The Georgia woods were unnaturally quiet, the kind of silence that made your skin crawl and instincts flare. Not even the birds dared to chirp. The only sound that cut through the heavy stillness was the low, throaty rumble of the car engine as it crept along a narrow dirt trail, winding through the dense trees like a vein through flesh.
Inside the vehicle, Daryl Dixon sat behind the wheel, his entire body tense with purpose. His weathered hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, knuckles pale beneath the dirt and old scars. The late-afternoon sun filtered in through the canopy in broken rays, casting fragmented light across his angular face. His cigarette burned low between his fingers, its smoke curling lazily out the cracked window before fading into the thick humidity. His eyes—sharp, tired, and untrusting—never left the road.
Next to him, Glenn leaned forward in the passenger seat. A faded, creased map was draped over his lap, weighed down by his restless hands. Sweat clung to his brow as he traced a finger along one of the marked routes, comparing it again and again to the flickering GPS on the dashboard, its screen smeared with blood and dirt.
"He should've bled out by now," Glenn muttered, the frustration in his voice barely contained. "That wound—Daryl, it was bad. No way he made it far"
Daryl let out a low grunt, chewing the inside of his cheek as he stared straight ahead. "Maybe," he allowed, his Southern drawl rough and dry. "But that bastard's slipperier than a greased hog. We keep lookin'."
The vehicle bumped slowly over the uneven terrain. Leaves slapped against the windows like warning hands. Vines dangled from trees, swaying slightly in the breeze, and fallen branches cracked beneath their tires. The deeper they went, the darker it grew—the trees overhead formed a canopy so thick that it cast long shadows, muting the forest in hues of green and gray.
Then Glenn's hand snapped forward, pointing. "There—truck."
Daryl slowed the vehicle to a crawl, his eyes narrowing. Through the gaps in the brush, the Governor's truck sat partially off the road, nose-deep in a ditch. Its front end was mangled from impact, the hood popped open like a broken jaw. The windshield was spiderwebbed with cracks. The cab door was ajar, and there—streaks of dark blood trailed down from the seat, dripping to the ground where a pool had soaked into the dirt.
Both men exchanged a glance. No words were needed.
Daryl killed the engine. The forest swallowed the sound, returning them to that oppressive silence.
They stepped out of the vehicle. Daryl's boots hit the dirt with a crunch, his crossbow already in hand. Glenn moved quietly around the other side, crouching low near the bloodstains. He touched the edges of the trail where it dried in thick clumps.
"Still tacky around the edges," he muttered. "But most of it's dry. This is at least a day old."
Daryl scanned the tree line, his brow furrowed beneath the brim of his cap. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he could feel it—something watching them.
"Somethin' ain't right," he muttered, shifting his weight as his fingers flexed around the grip of his weapon.
"I feel it too," Glenn said, standing slowly. His hand hovered close to his holstered pistol.
A single twig snapped in the woods to their left—sharp, deliberate. Not the stumble of a deer or the shuffle of a squirrel.
Both men froze.
Daryl spun toward the sound, his crossbow raised.
Glenn's fingers closed over his pistol and yanked it free.
From the shadows between the trees, a voice rang out—calm, cold, and far too familiar.
"Long time, ain't it, Glenn?"
Glenn's heart plummeted into his gut. His lips parted, and his voice caught in his throat. He turned slowly, eyes wide and disbelieving.
"No…" he whispered, the word cracked and dry.
A shape moved out of the trees.
It limped forward slowly, one leg dragging awkwardly behind the other. Skin hung in sheets from the arms, darkened with decay. The eyes—white and glazed, but focused—stared straight at them.
Morales.
But he wasn't the Morales they remembered from the Atlanta camp. Not anymore.
His skin was sickly pale, clinging too tightly to the bones beneath it. His lips were split and cracked, curled back in a grin that was both joyful and horrifying. His eyes, though clouded with death, gleamed with something too human. Too aware.
Behind him, another figure followed. Broader. More confident.
The Governor.
He was upright, impossibly so. A bandage was wrapped haphazardly around his abdomen where Daryl had shot him, stained through with dark blood. But he didn't look weak. He looked… changed. Reborn.
"Daryl," the Governor said, his voice rich with venom. "I knew you'd come."
Daryl's hands clenched tighter around his crossbow, arms tensing. "You son of a bitch," he growled, aiming straight for the Governor's head.
"Now, now," the Governor said, smiling. "Is that any way to greet an old friend?"
"You ain't no friend. Just another piece of rot that needs burnin'," Daryl snapped.
Daryl and Glenn stood back-to-back, their weapons raised. The horde was still closing in behind Morales and the Governor, but they hadn't charged yet. Instead, Morales stepped forward, calm and composed, his pale, sunken face illuminated by shafts of fading sunlight cutting through the trees.
Morales spread his arms like a preacher at a pulpit, his greyed lips curling into a serene, almost holy smile.
"You don't have to run," he said softly. "You don't have to be afraid anymore."
Daryl's eyes narrowed, his finger resting lightly on the trigger of his crossbow. "I'll take fear over bein' dead any day."
Morales tilted his head, like a disappointed teacher. "You still don't understand. We're not dead. We're free."
Glenn's mouth twisted in disbelief. "Free? You're rotting, Morales. That's not freedom."
"I mean… you don't have to fear old age," Morales said, voice calm, almost gentle. "You don't have to worry about your knees going out. About watching people waste away from cancer or fever or some infection we can't treat anymore."
He tilted his head slightly, eyes bright with conviction. "No more waking up with aching bones, no more starving in the woods, wondering if this night's your last. No more sleep, no more sickness, no more fear of dying."
He took a slow step closer, placing a hand over his chest.
"This is evolution. A gift from God Himself."
Glenn shook his head. "You think God did this? Turned you into—into whatever the hell you are?"
Morales nodded reverently. "Yes. The Prophet showed me the truth. He gave me purpose. My family was taken from me by bandits. Left me hollow. And the Prophet? He gave me the strength to make them suffer. To make them beg."
His eyes darkened, glowing with remembered rage.
"The world you cling to is dying," he said. "Rotting. Like the flesh you fear. It's time for humanity to move forward. To become what we were meant to be."
Daryl took a step forward, crossbow aimed dead at Morales's chest. "What, brainless monsters who eat people?"
Morales gave a sad little laugh. "You still don't get it. We aren't monsters. We're reborn. The Governor understands. You can too."
"We don't even know who the hell this 'Prophet' is," Glenn said sharply, keeping his pistol steady.
Morales sighed, genuinely disappointed, his mouth downturned and eyes narrowing.
"I had hoped," he said. "Hoped you'd see. That you'd remember what it was like to suffer and want more. That you'd have sense and join us."
He turned slowly, stepping back into the growing shadow of the horde.
"But I guess you're still stuck in the past. Still clinging to decay."
Daryl's jaw tightened. "The only thing rottin' here is your damn brain."
Morales gave a sorrowful nod, almost like a funeral prayer. "Then it's a shame. I had such high hopes for you."
With a snap of his fingers, the first wave of walkers moved forward.
The rustle of branches erupted into chaos as dozens—no, hundreds—of walkers poured in from every direction. The forest around them, once ominously still, exploded with movement and noise. Leaves shook violently from disturbed branches, and the soil churned under the thunder of decaying feet.
Their eyes glowed faintly in the shadow-drenched woods—flickers of awareness hiding behind milky whites.
Daryl's heart punched against his ribs. His muscles tensed. Every hair on his neck stood on end.
One of the walkers sprinted from behind a tree, not shuffling or dragging but sprinting on all fours like a wild dog. Its rotted fingers dug into the earth for traction, its mouth open in a silent snarl. It lunged—fast, coordinated.
Glenn's eyes went wide as a second walker grabbed a broken shovel from the ground and hurled it toward him with staggering force. The blade spun through the air like a deadly boomerang, missing his head by inches and embedding itself deep into a tree with a loud, gut-twisting thunk.
"Jesus!" Glenn gasped, stumbling backward, his pistol raised.
Then came the third.
From above.
A shriek broke through the canopy as a walker dropped from a low-hanging branch, its teeth bared and arms stretched wide. It collided with Daryl, knocking him flat onto his back with bone-rattling impact.
Daryl's grunt was more fury than fear. The world narrowed to the snarling face above him—its mouth toothless, its breath a fetid wave. It raised a jagged stick like a dagger.
But Daryl was faster.
His hunting knife came up in a brutal arc, slicing clean through the walker's temple. It spasmed once, then collapsed with a wet crunch onto his chest.
Gritting his teeth, Daryl shoved the twitching corpse off him and rolled to his feet.
"We're gettin' the hell outta here!" he shouted, voice rough and filled with urgency.
Glenn didn't hesitate. He dropped a walker with a double-tap to the head and broke into a sprint toward the car.
All around them, chaos reigned.
Beer bottles, broken bricks, chunks of splintered wood—whatever they could grab, the special infected hurled like deranged artillery. A beer bottle shattered against a tree near Glenn, showering him with glass. Another chunk of concrete struck the car's rear fender with a metallic bang.
Daryl spun and fired one bolt toward the back of the horde—toward the source of all this madness.
Toward the Governor.
The arrow sailed, deadly and straight.
But the Governor saw it coming. His unnatural reflexes kicked in. He ducked behind a slow-moving corpse, letting the body take the hit. The walker dropped with the bolt protruding from its skull, collapsing with a hollow groan.
"Coward!" Daryl snarled, fury twisting his face as he dashed for the driver's seat.
Glenn skidded across the gravel, flinging open the passenger door and diving in. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, his hands shaking as he slammed the door shut. "Go!"
Daryl threw the car into gear just as three walkers slammed against the hood. One managed to crawl onto it, drool trailing from its chin as it raised a rusted crowbar over its head and began smashing the windshield with slow, determined strikes.
Glass cracked. The web of fractures spread like lightning bolts.
Daryl floored it.
The vehicle roared forward, the sudden momentum hurling the walker backward. It bounced off the hood with a sickening thud, limbs flailing as it was crushed beneath the tires. The screech of bone and gristle was almost drowned out by the engine's growl.
But they weren't clear yet.
More infected blocked the path ahead.
"Hold on!" Daryl shouted, eyes wide, jaw clenched as he whipped the steering wheel hard to the left.
The car spun through the narrow trail, tires tearing through mud and blood. Another walker, holding a wooden post like a spear, hurled it like a javelin.
The post smashed through the rear side window, exploding glass into the backseat and narrowly missing Glenn's neck.
"Shit!" Glenn ducked, swiping shards from his shoulder.
Daryl eyes were locked forward, tunnel vision setting in. The forest blurred past them as he drove like the devil himself was on their tail. Which, in this case, wasn't far from the truth.
Branches whipped at the windshield, some breaking apart. A walker clung to the side mirror, its mangled face pressed against the glass, clawing like it could rip the metal off. Daryl turned sharply again, the tires spinning in wet leaves. The momentum flung the creature off into a tree with a wet, snapping crack.
The shrieks faded.
The walkers behind them grew distant.
Finally, mercifully, they were clear.
The last of the infected fell away, left behind in the dust and noise of their retreat. The road opened into a long, winding stretch leading back toward Woodbury.
Inside the car, silence fell, broken only by their panting.
Glenn leaned forward, wiping blood—his or someone else's—off his forehead with a shaking hand. "They were waiting for us," he said hoarsely. "It was a trap."
Daryl didn't respond. His jaw was locked tight, his grip on the wheel white-knuckled. His arms shook from the tension. His eyes didn't blink.
"And the Governor…" Glenn trailed off.
"...ain't dead," Daryl finished grimly.
Back in the woods, the horde slowly began to regroup.
At the edge of the dirt road, the Governor stood still, blood dried and flaking across his bandaged midsection. His good eye was sharp, his face expressionless as he stared at the fading trail left by the speeding car.
His lips curled back slowly into a cruel, anticipatory grin.
Morales stood beside him, arms folded across his chest. His undead features were calm, almost serene, like a man who had read the end of the story and was content to let the final pages unfold.
"Such a shame," Morales said softly, watching the horizon with distant eyes. "I was hoping to gather more walkers for our flock. But it looks like the allies of the Anti-Christ found us early."
The Governor didn't reply immediately. He simply sniffed the air, tasting it. His tongue flicked across his cracked lips.
The scent was fading.
But it was there.
Murphy.
The one who had started it all.
The hunger stirred deep in his belly, gnawing and ever-present—but he forced it back. There was work to do. Revenge to be claimed.
"We need to speed things up," Morales murmured, his gaze narrowing as he looked to the rising moon. "Otherwise they'll run from the Lord's justice."
The Governor turned to him at last, his smile now a mask of cold confidence.
"No," he rasped. "They won't run far enough."
With that, the two intelligent undead vanished into the forest, swallowed by the shifting mass of infected.