt and jeans—were soaked with crimson, and his face twisted in pain as he let out a weak, shuddering cry.
The Prophet's eyes narrowed as recognition flickered across his face. "Morales," he said softly, stepping closer. "It's been some time, hasn't it?"
Morales's head snapped up at the sound of the familiar voice. His eyes widened, and a mixture of relief and fear played across his features. "J-Jim?" he rasped, his voice barely audible. "What… what happened to you?"
The Prophet knelt beside him, his movements fluid and deliberate. His pale hand reached out to brush the blood-matted hair from Morales's forehead. "I've become something greater," he said, his voice soothing yet unnervingly hollow. "And now, so will you."
Morales's expression twisted into confusion and fear. "They killed my family," he gasped, his voice breaking. "Bandits… they left me here… to die." Tears mixed with the blood on his cheeks as he trembled.
The Prophet's face softened, and he placed a hand on Morales's shoulder. "And you shall have justice," he promised. "I will give you the strength to rise above this. To avenge them. To join me in building something better."
Morales's breathing grew shallow, his eyes fluttering as he fought to stay conscious. "I… I don't…"
"Shh," the Prophet whispered, leaning closer. "Be still. Let me take the pain away."
Without hesitation, he sank his teeth into Morales's shoulder, tearing into the flesh with an almost reverent hunger. Morales cried out in pain, his body convulsing as the Prophet bit down again, this time taking a chunk from his arm. The walkers around them groaned in approval, their hunger momentarily sated by the act.
As the blood poured from Morales's wounds, the Prophet pulled back, his mouth smeared with crimson. He looked into Morales's fading eyes, his expression one of serene authority. "You will rise again," he said softly. "You will be stronger. A part of my flock. And together, we will cleanse this world."
Morales's body stilled, his breathing ceasing as death claimed him. The Prophet watched intently, his pale fingers brushing over Morales's forehead. Moments passed, and then…
Morales's body jerked violently, his eyes snapping open. But they were no longer the eyes of a dying man. They gleamed with an eerie light, filled with a newfound awareness. He sat up slowly, his movements deliberate and precise.
"What… what is this?" Morales asked, his voice trembling but clear.
The Prophet smiled, his teeth still stained with blood. "This is rebirth," he said. "You are no longer bound by the limitations of your former self. You are part of something greater now. Part of my flock."
Morales looked down at his hands, his expression shifting from shock to a grim determination. He flexed his fingers, feeling the strength coursing through him. "I… I feel it," he murmured. "The hunger."
.
"Yes," the Prophet said, his voice filled with approval. "You can harness it. And now, you will help me. Together, we will find those who wronged your family and make them pay."
Morales's face hardened, his jaw clenching as he nodded. "Yes," he said firmly. "I'll do whatever it takes."
The Prophet rose, extending a hand to help Morales to his feet. The newly reborn walker stood tall, his bloodied clothes clinging to his now-pale skin. He turned to the horde, his eyes scanning the faces of the other intelligent walkers.
"You are one of us now," the Prophet said, addressing Morales with a faint smile. "Welcome to the fold, my child."
The horde groaned in unison, their guttural voices forming a haunting chorus. The Prophet's smile widened as he turned back to the street, his eyes glinting with purpose.
"Come," he said, his voice carrying over the sound of shuffling feet. "We have work to do."