The gates groaned louder than I remembered.
Rust had eaten through the hinges. Ivy strangled the fencing. But the prison still stood. A shell of what it once was. A husk of what I remembered from the series.
We never took this place in our timeline.
But in another life, Rick fought for it. Lost people in it. Buried hope in its walls.
I brought people I trusted with my life.
Andrea,Kara,Turner, and Washington.
They didn't need speeches. Just a target.
And the prison was it.
We crossed the outer yard slowly. The fence was breached, holes punched wide by time or force. Bones lay half-buried in the mud. The air smelled of rot and mold.
"Too quiet," Andrea said.
I nodded. "They're inside."
We entered the recreation yard through a shattered security door.
That's when the walkers surged.
Two dozen at least, shuffling through the broken gate at the far end. Faces peeling. Jaws hanging loose.
"Take them!" I shouted.
Andrea dropped three in the first four seconds. Kara hacked two down in a spinning sweep. Turner crushed a skull against the concrete wall with a grunt.
I jammed my knife into the eye of one that lunged, shoved another off me, and sliced through its throat.
Blood soaked the bottom of our boots by the time we reached the double doors of Cell Block C. I remembered this entrance.
But something was different.
The doors were chained from the inside.
Kara placed her ear to the steel. "Movement. Not walkers."
I banged once with the hilt of my knife.
Silence.
Then a voice — low, gravelly, guarded.
"Who the hell are you?"
I exhaled.
"Name's Rick Grimes. We're looting this place. You got people in there?"
Another voice answered. Younger and aggressive.
"Depends. You clearing it for us or for yourselves?"
Andrea raised an eyebrow. "Charming already."
I cut the chain with bolt cutters.
Kara swung the doors open.
They stood in the shadows. Five of them.
Dirty. Thin. Eyes alert. Each holding a makeshift weapon.
But I knew them.
From the series.
Axel,Tomas, Andrew, Oscar, Big Tiny
I stepped forward slowly.
"Not here to hurt you," I said. "You're survivors. That's all I need to know."
Tomas didn't lower his blade. "You part of the army?"
"No army," I said. "We're The Right Arm. We're building something better."
Axel finally spoke. "You got food?"
"We do. And if you follow our rules, we got more than that."
It wasn't peace.
But it wasn't violence either.
We gave them water, checked their wounds, and kept our weapons close.
Tomas kept trying to size me up. Andrew watched Kara like she'd snap his neck. Big Tiny was just grateful for the food. Oscar said nothing.
But Axel? He looked me in the eye and nodded once.
"Guess we're lucky you showed up."
"Maybe," I said.
We secured the armory next. Still sealed.
Andrea picked the lock while Kara and Turner stood guard.
Inside: ammo. Riot shields. Two shotguns. A crate of batons. Flares. Old military MREs.
Kara whistled low. "Now this is a score."
The medical wing was worse off. Rotting linens. One walker slumped across a gurney.
I put it down fast.
Behind the locked supply room, we found antibiotics, gauze, painkillers, antiseptics.
Enough to double our inventory.
By sundown, we had a fire burning in the central yard. The prisoners sat off to one side—still tense.
Oscar shared his rations with Big Tiny.
Axel offered to take first watch.
Tomas stared into the flames, dead quiet.
Andrea nudged me. "You sure about them?"
"No," I said. "But I'm sure about us.
Sometimes the world sends people your way like it remembers what it was supposed to look like.
I'd only just finished dragging the past out of a prison. Five men with blood on their hands and months of rot behind their eyes. Axel. Tomas. Andrew. Oscar. Big Tiny.
Now we were heading home with them in tow. Not as prisoners, not as guests—something in between.
But the world wasn't done.
We rode slow, two vehicles and a wagon pulled by horse.
I had Turner and Kara keeping a close eye on the ex-cons. Tomas walked like a man trying to appear tame, but his eyes kept twitching toward escape routes. Andrew followed Tomas like a dog waiting for scraps. Oscar stayed quiet. Axel tried to make conversation. Big Tiny coughed every couple miles.
"We'll quarantine them when we get back," Andrea said, keeping her rifle across her lap. "Separate quarters."
"They'll get the three-question test first," I said. "Then we decide what to do with them."
Andrea nodded. "And if they fail?"
"They won't," I said. "Not if they want to eat."
We were halfway across the east ridge trail when we spotted movement.
People.
Seven total, moving slow and carefully.
I stopped the convoy and raised my hand.
Daryl would've called this a bad idea. Shane might've drawn first.
But I saw one figure in particular and felt something shift.
Michonne.
Katana strapped to her back. Shoulders tense. Leading the group.
And beside her: Sasha, Tyreese, and the family of three—Allen, Donna, and Ben, the boy trailing nervously between his parents.
I stepped out, weapon down.
"Name's Rick Grimes."
The tall man—Tyreese—lowered his hammer. "We don't want trouble."
"Then we won't have any," I said.
I brought them in by the fire pit off the roadside trail and did what I always do.
I looked them in the eyes and asked:
"How many walkers have you killed?"
Tyreese: "Too many."
Michonne: "Not enough."
Sasha: "I don't keep count."
Allen: "Nine."
Donna: "Two."
Ben: "...One." His voice barely carried.
"How many people?"
Most shook their heads.
Michonne: "One."
Tyreese: "None."
Allen hesitated, then said, "Only in defense."
"Why?"
Michonne: "He was going to kill me."
Sasha: "We survived. That's reason enough."
They passed.
So did the prisoners—though I didn't ask their answers in front of the others.
I saved that for later.
That night, while the group rested under watch, I brought the five prisoners into the barn one at time
Axel answered clean, calm and honest.
"Walkers? Twenty, maybe. People? One. Guy tried to stab me in the chow line. Ain't proud of it."
Oscar gave me a single nod. "I did bad things before all this. I ain't proud, but I ain't hiding it either."
Big Tiny answered slow. "Walkers… I dunno, man. People? Just one. Only 'cause he tried to kill me first."
Then came Andrew.
"Walkers, sure. People? I mean, we all had to, right? Sometimes it's kill or be killed."
"And why?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Survival."
I didn't like the way he said it.
Tomas?
Grinned when I asked.
"Walkers? Hell, a bunch. People? A couple. 'Cause I had to."
But his eyes said something else.
Back at camp the next morning, I pulled Graves aside.
"I want you to keep eyes on Tomas and Andrew. Quietly. They don't move without you knowing."
Graves smirked. "You expecting trouble?"
"I expect people to eventually show you who they really are."
"And if they do?"
I looked toward the horizon.
"Handle it."
With the prison looted, new people added, and our base nearly at full operation, I finally had time to think.
I looked out over the camp from the overlook, watching as Sasha helped in the garden and Tyreese helped move lumber.
Michonne sat alone—watching everything, saying little.
Andrea joined me.
"You see what I see?" she asked.
"Almost all the main group," I muttered. "Glenn's already here. Daryl. Maggie. Carol. Carl. Morgan. Now Sasha. Tyreese. Michonne."
Andrea raised a brow. "Main group?"
I caught myself.
"Good people," I corrected.
She gave me a long look, but didn't press.
Later that evening.
"Abraham. Rosita. Eugene.
They're still out there.
And if they're anything like I remember—
they'll be loud when they arrive.
Michonne walks beside us now. So do Sasha and Tyreese.
We've pulled five from a prison and seven more from the road.
Not everyone is clean.
Some might be poison.
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