Gunfire exploded from the cabin.
Bullets tore through the misty clearing, splintering bark and kicking up dirt as the remaining Wolves poured out from inside, shouting and firing wildly. Me, Daryl, and Aiden immediately stepped back, drawing their attention away from the treeline—right into our trap.
We exchanged fire as we moved, taking cover behind trees and fallen logs, returning shots where we could.
"They're all coming out," Daryl muttered beside me, calm even in chaos.
"Good," I said through gritted teeth.
And then—"NOW! KILL ALL OF THEM!" I roared, loud enough to shake the leaves overhead.
The Wolves paused, confused by my sudden shout. One of them—a tall, wiry man with a scar across his mouth—froze, then turned, panic on his face as he tried to run back toward the cabin.
Too late.
At that exact moment, the rest of our squad erupted from the trees, encircling them from all sides.
From the back, Graves emerged, rifle raised and deadly calm. With him:
Jessie, expression focused as she fired her revolver.
Nicholas, determined but visibly tense.
From the right flank, Merle charged in with a fierce grin and his Remington shotgun, booming loudly with each shot. Beside him:
Scott, ducking low and firing his pistol in controlled bursts.
Tobin, providing cover with his Mossberg pump-action.
On the left, Michonne stepped from the brush like a ghost, blade gleaming. With her:
Aaron, firing his SIG Sauer methodically.
Eric, backing him up, watching their flanks like a trained pair.
From the rear treeline, the support team opened fire:
Glenn, steady as always, laying down accurate suppressing fire.
Carter with his Ruger Mini-14.
Francine and Bruce with their lever-action Winchesters.
Annie, hands shaking but holding her ground with her .22 pistol.
The Wolves were caught completely off guard.
Gunfire erupted from every side. A storm of bullets rained down on them, cutting off their retreat and breaking their formation. One by one, they dropped—some shot mid-turn, others taken down as they tried to run.
The man who tried to make it back to the cabin screamed as a bullet tore through his leg. He fell, then crawled behind the body of one of his own men, using him as a shield.
Pointless.
A shot from Glenn pierced through the shoulder of the "shield" and hit the man in the gut. He slumped to the ground, groaning.
The entire skirmish lasted under two minutes.
The last man—bloodied, trembling, and pinned beneath the weight of his fallen comrade—looked up at me with wide, terrified eyes.
"Please," he gasped, voice quivering. "Please… let me live. Just give me a chance. I didn't—"
I stepped forward, silent, and looked him dead in the eye. His face was a mess of sweat, dirt, and dried blood. He reeked of fear.
"Who gave you the guns?" I asked, voice low and cold.
The question hit like a brick.
He froze.
I stared at him harder. In the show, the Wolves only ever used knives, axes, and crude weapons. But these ones? They were fully armed—assault rifles, pistols.
That meant one thing: someone supplied them.
And whoever it was… might still be out there.
He didn't answer. Just trembled, looking back and forth between me and the others, lips sealed tight from fear or loyalty—I didn't care which.
I raised my Python, barrel pointed between his eyes.
"Please," he whimpered again.
Bang.
He slumped back. No more begging. No more lies.
Behind me, Daryl exhaled through his nose. Merle didn't say a word.
"Report?" I asked, turning to the others.
Annie, Francine, and Jessie had been hit in the shootout. Francine had a graze across her thigh. Jessie had a bruised rib from falling behind cover. Annie had a bullet that clipped her shoulder.
Luckily, nothing serious.
They'd live.
I turned toward the rest. "All right, everyone. Let's check the cabin. Now."
A few minutes later, Merle returned from inside the cabin with Glenn, Carter, and Nicholas helping him carry several large wooden crates.
They thudded onto the dirt in front of me.
"We got five crates of weapons," Merle said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Ain't just guns either. This was no scavenger stash—someone stocked these bastards up good."
We pried them open.
Inside, we found:
Crate 1: Assault rifles—4 M4 carbines, 2 AK-47s, and 2 FN FALs.
Crate 2: Handguns—Glocks, Berettas, revolvers, each with loaded mags and boxes of ammo.
Crate 3: Explosives—2 frag grenades, a dozen homemade pipe bombs, and detonation wire.
Crate 4: Medical supplies—morphine, gauze, antibiotics, bandages, syringes, and combat tourniquets.
Crate 5: Food and essentials—canned goods, bottled water, batteries, blankets, and radio parts.
"Yeah," I muttered. "Someone's backing them. This wasn't just scavenged… this was delivered."
I looked around at the group—tired, wounded, but alive. Stronger.
"All right. Let's pack it up," I ordered. "Everyone grab what you can. We're taking these crates and everything in them back to Alexandria."
Someone out there had armed the Wolves.
Unbeknownst to Rick… he was right.
Hundreds of miles away, tucked deep within the concrete walls of a fortified military compound, two men in dark uniforms stood facing each other inside a sleek, dimly lit command room. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting long shadows across the steel walls lined with weapon lockers, surveillance monitors, and encrypted communication consoles.
One of them—mid-40s, clean-shaven, eyes sharp with authority—spoke first.
"So… what should we do?" he asked, arms crossed as he studied the satellite feed flickering on the main screen.
The second man, older, with graying hair and a scar across his brow, scoffed and turned away from the display.
"Look's like the Wolves got themselves killed. Useless animals," he muttered with disdain. "They weren't meant to survive. Just a field test."
The first officer glanced at him. "They have the weapons now."
The older man waved a hand dismissively."So what? It's a small community—less than 50 survivors, if that. Let them play soldier. They're no threat to us."
There was a pause.
Then the younger one nodded reluctantly."Understood."
They turned away from the screen, their black boots echoing against the polished floor as they walked toward the doorway.
On the desk beside them sat a sleek, black folder marked with a distinct insignia:
A three-ring symbol—three interlocking semi-circles arranged to form a minimalist emblem resembling an atom or a triskelion, the symbol of the CRM.