The gates of the prison loomed like the ribcage of a long-dead giant, rusted steel and coiled barbed wire marking its grim boundary against the wild. The group stood in silence before it, shadows stretching long across the cracked asphalt as the morning sun bled over the treetops. Smoke still clung to their clothes from Woodbury's burning remains, but it was the silence—the eerie stillness—that unnerved them more than the memory of flames.
Murphy squinted up at the watchtower, shielding his eyes from the sun with a dirt-smudged hand. "Well, I've broken into worse," he muttered.
T-Dog stood beside him, breathing heavily as he adjusted his grip on a makeshift spear. Sweat rolled down his brow, and his jaw clenched. "You sure we're not just walking into a giant metal coffin?"
Murphy gave a crooked, sarcastic grin, his teeth still stained with the grime of survival. "Oh, that's the best part—we have absolutely no idea."
Behind them, Rick moved to the front, revolver drawn and face unreadable—etched with the weight of a man too used to hard calls. "Everyone stay close," he said firmly, eyes sweeping the group. "Stick to the plan. Amy and Glenn, rear guard. T-Dog and I will take the left flank and clear the cells. Murphy, you lead the breach."
Murphy raised an eyebrow. "You flatter me."
"No loud shots unless necessary," Rick added. "We pick them off in small groups. Quiet kills only."
At the rear, Lori held Carl's hand tightly, her other arm wrapped around Sophia's shoulders. "We wait here," she said gently. "Not until it's clear. No one moves inside until it's safe. Understand?"
Carl nodded, jaw tight with determination. Sophia just stared at the prison, eyes wide and terrified.
The main gate creaked open with a tortured groan, rusted hinges resisting every inch of movement. The stench rolled out like a wave—rotting meat, stagnant water, and old blood. Carl recoiled, lifting his shirt to his nose, while Sophia buried her face in Lori's side.
Inside the yard, the grass had grown wild and waist-high in some places. Rusted guard towers leaned like they might collapse at a strong gust. A picnic table had been overturned near the fence, its legs snapped, scorched black from a long-past fire. Near the front door to the cell block, the faded word RECEPTION hung half-loose, creaking in the wind.
Then came the first groan—low, gurgling.
A walker in a torn janitor's uniform emerged from behind a van, bloated and sluggish. Before it could fully register the group, Murphy dashed forward, ducked low, and drove his blade through the side of its skull. It collapsed instantly.
Rick gave him a glance. "Efficient."
Murphy wiped the blood on the walker's shirt. "I do what I can."
They advanced carefully. The main cell block was dark, the sunlight barely reaching through the narrow windows. The Woodbury survivors followed closely behind, weapons raised—bats, crowbars, makeshift spears fashioned from broken tools. Each one had a look of steel in their eyes, tempered by loss.
Glenn darted into a hallway, flashlight in one hand and machete in the other. His jaw was clenched, teeth grinding softly as he moved, checking every corner twice.
Amy and Andrea followed, covering the other hall with salvaged pistols. "Left's clear," Andrea whispered. Amy's breathing was shallow, but her hands didn't shake. Not anymore.
They encountered the first group of walkers by the mess hall—three of them. One wore half a security guard's uniform, jaw unhinged, dragging a shattered leg. A Woodbury woman named Karen stepped forward, gritting her teeth as she shoved a sharpened spade into its eye socket with a wet crunch.
T-Dog and Rick cleared the west hallway, each walker they encountered pinned and dispatched quickly with rebar and steel rods. Sweat streaked down T-Dog's face as he muttered, "Feels like a damn maze in here."
Then came the trouble.
A slow, deliberate thud echoed through the cell block, followed by the unmistakable metallic clink of armor. From the lower corridor, riot walkers emerged—still dressed in heavy black armor, faceplates intact, shields strapped to rotting arms. One dragged a baton along the wall as it advanced, leaving a red trail.
"Oh hell," Murphy muttered, stepping back.
The first riot walker lunged. It slammed into one of the Woodbury men—Mason—pinning him to the wall. His screams echoed through the cell block. Murphy and Glenn tackled the armored corpse together, Glenn holding its arms while Murphy scrambled for the helmet latch.
"Get it off! Get it off!" Glenn grunted, his voice strained.
Murphy finally yanked the helmet loose, revealing the bloated, snarling face beneath. Without hesitation, Andrea ran up and jammed her knife into its eye. The walker dropped instantly.
"That's one," she panted.
Another riot walker cornered two Woodbury survivors near the old infirmary. It was relentless, shield bashing, armor deflecting every blow. T-Dog rushed in, shoving the shield up with his spear while Karen drove a crowbar beneath the helmet and into its skull. Blood gushed out in thick spurts, painting the hallway in a crimson arc.
They cleared five of them in total, but not without blood and bruises.
By the time the last armored walker collapsed, Murphy was crouched against the wall, catching his breath. His shirt was soaked through. His left arm was bruised from a shield bash, but he waved off concern.
Glenn dropped beside him. "You okay?"
"I've had worse hangovers," Murphy mumbled.
Rick checked each corridor once more, flashlight flickering over the empty cells. "We've got it."
Outside, the gate creaked again. Lori looked up from where she knelt with Carl and Sophia. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw Rick step through the doorway and nod.
"It's safe," he said.
She exhaled and pulled the kids forward. Carl held his pistol close, his face serious beyond his years. Sophia clung to her mother, glancing nervously at every corner.
As they stepped into the yard, the full toll became clear. Blood covered the floor in places. A few survivors nursed cuts, bruises, minor bites that didn't break skin. The sun was higher now, light spilling into the yard as if to sanctify the ground they had won.
By noon, the yard was theirs.
The dead were stacked near the far gate—riot gear stripped and piled for salvage. A fire pit was being built for the corpses.
Inside the cafeteria, the group gathered in weary silence. Long metal tables, now cleared of walkers, served as temporary rest spots. Bottles of water were passed around. People cleaned weapons with trembling hands.
Murphy leaned against a pillar at the far end of the hall. His face was unreadable, the humor gone from his usual smirk. A rare silence wrapped around him, as though he were waiting for something—an internal clock ticking down to a decision.
Finally, Murphy exhaled and pushed off the pillar, his boots scuffing against the cracked linoleum floor of the prison mess hall. He stood tall, yet his shoulders carried the weight of exhaustion and isolation. His blue eyes swept across the room—measuring, searching—before he spoke.
"Alright," he said, his voice cutting through the low murmurs like a cold wind. "Let's talk leadership."
The room immediately quieted. The scrape of metal folding chairs, the soft clatter of someone setting down a weapon—all of it ceased. Even the children grew still. The only sound left was the distant creak of the prison's rafters and the slow, rhythmic buzz of a flickering light above.
Shane wasn't present—he and a few of the more vocal Woodbury survivors had stayed behind to clear the far west wing of the prison. They'd insisted on it. Whether it was genuine help or just distance from Murphy, no one said aloud. But it was mostly the Woodbury folks who gave him those sideways glances and whispered just a little too loudly when they thought no one was listening.
Murphy didn't need to be told. He saw it. He felt it.
"I know some of you don't trust me," he began, his tone steady, guarded. "Hell, I don't blame you. I'm not exactly warm and fuzzy. And yeah, maybe I brought some heat to your door."
He paused, letting his words settle like dust. His face remained unreadable, but his eyes were sharp—dead serious.
No one interrupted. Rick, seated at one of the metal tables, lifted his head slowly, watching him with a mixture of caution and curiosity. His fingers curled around the edge of the bench, his knuckles white.
"I didn't ask to be followed by super-intelligent freaks," Murphy continued, his voice gaining edge. "But I was. That's just the reality of it. I've survived more than most, and I've fought tooth and nail to stay alive. I've fought to keep you alive too."
His gaze swept the room.
T-Dog stood in the back near the wall, arms folded over his chest, sweat still glistening on his brow from the prison sweep. His dark eyes met Murphy's, steady and solemn.
Andrea sat on the far right, her expression unreadable as she slowly cleaned her knife. Amy sat beside her, worry written across her face, lips pressed into a thin line. Glenn leaned forward, elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands together as he listened.
"And here's the thing," Murphy went on, stepping forward into the center of the room. "This group—it's cracking. Shane's been whispering since Woodbury went up in smoke. He's got some of you wondering if I'm the problem. Maybe I am. Maybe I'm a magnet for brainiac walkers and cult lunatics who want me dead. Maybe sticking with me puts a target on your back."
He raised his hands briefly in surrender.
"But if me stepping down keeps this group together—if it stops blood from spilling in the middle of the night while we sleep—then fine. I'll take that bullet too."
He looked at Rick now, dead on.
"You got us out of Atlanta. You've pulled people back from the edge more times than I can count. You're not just the guy with the badge. You're the one they look to when shit falls apart."
Rick blinked, startled by the shift in momentum, but said nothing yet.
"You're the leader they want," Murphy added. "Hell, the one they probably need."
Rick opened his mouth. "Murphy—"
"I'm not doing this because I want to," Murphy cut in sharply. "I'm doing it because I'm tired of waking up every damn morning wondering who's going to stab me in the back before breakfast. I've got better things to do than referee a loyalty contest."
There was silence. Thick and heavy.
T-Dog stepped forward now, his voice calm but firm. "Murphy's not wrong. We've all seen how things've been since Woodbury. He's carried his weight. Maybe more. But it's getting tense. If this'll keep us moving forward instead of splitting at the seams… maybe it's time."
Amy offered a soft smile, something like relief flickering in her eyes. "We don't have to agree on everything… but staying together matters more."
Andrea nodded, just once. "As long as we stay alive, that's the win."
Glenn looked between them all, then sighed, finally leaning back and muttering, "Guess it makes sense. As long as we're still breathing tomorrow, I don't care who's calling the shots."
Rick slowly stood, the old weight of command settling on his shoulders like a coat he hadn't worn in a while but never forgot how to bear. His face was drawn, his eyes tired, but there was a certain steel there again. The kind only survivors earned.
He met Murphy's eyes and gave a short, respectful nod. "I'll do right by them."
Murphy smirked faintly, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I know."
Near the back of the room, Lori stood with her arms protectively around Carl and Sophia, watching the exchange unfold. Her lips were pressed into a line, a shadow of worry playing at the corners of her mouth—but also a quiet acceptance. Carl held his head high, trying not to look like he cared, but his eyes gleamed with something like pride when Rick stepped up.
Sophia reached out and took Carl's hand. The two of them sat together near the wall, silent but watching—children born into an apocalypse, sitting on the edge of a world shaped by blood, choices, and loss.
The other survivors murmured their agreement. Most of the Woodbury group stayed quiet—faces neutral, unreadable—but they didn't protest. Not openly.