The air in Woodbury was thick with smoke and tension. The fires from the last Runner assault had been put out, but their ashes still smoldered in black scars along the outer barricades. The scent of burnt flesh clung to the streets like a curse, and even though the sun shone above, there was no warmth in it. People moved through the town square in hushed tones, casting furtive glances toward the governor's mansion—now Murphy's headquarters—and toward the man they weren't sure they could trust anymore.
Shane Walsh stood near the edge of the wall, his arms folded as he leaned against a stack of sandbags. His face was shadowed beneath the brim of a scavenged sheriff's cap, eyes cold and calculating as he watched the townsfolk whisper to each other. He could feel the fear in the air like a live wire—sharp, crackling, ready to spark into something worse.
And Shane knew how to light that fire.
"You all remember what I said," he muttered to a small gathering of Woodbury's original residents, his voice low but deliberate. "Before the last attack—I warned you. That Murphy was bringing trouble to our front door."
Rick, T-Dog, Amy, Andrea, and Glenn stood a few feet away near the remains of a sandbagged lookout, quietly observing the growing crowd. Rick's brows were furrowed in worry as he glanced between Shane and the people slowly gathering around him.
"He's twisting everything," Rick murmured.
Murphy, standing slightly apart from the others, arms crossed and an irritated scowl on his face, let out a snort. "I Don't trust him. He has abandonment issues and a hero complex."
"No one's listening to you right now," Andrea said, not unkindly but firm. "Not after what happened yesterday."
Murphy scowled deeper, rubbing at his temple. "Yeah, yeah… because it's my fault that your dead friends decided to grow brains and start organizing."
"They're not our friends anymore," Amy muttered, her tone dark. Her arms were folded tightly over her chest, but her eyes betrayed grief and confusion.
Shane's voice rose just enough to reach their ears. "Those things that hit us last night? They weren't normal walkers. Nah, those were something else. I'm calling 'em Brainiacs. Because that's what they are. Smart. Coordinated. Human intelligence without the soul. Like the Governor. Like Morales."
He let the names hang there like poison in the air.
T-Dog frowned deeply, arms resting over the handle of his shovel as he leaned against the side of a truck. "Morales was one of us once," he said quietly.
"Was," Shane emphasized. "Past tense. Now he's a monster—and a smart one. Same with that freak Prophet. We were lucky last night. But you think they're not gonna come back? You think they don't already know we're here? Murphy's the one they want. We're just collateral damage."
Murphy stepped forward, his lip curled, hands tightening at his sides. "I didn't ask to be followed. I didn't want any of this."
"But it followed you anyway," Shane fired back. "And if we keep following you, we're dead."
The crowd around them murmured, uncertainty thick in the air. A woman from the town—a former schoolteacher whose name no one had bothered to learn in weeks—stepped forward. "We need to vote," she said hesitantly. "This town… it's all we have. And if Murphy's drawing these things to us…"
Rick held up a hand, stepping between Shane and Murphy. "Enough."
All eyes turned to him.
Rick stood tall, though his posture sagged with exhaustion. Dirt clung to his shirt, and a patchy beard had begun to shadow his jaw, giving his face a gaunt, haunted edge. His eyes, though red-rimmed from sleepless nights and ash-choked air, were still sharp—honed by loss,and the constant demand for impossible decisions.
"We've all made hard calls," Rick said, voice low but steady, cutting through the mutterings of the growing crowd. "And yeah… Murphy might be part of why they came. But he's also the reason we're still standing."
Some heads turned toward Murphy, who leaned against a lamppost nearby, arms crossed over his chest. His blue eyes narrowed slightly, observing everything. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.
Rick went on, his voice firmer now. "Without him, we wouldn't have spotted the Brainiacs when we did. We'd all be dead."
Shane's jaw tensed visibly. His nostrils flared, lips tightening into a hard line. His arms stayed folded across his chest like a barricade, but he didn't speak. Not yet. He just stared at Rick with the same slow-burning anger that had been building for days, maybe weeks.
Rick's gaze swept the group—Amy, standing nervously beside Andrea; Glenn, shifting uncomfortably as he toyed with the strap of his bag; T-Dog, his hands resting on his hips, brow furrowed deeply.
"But we can't ignore the threat either," Rick continued. "If they're getting smarter—if they're organizing—then staying here's a risk. We've got too many civilians. Too many kids. We need to move."
Murphy uncrossed his arms and pushed off the pole, his expression unreadable, though tension showed in the slight tic of his jaw. "Exactly. Morales…" he exhaled sharply, eyes drifting toward the burnt section of the wall, "he was one of them. And if he's working with the Prophet, then yeah—he told them where we are. They'll come back. Stronger. Smarter. Hungrier."
Andrea frowned, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. "Where would we even go?"
Before anyone could answer, Amy's voice came out in a tentative whisper. "The prison."
Every head swiveled toward her. Even Murphy raised a brow.
Amy bit her lower lip, suddenly aware of the weight of the group's attention. "Me and Andrea… we passed it once while scouting. It's out by the old highway, maybe twenty miles from here. Fenced in. Isolated. We didn't get inside, but…" Her voice trailed off.
Andrea stepped up beside her sister, nodding with a more measured confidence. "It's a fortress. If it's clear, it could be exactly what we need."
Murphy tilted his head, smirking faintly, though his voice held seriousness. "Fortress-like? Now you're speaking my language. Plus, who the hell wants to live in a prison? Less likely we run into squatters—or Brainiacs."
T-Dog scratched at his temple, his eyes scanning the faces around them. "It's not a bad idea. We just need to be sure it's empty. Last thing we want is a death trap."
Rick gave a short, decisive nod. "We'll scout it. Tomorrow. First light. But it's our best lead right now."
Before anyone could speak further, a strange hissing sound drew their attention.
Murphy had pulled out a dented can of Axe body spray and was spraying himself like a man possessed. He spun slowly, arms out like a scarecrow, coating himself in layers of the sickly sweet scent.
Andrea's nose wrinkled in visible disgust. "What the hell are you doing?"
Murphy didn't stop, waving the can over his neck and under his arms. "Covering my scent. Those things tracked me. Maybe by smell. I'm not taking chances."
Glenn blinked. "So you're gonna mask the smell of death with… what is that, Midnight Rush?"
Murphy glanced at the label. "Yeah. Got a problem with that?"
Amy raised an eyebrow, half-skeptical, half-curious. "Does that actually work?"
Murphy shrugged and offered a half-grin. "Either I smell like a rotting freak buffet, or I smell like a frat guy who rolled through a Victoria's Secret. One of those is less likely to get me eaten."
Rick smirked faintly, despite himself, and looked away. But the levity didn't last.
Shane stepped forward, his voice low and sharp. "We're going to trust him to lead us into a prison now?"
Murphy's expression darkened. "I'm not leading anyone, cowboy. I'm just trying to keep people alive."
"You've been doing a real great job at that," Shane sneered, stepping closer, his eyes locked onto Murphy's. "Look around. Half this town is scorched. Bodies piled up at the gate. You're a magnet for death."
Murphy's posture stiffened. His eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. "You got something to say, say it."
"I already did," Shane snapped. "You're the problem."
T-Dog quickly stepped between them, raising a hand. "Enough. We don't have time for this macho crap."
Andrea backed him up. "He's right. If the Prophet's still out there—and we all know he is—then we're sitting ducks."
Shane scowled, but didn't press further. His fists clenched, knuckles white. The glare he shot Murphy could have cracked glass.
The murmurs around them grew. Some of the townsfolk looked at Murphy with unease. Others at Shane with suspicion. The divide had already begun to deepen, and Rick could feel it like a crack forming in ice beneath their feet.
Murphy turned and walked off, still spraying himself like a man on fire. As he moved, people parted ways around him, as though unsure if he was still one of them.
Rick exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
"We leave at first light," he said, voice low but firm.
Glenn gave a slow nod, already turning toward the RV. T-Dog slapped a hand on his back, guiding him away.
Amy lingered a moment beside Andrea. She looked up at the smoke spiraling from a blackened rooftop in the distance. "Do you think we'll make it there?"
Andrea stared out at the horizon, her expression unreadable. "I think we have to," she murmured.
Behind them, Rick remained silent, his eyes scanning the group as it slowly dispersed. He could see the cracks forming. In the group. In Shane. In Murphy. Even in himself.