(A/N: Since there's limited room in the description, updated warnings are as follows: This story contains multiple instances of strong language, violence and sex as well as several disturbing themes.)

He'd been hearing soft noises from outside the bathroom for several minutes, but had kept a watchful silence in order to analyse them for meaning within context before reacting. It wasn't until the crack of the first gunshot that Hoffman started, scrambling first to his knees and then to his feet, the chain around his ankle rattling and skittering across the floor as he moved. The shot was followed in quick succession by three more.

In spite of the appalling acoustics and the slight muffling effect of the steel door, he quickly realised that what he was hearing was a rifle rather than a handgun, which added a strange new dimension to the situation: who would use a rifle in such close quarters if they could possibly help it?

There was another report, this one sharp enough to indicate that the shooter was, if not right outside the bathroom door, then at the least not far from it. He tensed, and age old instinct had him scanning his immediate surroundings for something with which to protect himself. A futile effort; even if Lawrence Gordon hadn't deliberately disposed of the only sharp object in the vicinity, the room was in perfect darkness and Hoffman couldn't see an inch in front of his nose.

The shots seemed to have ceased and, with them, the stealthy shuffling sounds that had gone before. He drew a deep breath as the door shook, as if someone had pounded on it, and was then dragged back. He promptly shied back and averted his eyes, the action pure reflex; the unseen intruder was now shining a flashlight into the bathroom, and after God knew how many days of uninterrupted gloom, the strong light clawed at his retinas.

"What're you doing chained up in here, friend?" said the blurry shape in the door, still keeping him pinned in the flashlight's circle. The voice was male, moderately suspicious and seasoned with a Southern accent of some breed.

"Who are you?" asked Hoffman. There was no verbal response, but all at once the barrel of a rifle was raised into the light, the muzzle aimed at his eye.

"I believe I asked first," said the voice, smoothly. "Why're you chained up in here and who's been eatin' these cadavers?" The second part of the query was delivered just as matter-of-factly as the first. Hoffman's brow knotted.

"Who do you think?" he asked, sourly. Neither the light nor the weapon moved an inch, however, and there was a quiet, measured interval before the man behind them spoke up once more.

"Were you bitten?" he said, quietly. There was something about both the question itself and the way in which it was pitched that caused Hoffman to take two steps back in bewilderment.

"What the fuck kind of question is that?"

The barrel of the rifle vibrated a little, almost exactly as if the man who held it had shrugged ever so slightly.

"The easy kind," he said, still eerily calm and reasonable. "Were you bitten: yes or no?"

All at once, in spite of the fact that there was always an outside chance that he'd simply gone quietly and effectively crazy locked up in the dark with the dead, Hoffman was disturbed. There were certainly things he would have expected to be asked upon being discovered, but this question was not one of them. Something was deeply and profoundly wrong with the whole situation.

"Bitten by what?" he growled.

These seemed to be the magic words, although he couldn't think what their significance might be. The barrel of the gun dropped, followed by the light itself, and now the beam was sweeping and playing around the bathroom as if searching for something.

"Light switch to the left of the door," said Hoffman, helpfully. The flashlight's beam danced in that direction and the man followed after it, flicking the switch. There was a low hum and several soft pinging sounds, and then the harsh blue-white overheads stuttered into life.

"Half the city's out now," he said, conversationally and – it seemed – mostly to himself, as Hoffman screwed up his stinging eyes in the glare for a second. "I guess this block's on a different grid."

Finally, by inches, Hoffman refocused his gaze once more and looked his visitor up and down. The man was wearing sheriff's brown and a star, and was now stowing the rifle behind his back. He was lean but clearly agile and wiry with it, and stood balanced on the balls of his feet as if fully prepared to leap at a split second's notice. His deep blue eyes were badly shadowed, his cheek was lined and he didn't appear to have shaved in several days, but despite these obvious signs of physical and emotional exhaustion there was still an air of animal alertness about him.

"How long've you been in here, sir?" he asked, remaining on the far side of the room for the moment. Hoffman's eye caught a small, reflexive movement; the cop's hand was looking to light upon on the butt of a side-arm that wasn't there any more, which made the battered Remington slung over his shoulder that much greater a puzzle.

"Hell if I know," said Hoffman, with forced patience. "What's the date?"

"The sixteenth."

"Nearly three weeks, then," he said, ruefully but without much real surprise. It was close enough to his own private estimate. He rubbed at his cheek, feeling the unfamiliar growth of beard except where the ugly scar crossed his face.

"So you don't know?"

Hoffman took hold of what remained of his patience with both hands and glowered at the cop. "Sheriff," he said, coldly. "I've spent the last nineteen days here. Right here," – he kicked at the chain for emphasis – "in this bathroom, drinking toilet water and chewing on legs. I don't have a radio down here, so whatever's happened out there since the end of last month, I don't know jack shit about it. All I do know is I'd like to get this chain off and walk out of here. If you can help me with that, that'll be great, but can we please get the fuck on with it?"

The cop nodded thoughtfully, not looking at Hoffman, and studied the ceiling for long moments with his lips pursed in what looked like considered thought. When he finally returned his attention to the detective, his eyes were as cool as flint.

"Okay," he said, eventually, "I guess that ain't unreasonable, but now I'm going to lay my own cards on the table and I hope you'll pardon my honesty.

"I have a group outside for whom I'm responsible. There are women and children, including my own family. They're my first priority, and you come a pretty distant second until I'm satisfied you ain't just another threat to them. Now, I'll let you out, but not before you've had the good manners to tell me who put that shackle on you in the first place and why. I only wandered in here in the first place because the house seemed to be attractin' a lot of walkers and I had to wonder about that."

"Walkers?" asked Hoffman.

"Yeah," said the cop, chewing the inside of his cheek, suddenly apprehensive. "This might prove to be a long tale and you're probably not going to believe it without havin' seen for yourself, so it can wait. Let's get your story outta the way first, shall we?" He unshipped the rifle again, weighing it in both hands. "By the way? Sheriff Rick Grimes. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Shit. Fucking shit."

Mallick had blurted out these words in a blind panic as he'd watched the cop enter the house, and only now remembered his audience. More to the point, he remembered his audience's age. He turned to his young companion with an anguished and apologetic air.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't say stuff like that in front of you, should I?" he asked, sheepishly. Diana's brow creased with faint amusement and she looked him up and down. Mallick was good enough company and in spite of what she sensed to be genetic cowardice, he'd conquered this handicap and proven himself moderately brave and capable over the past few weeks. His only real drawback, as this little episode confirmed, was a tendency to regard her as if she were four instead of fourteen.

"Believe me," she said, evenly, "I probably know more dirty words than you, okay? You're not going to scar me. And stop freaking out, all right? Hoffman's probably long dead, anyway."

She turned back to the window and trained the binoculars on the house opposite, although she was aware that Mallick continued to scrutinise her cautiously. After a few moments more she set the glasses down once more and pierced him with a rapier of a stare.

"Mallick, I've got this," she said, firmly, through a condescending smile. "It's not brain surgery and I don't need a babysitter, okay? If you want to report it, go report it and stop bugging me." So saying, she turned back to the window, signalling an end to the discussion with such clarity that even Mallick, not by nature one of the world's most perceptive men, got the message.

He wandered downstairs instead, checking that the front and rear doors were locked and bolted and the blinds drawn, as had become a slightly obsessive habit of his when he either had nothing else to do or there was something on his mind; in this case, it was both. He was finding that in spite of his initial desire to raise the alarm about what had just happened, all of a sudden he could think of few things he wanted less than to walk down the cellar steps and relate what he'd seen. Most of this was because he knew what it would entail: they would be compelled to pack up and leave a house that had so far proven to be an effective shelter and head out into a dark city swarming with walkers.

Mallick was prepared to concede that there were plus points to the thought, though; the cop had at least one gun, which was more than their little band possessed. He'd seen Diana swing a fire axe in both hands and behead walkers with a degree of clinical accuracy that terrified him to the very core of his being – and that was nothing compared to the cold killing streak demonstrated by the other member of their party – but he would feel safer still with a working firearm close by.

He stood in the middle of the kitchen in an agony of indecision, one hand on the door handle. He heard the distant pop of gunfire from the house across the street, and this made his choice for him. He turned the handle and unclipped his flashlight from his belt.

The steps were gloomy, it being standard practise that electricity was used only when strictly necessary. He had no idea how or why the grid in the east of the city was still operational when the west and waterfront had been plunged into darkness for four days now, but he understood that it would only be a matter of time before theirs shut down too, and it would not be a good idea to become reliant upon what would eventually fail them.

He reached the foot of the stairs and found himself in the warm wash of light from a battery lamp. On the far side of this glow, on the very edge of the circle but still within its fringes, a seated figure in a shabby hooded coat ran an oiled cloth along the flat of a razor sharp claymore with slow and measured strokes. As it moved, the cloth picked up stray streaks and specks of dried blood from the glowing blade. Though he had made more than enough noise descending the stairs and closing the door and the figure in the chair could not possibly be unaware of his presence, the cloth continued its path along and back the length of the vicious double-edged blade.

"We may have a small problem," said Mallick, his eyes fixed upon this smooth, repetitive movement. His words failed to elicit a response, so he tried again.

"There's a cop in the house," he said, nervously. "I've heard shots. Diana thinks Hoffman's already dead and we shouldn't worry, but maybe you should come see for yourself?" Even to his own ears, Mallick realised that he was babbling, but he had honestly expected more reaction than this. "Please?" he added.

The cloth finally halted in its path, although he had no way of knowing whether this was because of his plea or simply because the weapon had finally been cleaned to its owner's satisfaction. Either way, the hooded shadow tossed the rag aside and slipped the sword back into its scabbard with the quiet hiss of steel on silk, setting it down on the workbench with all due care.

Only then did it stand and retrieve a polished ebony cane from beside the chair.