As we neared the outer ridge, I slowed my steps.
A thin column of smoke rose from the center of Alexandria — dark and steady, curling into the pale sky like a signal.
Daryl noticed it at the same time I did.
We locked eyes. No words needed.
That kind of smoke… it wasn't a campfire. It wasn't someone burning brush or clearing space for crops.
It was trouble.
Still, I tried to reason with myself.
The others are inside. Graves. Glenn. Merle. Michonne. They can handle it. This might be nothing.
But the tight feeling in my chest said otherwise.
I gripped the strap of my rifle a little tighter.
"Let's go," I muttered.
Daryl gave a curt nod beside me.
Just as we reached the gate, we saw them.
Three men. Dirty. Wild-eyed. Laughing.
They were dragging a woman across the pavement, her body limp, her legs streaked with blood. One of them jabbed a knife into her thigh—not to kill, but to hurt. To watch her squirm.
My scalp went cold.
They weren't trying to escape.They were playing.Like this was some twisted game.
The kind of cruelty you don't learn—you're born with it.
I didn't wait.
I raised my pistol and fired, the shot echoing through the street.The man holding her by the hair dropped instantly, the back of his skull spraying red across the curb as his body went limp.
Daryl fired beside me, his bolt burying itself into the shoulder of the second man—the one who had just stabbed her.
The third looked up, startled—eyes wide, mouth slack.He saw us too late.
I was already moving.
Gun still hot, I sprinted straight for him, drawing my machete mid-run.
Wolves? Here already?
They weren't supposed to be here yet.What the hell happened while we were gone?
The man turned to run.I didn't give him the chance.
I brought the blade down fast—slashing clean through his forearm, severing the hand that clutched his blood-crusted weapon.He screamed and stumbled, blood spraying the dirt.
I didn't stop.
I stepped in and buried the machete into his chest, driving it past bone and into lung.
He gasped once. Eyes wide.Then he dropped.
The woman lay on the ground, whimpering, her breath ragged.
Daryl crouched beside her, checking her leg, murmuring something I didn't hear.
I scanned the area—eyes sharp, breathing heavy.
"This doesn't make sense," I muttered.
Daryl looked at me. "What?"
"They weren't supposed to be here yet," I said. "Not this fast. Not again."
He followed my gaze to the smoke rising near the center of town, then said.
"What are you talking about?"
"Something's wrong, I said."
Really wrong.
If the Wolves were already this deep, this quickly...
What the hell happened inside the walls?
And worse—
Who let them in?
The man Daryl shot wasn't dead yet.
He was crawling, dragging himself across the pavement by one arm, leaving a thick trail of blood behind him. His shoulder was mangled where the bolt struck, bone poking through torn flesh.
He reached for the dropped knife.
Too late.
With my other hand gripping my pistol, I raised it slowly, stepped forward, and fired a single shot into the side of his skull.
His head snapped to the pavement.
The street went quiet, except for the sound of the woman sobbing.
Blood pooled around the bodies—slick, dark, steaming against the concrete.
I holstered the pistol and walked over to her.
She flinched as I crouched, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps.
"You're safe now," I said quietly.
Her eyes darted between the corpses, still shaking.
I rested a hand gently on her shoulder, keeping my voice low, steady.
"It's gonna be okay."
I looked past her—toward the smoke rising from inside the community.
Daryl and I left the woman behind—her name still unknown to me—but not before making sure she was stable and out of immediate danger. There wasn't time for small talk or introductions. The chaos around us demanded every ounce of focus. Blood still stained the street where we found her, and the air was thick with the smell of smoke and iron.
We moved fast, checking the nearby streets and alleys. The Wolves had come early—too early. Something must've tipped them off. Maybe someone had talked, or maybe they were just savages who moved on instinct. Either way, we had to deal with it now.
In less than ten minutes, Daryl and I had taken out six of them. Sloppy, unorganized attackers, but brutal and relentless. One had a blood-covered axe and charged me without hesitation. I shot him twice in the chest and once in the head before he dropped. Another tried to escape, bleeding from a gut wound, but Daryl cut him down with a bolt to the spine.
We pushed forward and finally managed to link up with Graves and Glenn. They were pinned near one of the storage sheds, covering a small group of terrified civilians. Glenn gave me a quick nod, his face slick with sweat and blood—not all of it his. Graves was yelling instructions, trying to keep the group calm and moving. I covered their left side, watching for any more ambushes.
I took a second to scan the area. Most of the Alexandrians were either hiding or too stunned to react. Only a few were really fighting—Tobin, Scott, Aaron, and Eric were holding their own, making every shot count. I caught a glimpse of Aiden and Nicholas, ducking behind a truck, firing sporadically. At least they were trying. That was more than I could say for others.
One name in particular came to mind.
Spencer.
I looked everywhere—rooftops, porches, alleys. Nothing. No sign of him. Not even a stray bullet from his direction. Typical. In a moment like this, when the community needed everyone, he was nowhere to be found.
Coward.
I bit the inside of my cheek and forced myself to stay focused. This wasn't the time to be distracted by resentment. But the thought lingered. Some people talked big when things were calm, but when the world caught fire—they vanished.
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