USER: What's this story about: The wind keened in a lonesome wail, like a skinned spirit howling lost and hungry across the roads and farms of rural Georgia. The sun slunk beneath the horizon, melting scarlet into the black clouds like a lamb to the slaughter. Even the sky absorbed the sense of melancholy and menace from the two boys in the blue Chevy pickup rattling ever closer to the Lowndesville quarry, where they both knew the path would lead. It was summer, that syrupy season when days lay still and shimmering with heat, and when most high school boys would have sped down back roads looking for inappropriate pastimes involving girls, beer, and not much else. Instead, Rick Grimes, a lanky angel of a boy with dark hair slashed across a granite jawline, and Shane Walsh, his beefier, broadly built, but decidedly loyal partner in crime, had embarked on a fateful day together. Sequestered in that pickup, an unspoken current roiled between the two boys, one bound tightly like a rat snared in a tangle of barb wire, as if to suggest neither of them quite knew what this was about or what part they were to play in its outcome. The Blue Oyster Cult crooned from the crackling radio, as the landscape vanished ghost-like in the rearview mirror, disappearing into the twilit shadows, the dusk swallowing sin and fear into its greedy maw, warm fingers reaching up into the ever-lightening sky. The sun, setting now over Lowndesville quarry like something once battered but refusing to yield to the ...

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