Spring had given way to summer, and the prison no longer looked like a fortress of the desperate.
It had transformed into something alive... a community.
The once sprouting plants were now flourishing, creating rows of vegetables.
Tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, beans and peas.
The gardens stretched wider every week, tilled and tended by eager hands.
Children darted between the rows, laughing, while adults worked steadily under the morning sun.
Hershel supervised with a wide-brimmed hat shading his face, pride evident in his eyes as he watched the earth give back to them.
Near the far wall, a pen of hogs grunted contentedly, fattening on scraps.
A chicken coop had been constructed beside it, adding eggs to their growing list of fresh foods.
Beyond the fences, groups set out daily on scavenging and sweeping runs, moving through the countryside with practiced efficiency.
They returned with crates of canned goods, tools, fuel, and ammunition, each run making them stronger, more secure.
Inside the prison, the atmosphere was no longer one of constant fear.
There was still vigilance... armed guards walked the perimeter, lookouts posted at the towers.
But there was also laughter, shared meals, and a sense of purpose.
...
Rick stood at one end of the mess hall, reviewing a map with Daryl, Tyreese, and Glenn.
The table was covered in marked locations.
Towns they'd already swept through, supply caches they'd found, and routes for future runs.
"Greenfield's clear," Tyreese reported. "No walkers, just some old cars and a hardware store. We stripped it."
"Good," Rick said, marking it off. "Next is Lakewood. It's bigger, might take a couple trips. Joe's taking a team tomorrow."
Glenn glanced up, his face still bearing faint scars from his time in Woodbury but his eyes determined. "I'll go with him."
Daryl smirked. "Count me in. Gotta keep him outta trouble."
Rick allowed a faint smile. "Alright. Be ready at first light."
Joe walked the perimeter with Sasha, inspecting the newly reinforced outer fence.
Sheets of steel scavenged from nearby towns lined the chainlink, reinforced with beams and braced with wooden supports.
Beyond the fence, a field of sharpened stakes waited, deterring any herd that might wander too close.
"Strong enough to hold," Sasha said, wiping sweat from her brow.
"Strong enough to keep us alive," Joe replied.
He glanced at the thriving gardens and the figures working there.
Amy, Andrea, and Emma among them, with Julian, Grace, and Esther playing in a playpen he had built nearby.
"That's what matters."
The prison had become more than just a shelter; it was a home.
Its people were no longer simply surviving... they were living.
Every wall they built, every seed they planted, was a silent defiance against a world determined to tear them down.
And though none of them knew it, in the shadowed wilderness miles away. A man with one eye and a burning hatred was gathering his strength.
The peace they'd built would not last forever.
...
The convoy moved down the cracked highway at dawn, two trucks and a beat-up SUV rolling past rusting cars and abandoned billboards.
The air was warm, the sky streaked in soft gold, but everyone inside knew better than to take comfort in the quiet.
Joe drove the lead truck, Daryl riding shotgun with his crossbow across his lap.
In the back sat Glenn, Rick, and two newer recruits were quiet, steady types Joe had vetted himself.
They reached the outskirts of Lakewood mid-morning, a small town ringed by overgrown fields and leaning telephone poles.
The place was still. Too still.
Joe stopped the truck at the edge of town and got out, stretching his legs. "Alright," he said, voice carrying authority.
"We do this fast and clean. Hardware store, pharmacy, then food. Sweep for walkers as we go."
Rick nodded, unfolding a map. "Main street splits the town in half. We clear north, then loop back south."
Daryl surveyed the silent houses. "Bet the hardware store's picked clean. Folks always go for hammers and nails first."
"Maybe," Joe replied, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. "But people miss things. We'll find what we need."
...
They moved in a tight formation down the deserted road, weapons ready.
Storefronts gaped open like broken teeth, windows smashed long ago. The air smelled faintly of rot and mildew.
"Eyes up," Joe muttered as they approached a small grocery store. He motioned to Glenn and Davis to flank left while he, Rick, and Daryl took the right.
Daryl kicked the door open, crossbow aimed. The interior was dim, shelves overturned, but no movement.
They swept quickly, filling crates with canned goods and bottled water.
"Jackpot," Glenn whispered, hauling out a case of baby formula from a backroom. "Amy's gonna love me for this."
Rick gave a faint grin. "Let's keep going."
...
The hardware store was their second stop. As Daryl predicted, most of the obvious supplies were gone.
But Joe found several crates of nails, rolls of wire, and even a propane torch tucked beneath a counter.
"Load it all," he ordered. "This'll keep us building for months."
They were halfway through loading when a low, guttural moan drifted from the back of the store.
Joe raised his hand, a silent command.
Everyone froze.
The moan grew louder, joined by others. From the rear storage room, walkers began to shuffle out... half a dozen at first.
Then more, drawn by the noise of their work.
"Here we go," Daryl muttered, raising his crossbow.
"Stay tight," Joe barked.
The fight was quick and brutal. Walkers surged through the narrow aisles, but Joe's group cut them down with practiced efficiency.
Daryl's bolts finding eyes, Glenn's machete cleaving skulls, Joe's rifle barking sharp, controlled bursts.
When the last corpse hit the floor, Joe scanned the room. "Everyone good?"
"All good," Rick confirmed.
Joe wiped blood from his face with the back of his glove. "Then let's finish up. One more stop, then we head home."
...
The pharmacy sat at the far end of town, its windows boarded up. Joe pried one loose and slipped inside first.
The smell of stale air and medicine hit them. Shelves lined with dust, but plenty remained.
"Take everything useful," Rick said quietly. "Painkillers, antibiotics, bandages... everything."
They worked quickly, filling bags.
Daryl paused at a shelf of liquor bottles and grinned. "Gonna need this for… medicinal purposes."
"Sure," Glenn snorted, but no one argued.
They were just about finished when the sound of an engine rumbled faintly in the distance.
Everyone froze.
Joe's eyes narrowed. "We're not alone."
He gestured for silence, peering out a gap in the boards. A black SUV rolled into town, several armed men stepping out.
They weren't scavengers... they were organized.
Rick whispered, "Woodbury remnants?"
Joe shook his head slowly. "Too clean. Too fresh."
Whoever they were, they'd just walked into Lakewood. And Joe's group was trapped inside the pharmacy.
...
Joe crouched low behind a toppled shelf, motioning for the others to stay silent.
The rumble of the black SUV's engine outside had stopped, replaced by the soft crunch of boots on pavement.
Through a narrow gap in the boards, he watched the newcomers dismount.
Dark tactical gear, matching vests, weapons slung professionally.
No insignia. No words spoken, just hand signals.
Rick leaned close, voice barely above a whisper. "You recognize them?"
Joe's gaze stayed locked on the figures outside. "Ran into a group like this once. High school near Hershel's farm. They called themselves by numbers—Crow 1, Crow 2, Crow 3… stuff like that."
"Military?" Daryl murmured.
"Maybe," Joe muttered. "Or they used to be. Didn't stick around long enough to find out. They leave the walkers, they don't clear places. They stripped the place clean of supplies and moved on. No talkin', no mercy. Just gone by morning."
The group outside began splitting into teams, two moving down Main Street, another pair sweeping houses.
One remained by the SUV, scanning the area like a sentry.
Glenn shifted uneasily. "What do we do?"
Joe's jaw tightened. "We don't fight blind. We need to know how many there are, what they're after, and where they sleep. Then we decide if they live or die."
Rick nodded reluctantly. "Alright. We shadow them."
Joe gestured toward the rear of the pharmacy. "We leave now, keep to the tree line, and follow their trail. If they're like before, they'll keep radio silence except for those numbers. That'll tell us how big this crew is."
Daryl's grin was sharp and humorless. "And when we know?"
Joe's eyes hardened. "We end them. Quietly."
They slipped out the back door, disappearing into the alley and then into the cover of the forest. From the shadows, Joe watched one last time as the figure at the SUV raised a radio to their mouth.
"Crow One, sweep complete. Moving to Phase Two."
The words were clipped, mechanical, inhuman.
Joe turned away, signaling for the others to move. "Let's hunt," he whispered.
Joe's group ghosted through the tree line, keeping parallel to the Crows as they moved through the town.
The black-clad figures worked with frightening precision, clearing each building swiftly and silently.
From their vantage point, Joe, Daryl, Rick, and Glenn observed every move.
"Not a wasted step," Daryl muttered, watching one team sweep through a boarded-up diner in under two minutes. "Ain't no scavengers I ever seen."
"They're organized," Rick said, tone low. "Too organized. This is military."
"Not exactly," Joe murmured. "They're efficient, but they don't carry any insignia. No IDs. Just… ghosts."
For over an hour, they tailed the group as they systematically stripped the town.
Fuel siphoned, crates of supplies hauled from stores, even medical equipment from the pharmacy across the street.
Each success was logged with short, clipped radio calls.
"Crow One to Crow Four: secured. Moving to next sector."
"Crow Three to Crow One: perimeter clear."
Each number like a cold reminder—these weren't scavengers scraping by. This was something else entirely.
...
Just as dusk began to settle, Joe raised his fist... halt.
The Crows had stopped in the town square. The leader, Crow One... scanned the sky, then raised a small canister from his belt.
Fwoosh!
A bright crimson flare shot into the air, trailing smoke as it arced high above the town.
Daryl squinted. "What the hell is that for?"
They got their answer seconds later.
A deep, low thrum rolled across the treetops. At first faint, then louder... a helicopter.
Black, unmarked, its rotors muffled to near silence, it descended just beyond the square.
The Crows moved like clockwork, loading crates of supplies into its bay.
Joe's eyes narrowed. "They've got air support…"
"Means they're bigger than we thought," Rick muttered grimly.
Within minutes, the helicopter lifted off again, vanishing into the darkening sky without a trace.
No chatter, no trail to follow.
Joe exhaled slowly, frustration flashing across his face. "Damn it. We can't follow them from here."
Daryl slammed a fist lightly against a tree trunk. "We had 'em right in front of us. Now they're just… gone."
Joe stood, expression hardening. "We'll find them again. Sooner or later, they'll come back. And when they do, we'll be ready."
The group retreated through the woods, silent and grim.
The forest swallowed their figures as completely as the sky had swallowed the black helicopter.
Leaving only the fading scent of smoke and the promise of a new, dangerous enemy looming unseen.