Dale's panicked voice crackled over Glenn's walkie-talkie, a tinny beacon of their group's shared dread. "Glenn? Shane? What in God's name is going on up there? We're hearing all hell break loose! Report! Do you copy?"
Glenn, his face pale and streaked with grime, fumbled for the radio clipped to his belt. "Dale, it's Glenn! We're… we're trapped! On the roof of Harrison's!" His voice was shaky. "Merle, he… he went nuts. Started a fight, drew walkers from everywhere. We made it to the roof, but they're all over the store below. The door up here is barricaded, but I don't know how long it'll hold." He paused, then added with a groan, "And Merle… Shane cuffed him to a pipe. The key… T-Dog dropped it. It's gone. Down a drain or off the damn roof."
A stunned silence followed from Dale's end, then, "Sweet Jesus. Alright, son. Alright. Just… just hold tight. Don't do anything reckless. We… we'll figure something out from down here, but we can't get close to that building right now, it's swarming." The transmission ended with a burst of static, leaving an even heavier silence on the rooftop.
Despair, thick and cloying, settled over the survivors. T-Dog, his face a mask of guilt and pain from his now throbbing forehead gash, kept muttering apologies about the key. Shane paced like a caged animal, his fury at Merle now mixed with the grim reality of their predicament. Andrea and Jacqui huddled together, their eyes wide with fear. Morales tried to comfort them, though his own face was drawn.
"Well, ain't this a peach?" Merle cackled from where he was awkwardly chained to the thick ventilation pipe, blood still trickling from his lip where Shane had subdued him. "King of my own damn castle, even if it is a shitty rooftop with a bunch of scaredy-cats and geeks singin' me lullabies from downstairs."
"Shut your damn mouth, Dixon!" Shane snarled, "or I'll shut it for you, key or no key!"
Ethan ignored them, his mind racing, his System interface his only private counsel.
[System scan: Rooftop access door (barricaded) – Structural integrity: Moderate. Under sustained pressure from estimated 15-20 walkers in stairwell. Projected failure time: 1-2 hours without further reinforcement. Rooftop perimeter: Secure (high parapet walls). No immediate alternative exits. Walker horde surrounding building base: Massive, agitated.]
One to two hours. Not much time.
He scanned the rooftop. It was large, flat, littered with ventilation units, pipes, and discarded maintenance equipment. The System highlighted a sturdy-looking but disconnected flagpole base and a heavy, rusted access hatch to some kind of rooftop machinery that looked like it hadn't been opened in years. No easy way down. He had 166 BP. He quickly checked the Survivor's Exchange.
* Durable Rope (15m): 50 BP
* Grappling Hook (Basic): 75 BP
* Lockpick Set (Basic): 75 BP (Useless for handcuffs or a pipe)
* Hacksaw Blades (Heavy Duty, x3): 40 BP (No hacksaw body in shop)
Rope and a grappling hook were tempting, but how would he explain suddenly producing them? And where could they even anchor it safely to get eight people down several stories into a walker-infested street? The System didn't offer solutions, just data and tools if he could find a way to use them plausibly. For now, he held off on any purchases.
"We need to check what supplies we actually managed to bring up here," Ethan would have said. In his absence, Dale's earlier focus on common sense seemed to filter through Glenn.
"The bags," Glenn said, looking at the few duffel bags and backpacks they'd hastily grabbed from sporting goods during the chaos. "What did we get? Any water? More ammo?"
They took a quick, grim inventory. They had a few extra rifles and shotguns from the display cases, several boxes of assorted ammunition (less than they'd hoped for), some hunting knives, a couple of flashlights, and thankfully, Andrea had grabbed a canvas bag that contained some trail mix, energy bars, and three bottles of water. It wasn't much for eight people trapped on a roof.
"Alright," Shane said, taking charge again, his anger simmering down into a pragmatic focus. "Water's first priority. Ration it. Morales, T-Dog, help me reinforce that door. Use whatever we can find."
They began dragging heavy, discarded ventilation covers and pieces of rusted ductwork to pile against the shuddering access door.
Hours passed. The sun beat down mercilessly. The water was quickly rationed. The sounds from below the constant, hungry moans of the walkers, the occasional crash as they broke through something within the store, the relentless scraping and thudding at their rooftop door never ceased.
Merle, after a period of sullen silence, started up again, his taunts and racist remarks directed at anyone who came near.
"There's gotta be a hacksaw in one of those camping kits we didn't grab," Glenn said, looking towards the barricaded door with frustration. "If we could just get him loose…"
"And do what, Glenn?" Shane retorted. "Let him endanger us all over again? He stays put. We got bigger problems."
As the afternoon wore on, their hope began to dwindle. The barricade at the door was groaning ominously.
Ethan, his Perception heightened, was constantly scanning, both with his own eyes and his System's subtle prompts. He noticed a section of the parapet wall on the far side of the roof looked slightly less stable than the rest, perhaps from age or weather. He filed that information away.
Then, a new sound. Not from below. But from Glenn's walkie-talkie, which he'd placed on a low wall nearby. It crackled, a burst of static, then… a voice. Calm, clear, and unfamiliar.
"Hello? Can anyone read me? This is a broadcast on emergency channel. My name is Rick Grimes. I'm a police officer. I'm looking for my wife, Lori, and my son, Carl." A pause, then, with more urgency, "I'm in Atlanta. I saw the military fail. The city is overrun. If there are any survivors out there, please respond. I'm at the old King County Sheriff's Department, just off Highway 85. Is anyone out there?"
The group on the rooftop froze, staring at the walkie-talkie as if it were a divine apparition.
Rick Grimes. He was alive. He was in Atlanta. And he was looking for his family.
Lori, who had been silently weeping beside Carol, let out a strangled gasp, her hand flying to her mouth, her eyes wide with a sudden, impossible hope.