The sun had barely risen when Aiden took his position at the front gate, flanked by a handful of his fighters. The morning air was crisp, the sky clear, and the grass wet with dew—but none of that mattered. His eyes were fixed on the tree line beyond the outer fences, calculating, steady, patient. The night's events had been a mess—but not his mess. The farm was never going to hold. Aiden had seen that from the moment he scouted it days ago. Too exposed, too sentimental. It was only a matter of time.
Now, Rick's group would be arriving—beaten, bloodied, and stripped of whatever illusions they still had left.
"Eyes open," Aiden said without looking at his fighters. "They'll be coming in rough. We keep things tight. Controlled."
Beside him, Markus adjusted his rifle strap. "Think they'll come peacefully?"
"They just lost half their group," Aiden replied, his tone flat. "They'll come. They'll follow. Or they'll break. Either way, we're ready."
He wasn't here to comfort anyone. He wasn't here to trade tears over Shane or Andrea. Aiden hadn't known them, and even if he had, mourning didn't change the facts. They were liabilities who didn't make it out. Rick's group had been led by emotion for too long. That's why they were down to scraps. That's why they needed him now.
And if they wanted in, they were going to play by his rules.
Minutes passed. The clearing remained still, but Aiden knew they were close. He'd seen the route they would take. Knew where the escape paths from the farm funneled out. Sure enough, a flicker of movement stirred the trees. Figures emerged—slow, stumbling slightly, worn down but alive.
Rick was at the front, gripping his revolver loosely, shoulders squared like a man trying to hold his world together through sheer will. Lori and Carl were right behind him. Carl looked dazed. Glenn walked beside Maggie, who kept glancing back as if she might see ghosts in the trees. Daryl scanned the terrain constantly, crossbow at the ready, ever the hunter. Dale looked tired—too tired. Hershel moved with a limp, Beth clinging to his arm. T-Dog was silent but alert, watching their flank.
Ten of them. No Shane. No Andrea. Aiden didn't flinch. The losses were expected.
They were in worse shape than he'd hoped.
As they approached, Rick slowed, eyes narrowing on the figures at the gate. He wasn't stupid. He'd know what this meant—Aiden had the high ground now.
Rick stopped just outside the gate. His voice was gravelly. "We came like you said."
"You made it," Aiden replied, voice cool. "That puts you ahead of most."
Rick's jaw clenched, but he didn't take the bait. He looked at the prison walls behind Aiden. "This place secure?"
"It will be. With discipline. Cooperation."
Silence hung between them, thick with tension. The rest of the group waited quietly, watching the exchange.
Aiden took a step forward. "You want in? Then you follow the system I've built. No freelancing. No arguing. Everyone pulls their weight. You break rules, you're out."
Rick looked over his shoulder at his exhausted group, then back at Aiden. "We've had enough of people barking orders."
"You've also had enough of running for your lives," Aiden countered. "I'm not your enemy, Rick. But this isn't a democracy. It's survival. And I know how to run it."
Rick didn't respond immediately. There was conflict in his eyes—but exhaustion, too. He gave a slow nod. Not of agreement, but of resignation. He knew they didn't have many options.
Aiden motioned to one of his men. "Open the gate."
The chains rattled as the gate was unbolted and pushed open. Aiden stepped back, giving them space but watching every move. As the survivors entered, their expressions were mixed—some grateful, some wary, some just numb.
Maggie muttered something to Glenn under her breath. Daryl walked in last, eyes locking briefly with Aiden. A challenge there, unspoken. Aiden held the stare without blinking.
Let him watch. Let them all watch. Because inside these walls, things were going to be different. The chaos of the farm, the sentimental decisions, the losses—they ended here.
Aiden would see to it.
Inside the Prison Walls
The heavy gate clanged shut behind them with a finality that seemed to echo across the cracked concrete. The cold steel barred the world outside, but Rick's group wasn't welcomed with warmth — just order, structure, and a clear unspoken message:
This is Aiden's territory now.
Without a word, Aiden turned and began walking toward the inner yard, his boots crunching on gravel. His fighters moved into formation behind and beside him, surrounding Rick's group not in a hostile way, but like a moving perimeter. It was clear this wasn't a free-for-all. Everything was deliberate. Controlled.
"We're heading to Cell Block D," Aiden called over his shoulder, loud enough for everyone to hear. "That's your temporary holding area until the medical check's done and we determine you're clear."
Rick's eyes narrowed. "Holding?"
"It's not a jail cell, Rick. It's protocol," Aiden replied without stopping. "Everyone gets checked for bites or symptoms. No exceptions."
Daryl made a low grunt under his breath but said nothing. Carl clung closer to Lori, and Glenn squeezed Maggie's hand.
As the group passed through a double-layered gate and into a wide open corridor leading toward the cell blocks, the scale of the place started to sink in. The prison interior was cold, sterile, eerily quiet—yet it felt strong, fortified. A fortress in a world of rot.
Once inside, Aiden raised a hand and gestured to his fighters. "Split it. Females to the right side with Mara. Males to the left with Marcus. Quick visual checks for bites, scratches, and fever. No negotiation. If anyone refuses, they go back outside the gate."
His tone left no room for argument.
Mara, a dark-haired woman in her early thirties with sharp eyes and a sidearm strapped to her thigh, motioned for Lori, Maggie, Beth, and the other women to follow her down the right wing. Two more female guards flanked her—one tall and lean with a shaved head, the other short but muscular with piercing green eyes. Their presence was firm but not aggressive.
Lori hesitated, giving Rick a glance.
"It's fine," Rick muttered, even though he didn't look happy.
On the left, Marcus—a bulky ex-soldier with a shaved scalp and a permanent scowl—stepped forward and nodded to the men. "Let's go. Shirts off, arms out. It's not a game."
Daryl gave him a dirty look but moved. "This some kinda power trip?" he asked, unstrapping his vest.
"No," Marcus replied coolly, eyeing the group. "It's the only reason we're still alive."
One by one, the men complied. Glenn was quiet and focused. T-Dog sighed but obeyed. Dale complained about the indignity but eventually shrugged and unbuttoned his shirt. Even Rick, after a long pause, removed his outer layer and let them check him.
Meanwhile, Mara and her team led the women into a smaller wing of the cell block. They kept things efficient—checking arms, necks, legs if necessary, watching for the telltale signs of infection: pale veins, bite marks, sweat that shouldn't be there. Maggie's face stayed strong, but her eyes were haunted. Beth trembled. Lori stood her ground, calm but clearly on edge.
"Clean," Mara finally said. "All of them. No symptoms."
Across the corridor, Marcus gave Aiden a sharp nod. "Men are clear."
Aiden took a breath, nodded once, and motioned them to follow again. "Then we move into the block. Get settled. You've got two hours to rest. After that, we talk about roles. If you want to stay, you earn it."
Rick stepped forward. "You check for bites. Fine. But I won't have my people treated like criminals."
"You're not criminals," Aiden replied. "You're untested. There's a difference."
Rick's stare was cold. Aiden returned it with one of his own. "We don't take chances. That's why this place still stands. You're here now. Which means you play by the rules. You don't like them?" He gestured back toward the yard. "The gate still works."
Silence followed.
Eventually, Rick gave a short nod.
"Two hours," Aiden said again. "Then you meet with me. And we figure out what comes next."
As Rick's group moved into the cell block, exhausted but intact, Aiden stayed behind, watching every step.
He didn't care how much they'd lost at the farm. That was the past. What mattered now was simple:
Could they survive here without dragging everyone else down?
He intended to find out.
Warden's Office – Midday
The door shut behind him with a dull echo, sealing off the noise of the cell blocks and the restless newcomers. Aiden stood for a moment in the stillness, his breath low, steady. The Warden's office—the highest vantage point in the administrative wing of the prison—had become his command center. From here, he watched over the entire facility, kept tabs on supply rosters, mapped out future expansions, and strategized everything from scavenging runs to defense drills. This was his war room.
He stepped over to the heavy steel desk—scuffed, stained, but solid—and unrolled a large laminated map of the surrounding region across its surface. The edges were worn, marked with tape and thumbtack holes. It wasn't just a map anymore—it was a living record. Aiden had covered it in colored markings, coded legends, and dozens of handwritten notes scrawled in fine-tipped permanent marker.
Red Xs marked looted towns. Black circles indicated confirmed walker nests. Blue squares were former supply spots now dried up. There were green arrows showing cleared routes, yellow lines outlining long-range patrol paths. Over time, it had become less a map and more a battlefield intelligence grid. And right now, it needs updating.
Winter was coming. Fast.
Aiden dropped into the cracked leather chair behind the desk, the springs groaning under his weight. He leaned forward, his fingers tracing over a small township about forty miles to the west—Wellspring. Last scouted six weeks ago. It had a school, a medical clinic, and two grocery stores that might still have hidden stockpiles. He circled it with a red pen, tapping the spot twice.
"Too far for a one-day run," he muttered. "But if the trucks hold... maybe with an overnight crew."
He glanced at a clipboard nearby—inventory logs, food tallies, water supply estimates, medicine counts. The numbers didn't lie.
Four months of food if they rationed carefully. Maybe less if Rick's group didn't pull their weight.
He wasn't worried yet. But he would be if they stood still.
He made another note—Solar Panels – Priority. The prison's backup generators still worked, but fuel was finite. The dream was long-term power without depending on a drop of gasoline. Solar panels weren't easy to find anymore, but if they could hit a Home Depot or a solar installation company outside the city, there might still be hope.
He marked three new locations:
Hillpoint Strip Mall – possible solar stock
Greystone Army Depot – likely picked clean, but worth the risk
Clearfield University Tech Center – risky, downtown, but worth sending a scout
Then he leaned back, thinking deeper.
The farming area had been cleared just last week—half a football field of potential, but the soil was still rough and infertile. They had compost, tools, and a few barrels of dried fertilizer locked away, but that alone wouldn't be enough. Planting season was still months off. Winter would hit before they saw a single vegetable.
He scribbled a quick note across the map:Compost Expansion – Use walker corpses? Risk assessment required.
Aiden's mind moved like a machine—relentless, analytical. Every decision had to serve the whole. Every choice, calculated for survival. He couldn't afford blind hope, or optimism. The world didn't run on that anymore.
He looked out the shattered glass window overlooking the yard. From up here, he could see Rick's people moving into Cell Block D. Some sat against the walls, others stood silently, unsure of their place. A few were already exploring, trying to make the space livable. That was good. It meant they weren't paralyzed.
Still, Aiden didn't trust them yet.
Not fully.
They'd lost too much. People who had nothing left made impulsive choices. Desperate ones. He needed eyes on them. Trusted eyes.
He reached for the walkie on his desk and keyed it up.
"Celia, status?"
A faint burst of static came back, then her voice: "They're in. No incidents yet. Rick's kid is quiet, but Daryl—he's watching everything. Like he's waiting for us to slip."
"He always is," Aiden said flatly. "Keep them contained. No one wanders until I've had time to finish tomorrow's plan."
"Copy."
He clicked off the radio and turned back to the map.
There were more marks to make. Weapons—they needed more of them. Guns, knives, bows, bolts, anything silent and effective. Ammunition was precious now. He marked a former National Guard station outside of Asheville, then scratched a note beside it:Check the armory. Bring demo gear. May be locked.
Then another thought hit him—clothing. Winter gear. Blankets. Boots. Half of Rick's group had come in with shredded sleeves and threadbare coats. That wouldn't last through December.
He flipped to a second map beneath the first—an old city zoning layout showing every department store, camping outlet, and emergency shelter in a 60-mile radius. Everywhere, people once went to feel safe. Now, they were graveyards filled with valuable dust.
He began circling spots in a new color, purple for cold-weather supplies.
Evergreen Mall – risk high, reward high
Murphy's Camp Supply – not yet hit
Westfield Elementary – possible clothing stockpile for children
He paused, staring at that last one. Children. Carl. Beth. The few other kids from his original group.
A reminder that it wasn't just about surviving. It was about surviving without becoming monsters.
He exhaled and leaned forward again, drawing a thick black line from the prison outward—a route for the first major supply run of the winter campaign. He'd take volunteers from both groups. But only those who proved themselves first.
The time for trial runs was over. This was the real thing now.
As he continued marking, organizing, and writing out a loose plan for the next six weeks of missions, he didn't stop to rest, didn't bother to eat. His mind stayed locked into the grid in front of him, the map slowly transforming from a collection of cities and highways into a living, breathing network of survival.
This was what leadership looked like now—not speeches, not camaraderie.
Logistics. Decisions. Cold calculations.
Aiden was alone in the Warden's office, but it didn't bother him.
Because up here, with his map, his numbers, and the fate of the group hanging in delicate balance—
This was where he ruled.