The gates of Woodbury creaked open, the sound groaning through the quiet town like a warning. Dust rose behind the approaching vehicle, curling into the air like smoke from a battlefield long-since fought. The setting sun hovered low behind the gate's frame, casting streaks of gold and deep orange across the scarred pavement. The air itself felt tense—too still, too quiet—as if holding its breath for the news that was about to be delivered.
The vehicle slowed to a stop. The engine shuddered once before dying.
Daryl Dixon pushed open the driver's side door and stepped out with a quiet, deliberate heaviness. His face was tight, his eyes hardened and shadowed beneath the brim of his worn cap. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it could snap steel, and his hand hovered over the crossbow strapped to his back with the kind of readiness that only came from someone used to violence knocking on the door.
Glenn stumbled out on the other side. His usually animated face was pale, lips pressed into a thin line. His clothes were soaked with sweat and streaked with dried blood—some of it his, some of it not. His legs felt heavy as he moved, the weight of what they'd just seen still bearing down on his shoulders like a yoke.
A small crowd had already gathered in the square—drawn by the rumble of the engine and the cloud of dust. Rick was the first to step forward, calm but alert, his eyes scanning Daryl and Glenn like a man sizing up wounded soldiers returning from war.
Behind him, Shane stood with arms crossed, his expression locked in a skeptical scowl. T-Dog approached with a quiet seriousness, his brow furrowed with worry. Dale removed his cap and wiped his brow, uneasy. Amy and Andrea moved in beside him, both tense—Andrea gripping her pistol on instinct, while Amy lingered near Murphy, her eyes flicking between the men who had just returned.
Murphy stood at the front of the group, arms folded, his eyes sharp under the setting sun. He looked calm, but there was a stillness in him—measured and focused, like a predator waiting to move. Dirt and sweat clung to the collar of his shirt, the sleeves rolled back to his forearms, veins visible beneath his skin.
"What happened?" Rick asked, stepping forward. His voice was steady, but his eyes locked onto Daryl with the intensity of a man already expecting the worst.
Daryl didn't answer right away. He stood still, his chest rising and falling in controlled breaths. His lips were set in a tight line, his gaze hard. He reached up, unstrapping the crossbow from his shoulder and letting it hang down by his side like a badge of war. The muscles in his jaw flexed once. Twice.
"We found the truck," Glenn said, voice tight. "The Governor's. Blood all over it. Some dried. Some not. But no body."
Daryl gave a single, grim nod. "It was a trap. All of it."
A collective stillness settled over the group like a shroud.
"A trap?" Shane asked, taking a half-step forward. His voice was edged with frustration, with disbelief, like the words themselves were acid in his throat.
Daryl gave a cold, mirthless chuckle, spitting into the dirt. "We thought he bled out. Should've. But he didn't. Bastard ain't dead. He's changed."
Murphy's gaze sharpened, his arms dropping to his sides. "Changed how?"
Daryl looked straight at Murphy. "He ain't alone."
Glenn stepped in, rubbing at his arms like he could still feel the chill of the forest. "It was Morales."
Rick's eyes narrowed. "Morales? From the quarry camp?"
Daryl nodded. "Yeah. Only it ain't him no more. Pale, half-dead lookin'. But he talks. Thinks. Like he never turned. Said some Prophet saved him."
Amy furrowed her brows. "A Prophet? What, like... a cult leader?"
"Some kind of messiah, maybe," Glenn muttered, his lips tight. "That's how Morales talked about him. Said he'd been given a 'gift.'"
"Morales said this Prophet gave him purpose," Daryl added, his voice low, his eyes burning. "And revenge. For his family."
Shane scoffed, his expression souring further. "You're tellin' me Morales is part of some walker church now?"
"They ain't just talkin' like lunatics," Daryl growled. His hands clenched at his sides, his voice rising. "They were leadin' the walkers. Directin' 'em.
"Dale adjusted his cap with a shaky hand, his weathered fingers brushing the brim twice before it settled. His eyes were wide beneath his thick, bushy brows, disbelief clear on his face. "Controlling them?" he repeated, the words tasting sour in his mouth. "Like actually giving orders?"
"They moved when Morales told them to," Glenn said quietly, his voice flat but his hands still trembling slightly at his sides. His eyes were hollow, distant, reliving the chaos they'd escaped. "They attacked with purpose. One of them threw a shovel at me. Almost took my head off."
Shane narrowed his eyes, stepping forward with tension in his frame. His arms were crossed, his stance defensive. "You're sayin' they're... coordinated?" His voice was low, laced with rising anger and disbelief. "Walkers don't do that."
"They ain't the same walkers we've dealt with," Daryl growled. His voice was gravel, low and sharp, his shoulders hunched and rigid. "They set traps. One of 'em dropped from a damn tree. They used debris. One even swung a broken signpost like a club."
The group fell into uneasy silence. Rick looked around, his blue eyes scanning each face—Andrea's narrowed gaze, Amy's furrowed brow, T-Dog's clenched jaw. Then his eyes settled on Murphy. Everyone else followed.
Murphy stood still, arms loosely crossed, posture composed—but his jaw was clenched tight, and a twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed the war going on behind his eyes. He looked like a man slowly fitting together puzzle pieces he didn't want to solve. Like he already knew what the picture would be—and it terrified him.
"They're evolving," Murphy said slowly, his voice cold and quiet. It wasn't speculation. It was something deeper. Personal. "Or someone's pushing them toward it."
Andrea's lips parted, her brow creasing. "How the hell is that possible?"
"They were being experimented on," Shane said. His voice was firmer now, anger and fear balancing on the edge of every word. "Milton told me. The Governor had him studying walker behavior. Said it started with trying to keep his daughter calm after she turned."
Murphy's expression didn't change, but his eyes darkened. He looked down, just for a moment, before lifting his gaze again. "He was using my blood."
The group tensed.
Shane stiffened, shoulders rising. His jaw clenched, and his eyes narrowed at Murphy—but he said nothing. Not yet.
"He must've used it to change something," Murphy continued, his voice low but steady. "Something that rewired them."
Andrea's nose wrinkled in confusion. "So what, he made a… thinking walker?"
"He made a damn nightmare," Daryl muttered under his breath, eyes burning.
Murphy looked up at the group again. His expression was unreadable, but the fire behind his eyes had grown. "Whatever he did, it worked. And if Morales found the same path—if he's spreading it—then this ain't just a local problem."
Rick nodded, slowly but resolutely. "We prepare Woodbury. Reinforce the gates. Trap the roads. Watch shifts, every few hours, day and night. We need to be ready."
The urgency settled in then. Heavy. Real.
Murphy turned toward Daryl and Glenn. "How long do we have?"
Daryl's eyes were narrowed, his voice rough. "Not long. They let us go."
Glenn nodded. "It was a warning."
The silence that followed was bone-deep. It wasn't just fear anymore—it was understanding. They all knew what this meant.
Murphy's jaw set. "Then we answer it."
The group stood in that town square, the wind brushing over them like a ghost's breath. The sun was nearly gone now, casting long shadows across their faces. But there was no peace in that fading light.
"Only the creeping edge of war—between the living and the dead."