"Arthur! Maggie!"
The voice cut through the quiet morning air, sharp and impatient. Arthur jolted awake, blinking against the sunlight streaming through the guard tower's windows. Next to him, Maggie stirred, her bare shoulder peeking out from under the thin blanket. She groaned, rubbing her eyes.
Arthur sat up quickly, grabbing his jeans from the floor and yanking them on. He cracked the door open and stepped outside, the cool breeze hitting his skin as he leaned over the railing. Below, Rick, Carol, Glenn, and Daryl stood waiting, their expressions a mix of amusement and impatience.
"The hell's the trouble?" Arthur called down, voice still rough with sleep.
Daryl smirked, crossing his arms. "You comin' or what?"
Arthur frowned. "What?"
"I said," Daryl drawled, grinning as the others chuckled, "you comin' down here to help, or you just gonna stand there lookin' pretty?"
Arthur rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Gimme a damn minute." He ducked back inside, where Maggie was already pulling on her clothes.
"Mornin', cowboy," she teased, stretching with a satisfied sigh. "Last night was… eventful."
Arthur shot her a look as he buttoned his shirt. "You're like a damn succubus, woman."
She rolled her eyes, smirking. "And you love it."
As they headed down the narrow stairs, Maggie eyed his scruffy beard. "You ever gonna clean that up?"
Arthur rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "Actually, been thinkin' of shavin' it down to a mustache."
Maggie stopped mid-step, horrified. "Absolutely not."
"Why the hell not?"
"Because," she said, wrinkling her nose, "that'll just make me feel the age gap even more."
Arthur barked a laugh. "Too bad. Gettin' one either way."
She punched his arm playfully, but before she could retort, Daryl's voice cut through the yard.
"Man, what'd we tell you? Stay in your damn cellblock!"
Arthur jogged ahead, spotting Daryl squaring off against Axel and Oscar, the two inmates lingering too close to their block. The door creaked as Arthur pushed past them, standing between the group and the prisoners.
Axel held up his hands. "We know, we know. But all them bodies in there—they were people we knew. We ain't got a clue how to survive out here."
Rick stepped forward, arms crossed. "We had a deal. We stick with it."
"We can help!" Axel insisted. "I can fix cars, scavenge supplies. Oscar's strong—good with labor. Y'all don't gotta do everything yourselves."
Arthur glanced at Rick, who gave a small shrug. With a sigh, Arthur turned back to the inmates. "Alright. Here's how this'll go—you burn the bodies. All of 'em. You can sleep outside in tents 'til we trust you enough to let you inside. That fair?"
Axel and Oscar exchanged glances before nodding. "Yeah. Yeah, that's fair. Thanks."
Glenn uncrossed his arms and jerked his chin toward the yard. "Then get to it."
As the two men hurried off, Arthur smirked and clapped Glenn on the shoulder. "Damn, boy. Raised you right."
Glenn shoved him off, scowling. "Shut up."
Arthur grinned. "Stick with me longer, kid, and you'll be able to melt metal with that glare."
——————
The chain-link fence rattled under the weight of the dead pressing against it. Shane drove his knife through a walker's eye socket with practiced efficiency, twisting the blade before yanking it free. Beside him, Hosea Matthews worked slower, his strikes less precise—but he was learning fast.
Until now, Hosea had been holed up in the prison cafeteria with Axel, Oscar, and the other inmates, surviving on dwindling rations while the world outside collapsed. He hadn't had to fight the dead until the group took over. But he was no stranger to survival. A lifetime of outrunning lawmen, harsh winters, and worse men had sharpened his instincts.
Behind them, in the overgrown fields, Axel and Oscar heaved another corpse onto the bed of a rusted pickup truck. Daryl stood nearby, arms crossed, his crossbow slung over his shoulder. His eyes never left them.
"I swear that man don't blink," Hosea muttered, nodding toward Daryl as he stabbed another walker through the fence.
Shane chuckled, wiping sweat from his brow. "Ain't never seen him do it." He paused, studying Hosea for a moment before asking, "How'd you come to know Arthur, anyway?"
Hosea smirked. "Known that boy since he was knee-high. Me and a… friend raised him." He left Dutch's name unspoken—no need to dredge up old ghosts.
Shane grunted. "So how'd you end up locked in here?"
"Got picked up by some fella right when things went to hell," Hosea said, driving his knife into another walker's skull. "Said the guards here would keep me safe. Technically, he wasn't wrong."
Shane nodded, then glanced toward the prison yard where Lori sat in the shade, Hershel beside her. "Lori's gettin' close," he said quietly. "We gotta keep Hershel near her. Don't want her givin' birth without him."
Hosea followed his gaze. "She's quite ahead, ain't she?"
"Yeah." Shane hesitated, then asked, "You ever killed a man before?"
Hosea raised an eyebrow. "Where's this comin' from?"
Shane shrugged. "Just makin' sure you're ready to do what needs doin', if it comes down to it."
For a long moment, Hosea just stared at him. Then, suddenly, he started laughing—a deep, wheezing chuckle that made Shane's jaw tighten.
"The hell's so funny?" Shane snapped, though he kept his voice low. He didn't want to hurt the old man, but damn if he wasn't testing his patience. Then again, Arthur clearly treasured Hosea, and Shane wasn't stupid enough to pick that fight.
Hosea wiped his eyes, still grinning. "Oh, son," he said, clapping Shane on the shoulder. "You don't need to worry about that."
And with that, he turned back to the fence and drove his knife into another walker's skull, leaving Shane to wonder just what the hell kind of man he was dealing with.