The air was thick and humid, heavier than it had been in days. A storm loomed just over the horizon, casting a slate-gray shadow across the distant trees. It felt like the whole world was holding its breath.
Inside the prison's common room, the clatter of boots and the zip of worn bags filled the stillness. Rick zipped up an old duffel, stuffing the last of the canned goods inside. Corn. Peaches. Beans. Not much, but enough for a scouting trip. Enough to relocate if they had to. He moved with a quiet intensity—measured, focused. Every motion was deliberate, like a man expecting a line to be crossed at any moment.
Glenn stood near a table, carefully tucking water bottles into a mesh bag. His eyes kept darting to the hallway, his jaw tight, lips thin. Next to him, Amy quickly packed spare magazines into a worn backpack, her fingers fumbling slightly as nerves got the better of her.
T-Dog stood guard near the side door, crowbar in hand and eyes sharp, already sweating in the humid air. His shoulders were hunched, tense, like he was waiting for a shot to ring out.
Michonne stood by the exit. Her katana was slung across her back, her arms folded. She hadn't said a word in ten minutes, but her gaze swept the room constantly, reading faces, scanning corners. Watching.
And Murphy? He sat near the center of the room on an overturned bucket, rubbing dried blood off the stock of a pistol. He wasn't smiling. He hadn't smiled all morning.
Rick finally exhaled and looked around at them all.
"This is a recon and recovery run," he said quietly. "Two days, maybe three. We grab medical, fuel, maybe more maps. We don't take more than we need. Just enough to get started."
Rick stood near the table, zipping up his gear. His revolver sat in its holster at his hip, his vest was strapped tight, and his jaw was locked in a familiar, silent tension.
Carl stood nearby, already dressed, bag slung over his shoulder, gun holstered. He looked older than his years—more soldier than boy—but his eyes still held that flicker of anxious hope.
"I'm ready," Carl said, stepping forward. "I can help this time. I'm fast, I can shoot. You said I was getting better."
Sophia stood just behind him, her arms crossed, trying to match Carl's determined look but not quite hiding the nerves in her eyes.
Rick looked at them both, his expression unreadable for a long moment.
Lori stood a few feet away, arms folded, watching her husband. She didn't say anything, not yet. She knew this was Rick's decision. But the weight of it was etched across her face.
Rick slowly walked over and crouched down in front of Carl, resting one hand on his son's shoulder.
"I know you want to help," he said gently. "I know how hard you've been working. You're brave, Carl.
He looked past Carl to Sophia, who was watching quietly, her lips trembling. Rick softened his voice.
"We need you both here. Safe. If anything happens to us out there, someone has to be here to help the others. That's a different kind of strength."
Sophia stepped forward. "What if something happens and you don't come back?"
Rick looked at her for a long time. His face twisted just slightly—pain and fear creeping into the cracks of the calm he always tried to hold.
"If we don't," he said slowly, "then you make sure everyone else survive. You stick with Lori. You protect each other. You survive."
Carl's lip quivered, and he turned away for a moment, wiping his face with his sleeve.
Lori finally stepped in, resting a hand gently on Carl's shoulder, the other reaching out to Sophia. "Listen to your father," she said softly. "He's not leaving you behind. He's keeping you safe."
Carl didn't speak. He just gave a stiff nod and stepped back, jaw clenched, tears barely held back behind angry eyes.
Sophia reached out, gripping Carl's hand tightly.
Rick stood and looked between the two of them. "We'll be back. You hold this place down while we're gone. You two are part of this group just as much as anyone."
The group began moving down the hallway—bags packed, weapons checked, minds racing. Every footstep seemed to echo louder than it should. Every creak of rusted metal groaned like a warning.
Voices rose suddenly, sharp and fractured, echoing from the courtyard. They weren't calm conversations but jagged edges of sound—accusations, demands, the unmistakable grind of anger breaking loose.
Rick's chest tightened. He threw up a hand, palm open, signaling the group to halt.
The others obeyed instantly, feet rooted where they stood, as if the air itself had thickened around them. Even the shuffle of boots on gravel ceased. Breathing seemed louder now, heavy and ragged, each of them aware of how vulnerable they were—how exposed.
Rick's jaw clenched, the muscles in his face tightening as he strained to catch every syllable carried on the night air. Shadows flickered from the torches or lanterns lit below, sliding across the walls and spilling through the open gaps of the half-broken structure. The scene beyond their line of sight seemed to tremble with violence waiting to erupt.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Shane's voice exploded across the open space, heavy with accusation.
Rick stepped forward, slowly, hands held slightly up. Calm, firm, deliberate.
"We're going on a supply run," he said evenly. "You knew this was coming."
Shane emerged from behind one of the rusted towers, flanked by six Woodbury loyalists, all armed. Their weapons weren't holstered. Their fingers were on triggers.
Each face was cold, wary.
"No," Shane spat. "You're running. You're takin' Murphy and bolting. You packed full bags, didn't tell no one. Grabbed the last of the fuel, the meds, the water. You weren't planning on comin' back."
Murphy stepped forward slightly, eyes narrowing.
Rick's jaw clenched. "That's not true."
Shane pointed an accusing finger at Murphy. "Ever since he got here, we've been dealing with freaks that don't die right. Freaks that plan. You're tellin' me this ain't about gettin' him somewhere far from here and leavin' us with the mess?"
Murphy muttered under his breath, "If I was bailing, I wouldn't have invited the damn kids."
Rick took a calming breath. "We weren't sneaking out.
"And you just expect me to believe you?" Shane's voice rose with each word, louder, more frenzied. "That this isn't just another backdoor decision you made without talkin' to the rest of us?"
Lori stepped into the courtyard from the stairwell, her voice sharp. "Shane, stop—"
Bang.
The gunshot rang out like thunder.
Lori jerked once—clean, sudden—and collapsed on the concrete.
Her shirt bloomed with red.
Carl screamed, a sound full of anguish and disbelief.
"NO!" Rick dropped to her side, grabbing her shoulders. His hands pressed uselessly over the wound as blood poured between his fingers.
Carl hit his knees beside them, tears already streaming, screaming his mother's name.
Sophia whimpered, burying her face into Amy's side. Amy's hand flew to her mouth, eyes wide with horror.
The man who fired—a young Woodbury straggler with trembling hands—lowered his rifle with a horrified expression. "I—I didn't mean to—I thought she—"
Shane shot him in the chest.
The man—just a twitchy, scared kid in his twenties—dropped like a puppet with its strings cut. Blood spread fast beneath him, soaking into the cracked pavement.
"Goddamn fool," Shane growled, lowering his smoking pistol. His face was pale, jaw locked, hands trembling slightly.
Rick was already on his knees beside Lori. Her breathing was shallow. Her chest hitched with every gasp.
Her eyes, wide and filled with pain, searched for his.
"R-Rick…" she gasped, blood bubbling at the corner of her lips.
"I'm here," he whispered, choking on the words. "I'm here, baby. Just hold on."
His hands pressed hard against her wound, but it was too late. Her blood was already pooling between his fingers. Her limbs twitched once, then stilled.
Gone.
Carl let out a scream like the world had ended. He fell beside her, burying his face into Rick's side, sobbing uncontrollably. Rick didn't move, didn't blink. His hand stayed clenched around hers, his lips trembling as if trying to force a prayer into the air.
Silence hovered—for one heartbeat.
Then it snapped.
"Shut up," Murphy barked, stepping forward, his voice slicing through Shane's attempts to stammer out an excuse. "Just shut the hell up."
Shane's gun hand twitched. His eyes flicked between Rick, Lori's body, and the stunned Woodbury followers behind him.
That was all it took.
Gunfire erupted.
A Woodbury rifleman raised his weapon.
Michonne moved like lightning.
SHING.
Her katana arced clean through his wrist, the weapon clattering to the ground along with the severed hand. A moment later, she reversed the blade and stabbed through his chest.
T-Dog dove for cover behind an overturned food cart, returning fire with an old revolver. "They're flanking!" he shouted.
Glenn shoved Amy and Sophia back toward the inner hallway. "MOVE! GO, GO!"
Another round cracked past Murphy's head, blowing a chunk of concrete off the wall behind him. He turned, leveled his pistol, and fired—once, twice. Both shots struck the chest of a man crouching near the stairwell.
Daryl rolled behind a stack of crates, loading a bolt with practiced speed. "Cover me!" he shouted.
He popped out and fired—THWIP—catching another shooter in the throat.
"WE HAVE TO MOVE!" Michonne yelled, slicing through the leg of a man who charged from the side. She grabbed Sophia's arm, pulling her toward the exit.
Rick finally rose to his feet, clutching Carl tightly. Blood smeared his shirt, Lori's blood. His eyes were empty, dead.
"Get the damn gate open!" Murphy barked.
T-Dog sprinted ahead, shoving open the side gate.
Rick ran first, holding Carl like a lifeline.
Behind them, Daryl grabbed the bags, slinging one over each shoulder. "Go, go!"
The group burst into the yard—only to be met by more gunfire from the towers.
"THE CARS!" Glenn shouted. "WE LEFT TWO NEAR THE BACK!"
Rick's group changed direction, dashing across the courtyard as bullets kicked up dirt and stone. Rain had started again, turning the ground into slick mud.
A bullet whizzed past Amy's head. She let out a startled scream but kept running, dragging Sophia behind her.
Murphy fired behind them as he ran, emptying a magazine into the shadows of the gate. Someone cried out—hit—but he didn't stop to check who.
Daryl fired one more bolt before bolting himself, sprinting after the group.
They reached the back lot—three vehicles sat parked under a tarp: an old station wagon, a rusty truck, and a stolen SUV they'd never fully trusted.
Michonne threw open the SUV driver's side door and started the engine. "GET IN!"
Rick climbed in with Carl, silent, drenched in blood and rain.
Amy shoved Sophia into the backseat. Glenn jumped into the front passenger side, panting.
Murphy opened the truck's door, keys already in hand. "Daryl! T, with me!"
T-Dog and Daryl didn't argue—they jumped in, slamming the doors behind them.
The station wagon remained, but no one else was left to drive it.
Bullets shattered the air.
One smashed into the side mirror.
Another cracked through the SUV's rear window. Glass rained down over Amy and Sophia, who screamed and ducked.
"GO!" Rick barked.
Michonne floored it.
The SUV skidded through the mud, tires throwing water and gravel into the air as it tore through the rear fence and onto the overgrown path beyond.
Behind them, Murphy gunned the truck, smashing through a side gate.
One final Woodbury loyalist stepped into the road ahead of them, raising a rifle.
Murphy didn't even flinch.
CRUNCH.
The truck hit the man full-on, throwing him into the ditch.
Murphy didn't look back.
The two vehicles barreled through the trees, branches scraping at the metal, the storm rising behind them like a tidal wave.
Ten minutes later, the truck and SUV regrouped on an old service road, just beyond the ridgeline.
The rain had softened, but the silence now felt worse than the storm.
Rick sat behind the wheel of the SUV, not moving. Carl was curled against his side, face buried into his soaked jacket, silent. Not crying. Just empty.
Amy held Sophia in the back, gently rocking her, murmuring something—anything—to help her feel safe.
In the truck, Daryl stared at the road, fuming.
T-Dog leaned forward, resting his head in his hands.
Murphy just stared into the forest, expression unreadable.
"She's gone," Glenn said finally, voice barely audible.
"Yeah," T-Dog replied hoarsely. "And the place we called home just tried to kill us."
Daryl spoke up. "Shane's done. You know that, right? He ain't coming back from this."
Murphy scoffed. "He's not dead yet. And that's a problem."
Rick said nothing. His grip on the wheel only tightened.