The air was thick with smoke and the roar of the tank's engine as the Governor's forces unleashed hell.
The eastern building crumbled under a direct hit, debris scattering across the yard.
Bullets raked across the field, forcing Joe's ragged group into defensive positions behind the last remaining barriers.
"Keep them off us!" Joe shouted, voice raw, firing round after round from his dwindling supply.
The survivors fought like demons, every shot precise despite their exhaustion.
But the tank's cannon fired again, the blast tearing through another building, shaking the ground beneath them.
And then came the moans, the awful, endless chorus of the dead.
Walkers, drawn by the chaos, swarmed the breached fences.
"Fall back!" Rick's voice cut through the chaos. "Fall back to the treeline!"
The retreat was chaos.
Amid the gunfire and the encroaching dead, Hershel tried to cover the children's escape.
A walker lunged from the rubble, forcing him out of cover. Before anyone could help him...
Bang!
A single shot rang out.
The Governor stood on the tank's hull, rifle smoking, eyes cold as stone. Hershel crumpled to the dirt.
"Daddy!" Beth screamed from the treeline, being dragged back by Daryl and Sophia as she clawed at the air, sobbing.
The sight broke something in them all, but there was no time to mourn.
Joe stayed behind as the others pulled out, covering their retreat with ruthless efficiency.
He cut down the Governor's last men one by one, his katana and sidearm leaving no survivors.
Soon, it was just him and the Governor amidst the wreckage, the dead closing in from every side.
The Governor climbed down from the tank, machete in hand. His lips curled into a snarl. "This ends here."
Joe's reply was wordless... a steady, cold stare as he raised his katana.
They collided in a blur of steel and fury, blades clashing, sparks flying.
Each man fought with everything left in him, killing walkers as they intruded, but never breaking focus on the other.
The Governor's rage was boundless, and in a vicious surge, he overpowered Joe's guard.
The machete plunged into Joe's chest, sinking deep through the left side.
Amy and Andrea's screams tore through the treeline as Joe staggered back, blood pouring from his mouth.
But the Governor's victory was hollow. In the struggle, a walker had latched onto his neck, tearing into his flesh.
He choked on his own blood, eyes wide with shock as he collapsed to his knees.
Joe's vision blurred, the world spinning around him.
He could barely breathe, the machete jutting from his chest.
But his heart still pounded, on the right side of his chest. A quirk of fate, a mistake at birth that now kept him alive.
With a guttural growl, he swung his katana one last time, cleaving through walkers to carve a path to freedom.
Then a gunshot cracked behind him, and pain exploded in his back. He fell hard, lungs seizing, unable to move.
Footsteps approached him from behind.
A brunette woman, face streaked with tears, raising her pistol at his head.
Joe stared up at her, unflinching even as his body refused to respond.
Before she could pull the trigger, a walker tackled her from the side, jaws sinking into her throat.
She shrieked once before being torn apart.
Joe used the distraction, forcing himself onto his hands and knees, crawling with sheer willpower toward the treeline.
Andrea broke from cover, racing to him.
"Joe!" she cried, dropping to her knees beside him.
She saw the machete still protruding from his chest and nearly lost her composure.
"You're… you're still alive?"
Joe's eyes were glassy, but he managed a hoarse whisper. "Not… done… yet."
She hauled him to his feet, draping his arm over her shoulders.
Joe still swung his katana weakly, cutting down any walker that dared approach, running on nothing but instinct.
They reached Amy, who stood trembling with Julian and Grace clutched to her chest.
The three of them spared one last look at the ruins of the prison... smoke rising, walls toppled.
The only real home they had known, reduced to ash and rubble.
Then, without a word, they turned and vanished into the woods.
Leaving behind the dead, the fallen.
The Governor's corpse rotting in the blood-soaked dirt.
...
The night after the prison fell was as dark and merciless as the attack that had destroyed it.
The survivors, once united within walls they called home, were now scattered across the wilderness in small, desperate groups.
Each fighting to stay alive in their own pocket of hell.
...
The forest was endless darkness, the kind that swallowed sound and sense alike.
Each step was a struggle for Rick, his legs buckling beneath him as he leaned heavily against Carl and Clementine.
His breaths came in wet, uneven gasps, every exhale accompanied by the faint rustle of blood-soaked bandages under his shirt.
Carl's face was pale but determined, jaw clenched tight as he kept his father upright.
"Come on, Dad… just one more mile," he whispered, more prayer than promise.
Clementine stayed on Rick's other side, small but stubborn, her hand gripping his belt to steady him.
The pistol in her other hand felt like it weighed ten pounds, but she refused to put it away.
Every snap of a twig, every shadow shifting in the moonlight had her finger twitching toward the trigger.
"Carl," she said softly, glancing at the older boy. "We need to stop soon. He's burning up."
Carl's lips pressed into a thin line. "Not here. Not in the open."
Rick groaned low, trying to speak, but only a cough came out. Wet, thick, flecking his lips with blood.
"Save your strength," Carl said quickly, voice breaking just a little before he steeled himself again.
...
The first gray light of morning filtered through the trees as they broke from the forest and onto an overgrown gravel road.
Up ahead, half-hidden by vines and decay, was a squat wooden building with faded lettering.
The sign barely visible above the door, Red Pine Tavern.
"There," Carl said, relief cracking through his voice for the first time all night. "Come on."
They half-carried, half-dragged Rick to the door.
It was locked, but Carl's shoulder made quick work of the rotted wood.
Inside, the air was stale with the smell of mildew and old liquor, but it was quiet... mercifully quiet.
They lowered Rick onto a dusty table, Clementine's small hands fumbling with her backpack.
"We need to check the wounds. See how bad they are."
Carl hesitated for a second, looking at his unconscious father, then nodded sharply. "Right. We've got some bandages left. Maybe some antiseptic…"
They worked together, careful but efficient. Carl cut away the blood-crusted shirt with his knife.
Revealing three bullet wounds across Rick's torso... two grazes and one deep in his side.
Clementine winced at the sight but didn't flinch away.
"We need to clean it," she said, reaching for a bottle of water.
Carl poured it over the wound as she dabbed with an old rag, trying to flush out the blood and grime.
Rick stirred at the touch, groaning, but didn't wake.
"We're gonna make it, Dad," Carl murmured, his voice barely holding steady. "You just have to hold on."
Clementine glanced at him, then back at Rick. "We'll take care of him," she said softly, with a conviction beyond her years.
When they finally had him cleaned and wrapped as best they could, the two of them sat back against the bar wall, utterly spent.
Through the dusty windows, the morning sun rose, painting the forest outside in pale gold. For a moment, just a moment, it felt like safety.
But both knew it wouldn't last.
...
The woods were unnervingly quiet, save for the crunch of leaves beneath their feet and the occasional distant groan that set their nerves on edge.
Tyreese took point, eyes constantly scanning the trees for any sign of movement.
His fire axe rested ready in his grip, knuckles white around the handle.
Behind him, Carol kept a steady pace despite the fatigue gnawing at her muscles.
Baby Judith stirred occasionally in her arms, whimpering softly before settling again.
She murmured soothing words each time, though her eyes never stopped darting to the shadows.
Carol kept her free arm wrapped protectively around Lizzie and Mika, guiding them forward.
Emma stayed close, her face pale with exhaustion, hair damp with sweat despite the cool air.
Her gaze lingered on Esther constantly, checking that her tiny chest still rose and fell, that she was still safe in this nightmare.
"We need shelter before nightfall," Tyreese muttered without turning, voice low and urgent.
Carol nodded, though the weight of uncertainty pressed on her chest. "We'll find something," she said, but inside she couldn't shake the images of the prison burning.
Of Sophia's terrified face in those last moments she'd seen her.
Please be alive, she begged silently. Please, both of you.
...
Hours passed, the sun dipping lower through the branches.
Mika stumbled over a root, Lizzie catching her arm before she could fall. "I'm tired," Mika whispered, eyes wide and scared.
Tyreese stopped, scanning their surroundings.
Ahead, through a break in the trees, he spotted the silhouette of a building... an old ranger station, two stories high, its roof mostly intact.
"There," he said, pointing. "Come on."
Relief surged through the group as they made for the structure.
The door was ajar, but a quick sweep by Tyreese revealed it was empty save for a few scattered animal bones and broken furniture.
"Good enough," he muttered, shoving a desk against the door while Emma closed the windows.
Carol laid Judith on an old coat she spread on the floor, checking the baby over carefully.
"She's okay," she murmured, mostly to herself. Lizzie and Mika curled up beside her, clinging to each other as Emma sat down nearby, her finger clasped tightly by Esther.
Tyreese sat heavily against the wall, axe still in hand. "We'll rest here tonight. Move at first light."
Carol glanced at him, her voice soft but firm. "Thank you, Ty."
He gave a weary nod, eyes never leaving the door. Outside, the forest whispered with unseen dangers.
However, they were safe for the night. They had walls, a roof, and each other.
Carol looked down at Judith, then at the two girls leaning against her. She forced herself to believe the words she spoke next.
"We're gonna make it," she whispered. "All of us."
...
Michonne burst from the treeline with Elize at her side, both panting from the sprint.
The woods were just ahead... salvation.
Then the shot rang out.
Elize's skull snapped forward, a neat hole appearing in her forehead.
She dropped without a sound.
Michonne froze for a heartbeat, the world going white-hot with rage.
She turned on the gunman emerging from the smoke, and with a savage scream, she charged.
Her katana flashed once, twice, severing him from throat to spine.
She didn't even stop to watch him fall.
Tears streamed unchecked as she ran into the darkness, alone, her grief as sharp as the blade in her hand.
...
Michonne tore through the underbrush like a specter, her lungs burning, legs screaming, but she didn't stop.
She couldn't stop.
Not after watching Elize drop beside her like a puppet with its strings cut off.
The image burned in her mind.
The flash of the shot, the sudden stillness of Elize's body, the warmth of her blood spraying Michonne's cheek.
She ran harder, almost wishing she could run herself to pieces, outrun the grief gnawing at her chest.
Branches whipped at her arms and face, but she barely felt them.
The only sounds were her own ragged breaths and the occasional low growl of a walker somewhere far behind.
Hours later, the woods thinned enough for her to spot a squat structure half-hidden in vines and shadows.
A hunter's shack, long abandoned.
She approached cautiously, katana ready, and pushed the door open with a creak.
Inside, it smelled of rot and old wood, but it was empty. Safe enough.
Michonne shut the door and slid the latch into place before collapsing onto the dusty floor.
For a long moment, she just sat there in silence, katana still gripped tight in trembling hands.
When the silence became unbearable, she finally set the blade down and pressed her palms to her face.
Elize's laughter echoed in her memory.
The way Elize smiled when she finally softened toward her, the moments she'd spent helping the children at the prison.
And then the shot, the way Elize's body jerked violently, the sudden absence of life.
Michonne let out a strangled sob, the first she'd allowed herself in months.
Her body curling forward as the grief she'd been running from finally caught her.
She thought of Rick, bleeding and battered when she'd last seen him. 'Is he alive? Did Carl make it? What about the others?'
The uncertainty was a knife twisting inside her, worse than any physical wound.
She forced herself to breathe, to quiet the storm in her chest, but the tears kept coming anyway, silent and relentless.
Eventually, exhaustion claimed her.
She curled up on the floor beside her blade, her only constant companion.
She drifted into a restless sleep haunted by the ghosts of what she'd lost.
Outside, the forest was still. But morning would come, and with it, the need to move on.