Morning crept into Cellblock C, pale light filtering through the barred windows.
The group stirred slowly, the air warmer now than the nights they'd endured in the snow.
Joe stepped back inside after finishing his sweep of the walls.
He stripped off his coat, moving toward the cells where people were starting to gather for breakfast.
That's when he noticed Rick stepping out of a cell... Elize and Michonne just behind him.
The women were talking softly to one another, almost companionably, while Rick looked drained, deep shadows under his eyes.
His expression carried the weight of too many decisions, too many burdens.
Joe didn't comment. He just gave Rick a smirk, then moved on.
He sat down with the others, Clem tucked against his side with her bowl of food, Amy and Andrea leaning nearby.
The group waited expectantly, everyone still on edge after the chaos of the past day.
Joe cleared his throat. "Building's clear. No more walkers inside this wing."
The relief was immediate. Shoulders eased, chatter rose.
Glenn let out a long breath. "That's good news. We need more of that."
Maggie managed a small smile, Beth leaning against her with tired eyes.
Hershel, still pale but steadier than before, gave Joe a grateful nod from his bunk.
Andrea glanced around the cellblock, lips quirking. "Not exactly five-star, but… it's ours."
Laughter rippled quietly. Even if just for a moment, the heaviness of survival lifted.
Joe leaned back, arms crossed. "It's not perfect. But it's a start."
...
Rick called everyone together. Joe stood at his side as the group gathered in the common room of Cellblock C.
"We're secure here," Rick said, his voice carrying steady authority. "But this is just one wing. If we're staying long-term, we clear the rest. Piece by piece, day by day."
Joe nodded. "We move slow. Careful. No more running blind into a horde. We clear this place the right way."
The group murmured in agreement, a plan forming. Each day, they would take a section.
Sweep it, secure it, and move on.
---
It was the third day of clearing. The group moved in formation down another bleak corridor, flashlights cutting thin beams through the dark.
The air smelled of dust and mildew, heavy with the memory of death.
Rick led the way with Joe beside him, weapons drawn. Daryl kept to the rear, crossbow ready. Mary and Glenn trailed close, every step echoing on the linoleum floor.
They came to a double set of heavy metal doors. The faded letters stenciled across them read, "INFIRMARY."
Everyone froze. The weight of the word hung in the air.
Rick glanced back, voice low but steady. "Ready?"
Joe gave a short nod, katana in hand. Glenn swallowed hard and stepped closer with his pike.
Rick pushed. The hinges squealed loud enough to make everyone flinch, the sound bouncing down the halls.
The group poured inside quickly, weapons up, breaths held.
For a moment, silence. Then flashlights swept across the room.
Rows of hospital beds sat waiting, sheets still tucked neat and white. Cabinets lined the walls, doors closed, their glass still unbroken.
Metal trays with surgical tools lay forgotten, as if someone had just stepped out for a smoke and never returned.
Dust motes danced in the beams of light, but the room was untouched. No corpses. No blood. No walkers.
"Clear," Joe muttered after a sweep, lowering his blade.
Hershel stepped in slowly. He leaned heavily on Maggie, his eyes darting from the stocked cabinets to the carts of sterile bandages, to the shelves of unopened bottles. His lips trembled.
"This…" His voice broke. He steadied himself, eyes shining. "This is everything I need. Therre couldn't have been a better outcome."
Maggie tightened her arm around him, tears filling her eyes. Beth hurried forward, throwing her arms around his other side. "Daddy," she whispered, smiling through her tears.
Hershel's face cracked into a fragile smile. For the first time since his collapse, he didn't look weak. He looked like a man with purpose.
Rick exhaled, relief softening his features. "This changes everything."
Daryl smirked faintly, lowering his crossbow. "Guess you'll be patchin' us up proper from now on, Doc."
The others laughed quietly, tension bleeding out of their shoulders.
Rhe group didn't feel like survivors scavenging scraps. They felt like a community... taking back a piece of the world that had been lost.
---
Two days after finding the infirmary, the group had pressed deeper into the prison.
The air grew colder the further they went, corridors narrowing and twisting like the veins of a dead giant.
Joe walked point this time, katana ready, Rick just behind with his machete.
Glenn and Mary carried flashlights, their beams playing over rusting pipes and peeling paint. Daryl brought up the rear, ever watchful.
They turned a corner and stopped dead.
At the end of the hall, bolted steel doors loomed, their surface scarred but intact. The faded lettering across the top was still legible, "ARMORY."
Nobody spoke. The weight of the word was enough to send a shiver through the group.
Rick whispered, "If this place hasn't been hit…"
Mary said softly. "Don't jinx it."
They approached cautiously. Joe tested the handle, it was locked tight.
Glenn crouched, prying at the hinges with his pike, but had no luck.
Rick pulled out the keys they'd been collecting from guard bodies. He tried them quickly. Finally, he slid one into the lock.
The click echoed like a gunshot.
Everyone tensed, weapons up, waiting for the flood of groans that usually followed. But silence answered.
Rick nodded, and together he and Joe pushed the doors open.
The hinges screamed, but when the gap widened and their flashlights cut inside, a collective gasp went up.
Dust lay thick across the floor, but the racks were not empty.
Against the wall stood riot gear... helmets with face shields, thick chest armor, reinforced gloves and shields.
A few rifles leaned neatly in the racks, magazines still clipped in place. Pistols were locked in cases, untouched.
Crates of ammunition sat stacked, their seals unbroken.
Daryl stepped forward first, running a hand over the cold steel of a riot shield. "Well, I'll be damned."
Glenn's grin spread ear to ear as he tested the weight of a pistol. "Its actually untouchedà"
Maggie exhaled a laugh of disbelief. "It's like Christmas."
Joe tested one of the rifles, working the slide. The metal sang. He gave a rare grin. "Now we're talking."
Rick, meanwhile, moved toward the quartermaster's desk. Papers were scattered across it, but in the back drawer he found a folded map.
His eyes narrowed as he opened it. In neat handwriting, a resupply location was circled and labeled, "Off-Site Armory – National Guard Depot."
Rick tucked it into his jacket, his face unreadable. "There's more," he said quietly.
The group stood in silence for a long moment, staring at the treasure trove of weapons and armor.
For weeks they had scraped by, fighting with melee weapons and saving each bullet. Their guns holding half-empty magazines.
Now, for the first time since Senoia, they felt like they were ready for whatever came next.
---
It had been a week of victories. The infirmary secured, the armory stocked, the cellblocks cleared one by one.
For the first time in months, the group felt momentum on their side.
On the seventh day, they pushed into the final section. Spirits were high... everyone thinking the same thing, 'After this, it's ours.'
Rick led the way, keys jingling softly at his belt. Joe stayed beside him, blade ready.
The others followed close, their boots crunching against the grit-stained floors.
The hall bent left, then opened into a wider corridor. The air here was colder, sharper. A draft brushed across their faces.
Rick slowed. "Feel that?"
Joe nodded grimly. "Wind."
They moved forward cautiously. Flashlights swept ahead and froze on the far end of the block.
The wall was gone.
Where thick concrete and steel should have stood was a ragged, gaping hole.
The edges were jagged, blackened, twisted with rebar jutting like broken bones. Snow drifted inside on the wind, coating the rubble.
It looked less like collapse and more like… an explosion.
The group stopped in their tracks, silence falling hard.
Glenn's voice was hollow. "All this work…"
Maggie's shoulders slumped, despair written across her face. "It's useless."
Beth wrapped her arms around herself, staring wide-eyed at the breach. Even Daryl's expression hardened, lips pressed thin.
For a long moment, no one spoke. The fortress they had worked so hard to claim felt fragile again, broken open to the world.
Then Joe stepped forward, crunching across the snow. He studied the breach, running a gloved hand along the scorched stone.
His jaw clenched as he looked at the broken fence beyond, but when he turned back to the group, his voice was steady.
"No. This doesn't end it. We can fix it."
Rick frowned. "With what?"
Joe pointed toward the treeline visible through the hole. "Wood. We cut trees, dig deep, set the trunks in. It'll hold long enough to get us through the winter."
Daryl grunted. "Wood ain't gonna stop 'em forever."
Joe nodded. "It's temporary. Come spring, we scout for better materials. Whether steel, concrete, or whatever we can find at a construction yard or warehouse. But for now, this will hold."
The group exchanged uncertain looks, but something in Joe's voice. His calm, resolute gaze steadied them.
Rick finally gave a slow nod. "Alright. Then that's what we'll do."
The group gathered around the breach, staring out at the snow and the gray sky beyond.
Their fortress had a wound. But it was theirs. And they would fight to keep it.
...
The next morning, Joe gathered the men. Rick, Daryl, T-Dog, Glenn, and Jack bundled up in layers, their breaths steaming as they crunched out into the snow.
They stopped near the treeline just beyond the gaping wound in the prison wall. The cold bit deep, but none of them complained. They set to work.
Axes and saws rang out, echoing through the silent forest. Snow shook loose from branches with every strike.
One by one, trees toppled, thundering into the drifts. Together, they cut the trunks down to clean sixteen-foot lengths. Trimming off the branches to make them perfectly round.
Muscles burned as they dragged the heavy logs through the snow back toward the breach.
At the site, Joe laid out the plan. "We dig six feet down, side to side, a straight trench."
The men worked shovels and picks, sweat freezing on their brows as they cut into the frozen ground.
It was grueling, backbreaking labor, but the line slowly took shape, the wound in the wall shrinking with every foot gained.
When the trench was ready, they rigged old pulleys and ropes from the prison's main gate.
Grunting and straining, they hoisted the massive trunks upright, setting each one into place. The logs stood like sentinels, shoulder-to-shoulder, forming a new wall of rough-hewn timber.
They packed the dirt back in, stamping it firm, locking the trunks in tight.
...
It took two long weeks of labor, day after day in the biting cold. But when the last log was set, they stepped back and looked at their work.
The breach was sealed.
Snow still fell. Wind still howled. But no walker would be forcing its way through that patch. Not now.
Joe brushed snow from his coat, nodding with quiet satisfaction. "It'll hold. Till spring. For now… nothing gets through."
The men stood together in the snow, chests heaving from the effort.
Behind them, the prison loomed... whole again, if only temporarily.