"You're my brother" - Rick to Daryl
"I'd die for you" - Daryl to Rick
"I could never hate you" - Daryl to Carol
Price's POV
Eight days on the road. Eight days of moving, fighting, watching, waiting.
This was bound to happen sooner or later.
The first shot rang out, and I knew immediately—this wasn't some small-time skirmish.
This was a trap.
Bob let out a sharp grunt, blood blooming across his side as he collapsed into the wheel. I grabbed him, pulling him down just as bullets ripped through the windshield, shattering glass across the dashboard.
"Bloody hell."
This wasn't just seven men.
It was more. A lot more.
I slammed my radio on, barking into it.
"AMBUSH! FOURTEEN HOSTILES—REPEAT, FOURTEEN HOSTILES IN THE TREELINE! MULTIPLE ANGLES! HEAVY FIRE!"
The moment the words left my mouth, the woods exploded with movement.
Gunfire rattled from both sides, muzzle flashes bursting from the treeline. Bullets sparked off metal, tore through leaves, punched into the dirt. These bastards weren't just some random thugs—they knew what they were doing.
"MOVE! MOVE!"
The convoy scattered for cover, doors flying open, boots hitting the ground.
Daryl was the first to react, rolling out of the scout truck, landing low behind the wheel well. His crossbow was already up. Before I could blink, he fired—the bolt buried itself into a bastard's throat, dropping him before he could get another shot off.
One down. Thirteen left.
Pushing Back
I yanked my rifle up, swinging toward movement at the tree line. Three of them were pushing up, staying low, keeping their shots tight.
Too clean. Not just random raiders. Ex-military? Maybe cops?
Didn't matter.
I fired three controlled shots.
One man dropped instantly, his chest caving in. The second staggered back, wounded. The third? He ducked behind a fallen log—smart, but not smart enough.
A loud boom tore through the air as Abraham's rifle went off. A second later, the guy's head snapped back, and he went still.
"That's two!" Abraham growled, ducking behind the rear guard vehicle, his M4 barking in controlled bursts.
Shots tore through the air, rattling the convoy.
I turned to my left—Sasha had climbed on top of the bus, her AR15 rifle steady.
She scanned the trees, adjusted, fired.
Pop!
A man screamed, tumbling out of the tree line. Another clean shot.
Rick and Tyreese Take the Flank
Rick was already moving.
Carl and Caleb stayed behind cover, but Rick was pushing up, flanking left through the brush. I also see Izzy and Rosita outside shooting at the bastards, while the others are leading the rest to safety.
Tyreese was with him, shotgun tight against his shoulder.
Rick fired first—his Colt Python boomed, sending a round into a man's chest.
The bastard staggered—long enough for Tyreese to charge forward, swinging his hammer straight into his skull. Bone crunched, blood sprayed, and the body collapsed.
Another hostile rushed them—Tyreese spun, using the shotgun like a club, smashing it into the guy's ribs.
Rick finished him with a bullet to the head.
"That's how you bloody do it."
Carol and Glenn Hold the Line
Gunfire still ripped through the woods, bullets pinging off the vehicles, slicing through the leaves overhead.
Carol was crouched low behind the bus, shotgun resting on her knee.
A figure darted from cover, sprinting toward the vehicles—probably thinking we were distracted.
Carol didn't hesitate.
She fired once—the slug slammed into his chest, folding him in half.
Glenn was beside her, breathing heavy, gripping his pistol.
"We can't stay pinned here!" Glenn called over the noise.
He was right. If we didn't break their line, they'd start circling us, closing us in.
I glanced at Abraham.
"Got any explosives on you?"
His grin was pure insanity. "Just a little somethin'."
He reached into his pack and pulled out a homemade pipe bomb.
Jesus Christ.
"Gimme five seconds." He flicked open his lighter, sparking the fuse.
He held onto it just long enough, then hurled it into the trees.
Boom.
The explosion wasn't huge, but it was enough. I also threw a grenade that came with me after I got into this world.
Branches snapped. Dirt kicked up. The shockwave rattled the enemy's cover, sending one man flying, while injuring other hostile members.
I didn't waste time.
"Daryl! Push forward! Rick, Tyreese—keep sweeping left! Carol, Glenn—cover us!"
Daryl reloaded his crossbow and moved. Rick and Tyreese stayed low, closing the gap, making sure no one was getting out.
The remaining hostiles panicked.
Three of them tried to fall back, realizing they were outnumbered and outgunned.
"Don't let 'em go!" I snapped. "They'll come back with more!"
Sasha fired—one down.
I shot another through the leg, sending him crashing to the ground then to his head.
The last man? He threw his weapon down, hands shaking.
"Wait! Wait! I surrender!"
I leveled my rifle at him. "Not my problem."
Rick stepped up beside me, gun still raised. His expression was cold, unreadable.
We'd lost too many good people to men like this.
The survivors who surrender only when they realize they're losing.
The man kept pleading.
Tyreese shifted slightly, gripping his hammer tighter.
Silence.
Then Rick exhaled. "We take him back."
I gave him a look. "You sure?"
Rick's jaw clenched. "We take him back. We ask him questions. Then we decide."
Fair enough.
The gunfire stopped. The woods went quiet again.
Smoke drifted through the air, the ground littered with bodies.
Bob was still alive, but wounded. We got the Doc working on him assisted by Beth and Noah.
The bus was damaged, but still usable.
We'd won. But it cost us.
I exhaled, wiping blood off my knife.
Another day. Another fight.
We weren't done yet.
We never are.
Glenn's POV
The man knelt in the dirt, hands tied behind his back, blood dripping from his lip onto his shirt. His breath was ragged, his body trembling, but it wasn't from the cold.
He knew he was screwed.
We all stood around him in a loose circle, watching, waiting.
Price crouched down in front of him, calm as ever. He didn't sneer, didn't raise his voice. Didn't even look angry.
"Who are your people?"
The bastard didn't answer.
He just spat onto the ground.
Daryl sighed like he was already bored.
Before anyone could say anything else, he grabbed the guy's hand, twisted a finger back, and snapped it.
CRACK.
The man screamed, his body jerking against the ropes.
I flinched, swallowing hard. I'd seen a lot of shit since the world ended, but this? This still got to me.
Not the pain. Not the screaming.
The necessity of it.
Price didn't even blink.
"For every question unanswered, a finger gets broken."
The guy panted, his good hand curling into a fist. But he still didn't talk.
Price gave a slow nod, like he'd expected that. "Again."
Daryl didn't hesitate.
CRACK.
Another scream, this time raw, desperate.
Still, no answer.
"Talk," Price said simply.
The man clenched his teeth, chest heaving, trying to hold onto whatever twisted pride he had left.
"Fuck you."
Daryl grabbed a third finger.
I looked away.
CRACK.
The scream that followed was high-pitched, broken, like it had been torn straight out of his lungs.
For a moment, there was only the sound of his ragged breathing, of everyone else standing still, watching, waiting.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"We're… a group," he rasped. "Convicts. We escaped from a correctional facility in Columbia, South Carolina."
The words sank in fast.
I felt a cold weight settle in my gut.
Rosita muttered under her breath, voice sharp. "Fucking rapists."
I didn't know if that was true. Didn't need to.
A group of escaped prisoners setting up roadblocks, ambushing people? It didn't take much imagination to figure out the kind of things they were doing.
And I knew, without a doubt, there was no coming back from that.
Rick's voice broke the silence. "Where's your camp?"
The man shut his mouth again.
Daryl sighed and reached for another finger.
This time, I didn't flinch.
This type of man always talks.
They pretend to be tough, pretend they don't feel fear—but fear is the only thing men like this understand.
CRACK.
The man let out a strangled groan, shaking his head. Like he still thought he could hold out.
Then, finally:
"Town mayor's house," he gasped. "Few miles away."
Rick didn't hesitate. "How many left?"
The guy clenched his jaw, his whole body trembling from the pain.
Price just stared. Waiting.
A beat passed.
Then, finally—"Not many left. Only seven. They were starting to get drunk and high when we left."
I exhaled, glancing at Rick.
He was already making the call.
"We end this tonight," Rick said, voice like iron. "With you leading us."
Price nodded, no hesitation.
"I want three people with me," he said, "Rick, Daryl, and Abraham."
I didn't argue.
I knew what needed to be done.
People like this don't get second chances.
Price straightened, giving one last glance at the bastard kneeling in the dirt.
"The rest of you stay here," he said. "Be vigilant. If anything happens, you hold the line."
No one questioned it.
Because we all knew what was coming.
By sunrise, that mayor's house would be nothing but ashes and bodies.
Price's POV
The bastard was already half-broken, slumped forward, sweat dripping down his face, blood soaking into his shirt.
Didn't mean I was done with him.
I knelt in front of him, meeting his eyes, voice calm.
"What kind of firepower do they have?"
He hesitated, lips pressed tight. Didn't want to talk.
Daryl sighed, grabbed his hand, and snapped another finger.
CRACK.
The man screamed, his whole body shuddering as he gritted his teeth.
"M4s, pistols," he gasped. "One sawed-off shotgun—Frankie keeps it under his bed."
Good. That's what I needed to know.
"Size of the house?" I asked.
"Two floors, plus a basement," he spat, still shaking. "We live upstairs, store supplies downstairs."
"And where exactly are your boys getting high?"
He panted for a second, head drooping. "Living room… big one near the front. They like to drink there."
I nodded.
"The town nearby—any places you haven't looted?"
He stayed quiet.
Wrong answer.
CRACK.
The sound was sickening, his howl even worse.
"A local grocery store," he sobbed. "It looked intact! We were gonna hit it later!"
Good.
"Any groups aside from you in this town" I asked him. "None" he answered while crying.
I stood up, rolling my shoulders. "That's all I need."
He started to say something, some weak, desperate plea. Maybe he thought we'd let him go.
Maybe he thought he'd live.
I pulled out my suppressed M1911 and put a bullet in his head.
No hesitation.
No second chances for scum like him.
The night swallowed us as we moved through the woods, Rick, Daryl, and Abraham following behind me.
Could've done this on my own.
Hell, I'd have performed better by myself.
But these people? They needed to learn.
Killing wasn't just about pulling a trigger. It was about control. Precision. Timing.
They were used to fighting like survivors. This was an execution.
We reached the mayor's house just beyond the tree line, crouched in the shadows.
It was big, old-world style, the kind of house that once had lawns, barbecues, kids playing outside.
Now? The porch was lined with empty bottles and filth.
No sentries.
Figures. They were probably too wasted to care.
Idiots.
I raised my binoculars, scanning the windows. No movement upstairs. No patrols outside.
They weren't expecting anyone.
That'd be their last mistake.
I turned to the others, my voice low.
"We do this quiet. Quick. Clean."
They all nodded. No one argued.
I'd already told them to bring only suppressed weapons and I allowed Daryl's crossbow. This wasn't a brawl—we weren't going in like a battering ram.
We were going in like ghosts.
I pulled them in close and laid it out.
"We clear the entire house. No doors left unchecked. No corners unswept."
They listened. Good.
"I take point. You follow my lead. You wait for my signal before you fire. If I raise my fist, you stop. If I point at a target, you drop 'em."
I met each of their eyes. Rick. Daryl. Abraham.
"We leave no survivors."
They nodded.
We moved out.
Silent. Deadly.
Time to send these bastards straight to hell.
Abraham Ford's POV
This wasn't a fight.
It was a damn execution.
I ain't gonna lie—I preferred a good brawl. Something messy, loud, where you could let loose and send some sorry bastard straight to hell.
But this? This was Price's show. And the man? He moved like a goddamn ghost.
We crept through the dark, sticking close to the tree line, the mayor's house looming ahead.
Big place. Probably looked nice before the world went to shit. Now? It was just another den of filth, booze, and bad men.
And we were about to clear it.
I tightened my grip on my suppressed rifle, eyes sweeping the area. Still no sentries. That told me everything I needed to know.
They weren't worried about being attacked.
Idiots.
We stopped just outside the porch, crouched low in the overgrown grass.
Price turned, giving us hand signals.
One finger up – Me, Rick, and Daryl each take a side.
Two fingers to the left – Daryl goes around the back.
Fist raised – Hold position.
Point, then slice across the neck – Kill silently.
The man was a damn professional. Every move was deliberate. Precise. No wasted motion.
Rick nodded once. Daryl shifted slightly. No questions, no hesitation. We trusted Price to lead.
I inhaled slow, steadying my heartbeat.
Then we moved.
Price took point, stepping onto the porch without a sound. We followed, boots landing light, controlled.
Front door was unlocked. Not even barricaded.
These pricks weren't just overconfident—they were goddamn stupid.
Price opened the door just enough to slip inside.
We followed.
The house smelled like stale booze, sweat, and rot. Dim candlelight flickered from the next room.
And then? We heard 'em.
Laughter. Slurred voices. Bottles clinking.
They were celebrating something. Didn't know what. Didn't care.
Because this was their last party.
Price raised a fist.
We froze.
He peeked around the corner. Scanned. Counted.
Then he turned back and flashed five fingers.
Five in the living room.
That left two unaccounted for.
Rick and Daryl positioned themselves, waiting on the signal.
Price pointed at me, then pointed at the first target inside.
My cue.
I moved in, smooth and fast, stepping up behind a bald, bearded bastard who was too busy laughing to know he was about to die.
I put my knife under his chin and ripped it across his throat.
He gurgled, twitched, then dropped.
No one else even noticed.
Daryl crept up behind another, crossbow raised.
Thwip!
The bolt punched through the back of his skull, and he went limp over the table.
Rick grabbed the next guy from behind, shoving his blade into his ribs.
Price? He didn't even blink.
He just stepped forward, raised his suppressed pistol, and put two rounds into the last two sitting on the couch.
Pfft. Pfft.
Clean. Silent. Done.
Upstairs
Five down.
Two left.
We moved up the staircase, rifles raised, boots careful on the creaking wood.
A door was slightly open at the end of the hall. Light flickered inside.
Music played softly. Some old song, barely recognizable.
We stacked up outside. Price gestured—Rick first, me second, Daryl third, him last.
Rick nudged the door open with his boot.
Inside?
A man was passed out, shirt half-unbuttoned, pistol on the table beside him.
Another was sitting on the bed, barely awake, needle still stuck in his arm.
Pathetic.
Rick took the one on the bed. Silencer popped once.
I stepped up to the second.
He stirred slightly, eyes flickering open.
I leaned down, whispered, "Sweet dreams, asshole."
Then I crushed his windpipe with my boot.
The house was silent.
Seven men. Seven bodies.
I exhaled through my nose, shaking the tension out of my arms.
Price lowered his weapon, nodding to himself. Satisfied.
Rick wiped his blade clean. Daryl reloaded his crossbow.
No words needed to be said.
We did what had to be done.
No survivors. No mercy.
I glanced at Price, watching him scan the room one last time.
He wasn't proud. Wasn't shaken.
He was just making sure the job was finished.
After a moment, he turned to us, voice low.
"Let's go."
And just like that, we disappeared into the night.