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The air in Woodbury was thick with the acrid stench of gunpowder, smoke, and death. The once-orderly streets, lined with pristine homes and carefully tended gardens, had become a war zone. The cobbled roads were now slick with fresh blood, a mixture of the innocent and the damned. The screams of the townspeople had dulled into a background chorus of sobs, shouts, and the eerie, inhuman moans of the undead.
Murphy moved swiftly through the devastation, his pulse hammering in his ears like a war drum. Every step felt heavier, his boots crunching over broken glass, spent shell casings, and the occasional severed limb. The chaos around him was deafening—gunfire cracked through the air, and the growls of the reanimated echoed through the streets like a death chant. He had seen this kind of anarchy before, in another world, in another fight for survival.
Except this time, he wasn't just trying to survive.
This time, he was going to take control.
"We're almost there," Dale called out, his voice gruff from exertion, though his steps remained steady. His weathered face, lined with age and exhaustion, was streaked with sweat and soot, but his determination hadn't wavered. He moved with purpose, gripping his rifle tightly as he scanned the surrounding buildings for movement.
Amy was right behind him, her fingers clenching and unclenching around the bloodied handle of a baseball bat. The once-lighthearted young woman had been hardened by the night's events. She had seen too much death, too much senseless killing. Her sister, Andrea, was still out there, but right now, survival came first.
Their destination was clear—the armory.
If they were going to have any chance of saving what was left of Woodbury, they needed firepower, and they needed it fast.
The building loomed ahead, a reinforced brick structure, one of the few in Woodbury built to withstand an attack. The thick steel doors had been left ajar, either in the Governor's desperate attempt to flee or by those who had abandoned their posts when the walkers breached the walls.
Murphy reached the door first, pressing his back against the cool brick. He peered inside, his sharp blue eyes scanning the dim interior. The silence was unsettling. The only sounds were the distant creaks of metal shelves shifting under the weight of stored weapons.
He tightened his grip on his pistol before nodding to the others. "We're clear."
Dale was the first to enter, his rifle sweeping left and right, methodically checking each aisle. Amy followed closely behind, her bat raised and ready.
The sight inside the armory made Murphy let out a slow, measured breath. It was stocked.
Rows of rifles, shotguns, and boxes of ammunition lined the walls. Handguns, grenades, and combat knives sat untouched on the shelves. It was more firepower than Murphy had seen in a long time.
He let out a low whistle, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Jackpot."
Amy wasted no time, grabbing a rifle and checking the chamber before slinging it over her shoulder. Dale did the same, his movements precise, controlled.
Murphy grabbed a second handgun, tucking it into his waistband, then slung a rifle over his shoulder. He turned back toward the door, ready to move, when something caught his eye.
A shadow outside. A movement down the road.
His body tensed as he focused in, his vision honing in on the figure weaving through the carnage. A man, running toward the northern gate, his right arm clutching his injured shoulder, his movements erratic but determined.
"He's runnin'," Murphy muttered under his breath.
Amy, who had been securing extra magazines into her vest, looked up sharply. "What?"
Murphy's eyes narrowed. "The Governor. He's fleein'."
Dale, loading his shotgun, paused mid-motion. His brows furrowed, his lips pulling into something between disbelief and bitter amusement. "That bastard's cutting and running?" His voice was laced with disgust. "Figures. The second things get tough, he leaves these people to die."
Murphy's mind raced.
The Governor had abandoned Woodbury. The very man who had claimed to be their protector, their leader, their savior, had turned his back on them. He had lied to them, experimented on them, and then, when his house of cards collapsed—he ran.
That meant only one thing.
Murphy turned to Amy and Dale, his expression steely and unwavering.
"We're gonna take back this town."
Amy blinked, gripping her rifle a little tighter. "What do you mean?"
Murphy didn't hesitate. Not this time.
"These people? They're scared. They don't got no leader. The one they had? Just ran out on 'em." He lifted his rifle, the weight familiar, steadying. "They need someone to step up. Someone who ain't gonna turn tail the second things go south."
Dale studied him for a long moment, his eyes searching, then nodded slowly.
Amy hesitated, glancing between the two of them. "And that someone is you?"
Murphy met her gaze, his expression grim but resolute. "Damn right it is."
Amy let out a long breath, shaking her head slightly, but there was no denial in her voice when she said, "Then let's go."
They moved fast, leaving the armory behind, pushing through the streets, calling out to any surviving residents of Woodbury.
The town was a ruined battlefield—smoke curled from burning buildings, bodies littered the ground, both human and undead, and the distant screams of those still fighting echoed through the night. The once-thriving settlement had become a nightmare of fire, blood, and chaos.
Murphy, Amy, and Dale moved quickly, their boots crunching over broken glass and scattered shell casings as they pushed forward. Their weapons were drawn, ready for anything. Every so often, a walker would stumble into their path, but a quick shot from Dale's rifle or a swing of Amy's bat put them down for good.
"We need to gather whoever's left," Murphy muttered, his sharp blue eyes scanning the chaos around him. "Get 'em to the armory. That's our best shot."
Amy nodded, wiping a streak of sweat and grime from her forehead. "What if they don't wanna fight?"
Murphy's jaw tightened. "Then they're already dead."
They pressed on, calling out to any surviving residents, their voices echoing through the broken streets.
Some were too deep in shock to respond, huddled inside buildings, their faces pale and hollowed with fear. Others were fighting, desperately trying to hold back the growing horde with whatever weapons they could find—bats, pipes, even makeshift spears. They had no real direction. No leadership. Just blind panic and desperation.
Murphy didn't give them a choice.
"You wanna live?" he shouted, his voice cutting through the noise like a knife. "Get to the armory! Now!"
Dale backed him up, his shotgun cocked, his stance firm. "We've got weapons! We've got a plan! But if you stay out here, you're just waiting to die!"
The first few hesitated, fear and uncertainty warring in their eyes. But then, one of them—a burly man with a bloodied shirt—nodded. "You heard 'em! Move!"
Murphy led them through the carnage, his movements sharp and purposeful. Bodies littered the roads, the stench of blood thick in the air. He could feel the weight of every survivor behind him—people who had trusted the Governor, people who had been promised safety and security, only to be abandoned.
The heavy metal doors slammed shut behind them, sealing the group inside the armory. The interior was dimly lit, the walls lined with shelves stocked with rifles, shotguns, handguns, and boxes of ammunition.
Murphy took a deep breath, stepping forward. He could feel every eye in the room on him—waiting, watching. Some looked to him with hope, others with suspicion, and some with fear.
Amy and Dale stood at his sides, their weapons at the ready, their faces grim.
Murphy set his rifle down against a crate and turned to face the crowd.
He could see the weight of the night pressing down on them—the betrayal, the loss, the sheer exhaustion. Some clutched their weapons tightly, their knuckles white, while others simply stood there, their shoulders slumped, their eyes hollow.
Murphy's voice cut through the silence.
"The Governor ain't here no more," Murphy growled, his tone laced with contempt. "He ran. Left all y'all behind to die the second things got bad."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd—some gasped, others shook their heads in disbelief.
"He knew what was coming. Knew them freaks were different. Because he made 'em that way."
The words were a lie—but Murphy made damn sure it didn't sound like one.
"He juiced up them walkers, experimented on 'em, changed 'em. Didn't give a damn if they turned on us. Hell, he let 'em loose just to make a damn show outta it."
Gasps spread through the crowd. Some people's faces twisted in horror, others in rage.
Amy, standing just to Murphy's right, clenched her jaw but said nothing. Dale's expression was unreadable, but Murphy didn't care.
The people needed to believe this.
Murphy pressed on, his voice sharp, unwavering.
"He played y'all. Played all of us. He sat up in his fancy house, pretended like he was doin' us a favor, like he was some kinda damn king—but when it mattered most? He ran."
A woman in the front, her hands shaking around the grip of a pistol, let out a bitter, shaky breath. "That bastard…"
An older man, face hardened with years of struggle, clenched his fists. "We followed him. We trusted him."
"That bastard changed them walkers. Juiced 'em up, made 'em stronger. Didn't care if they turned on us. Didn't care if you was sittin' in them stands watchin'. He wanted a show, and if a few of y'all had to die for it—" He let that sink in, his eyes locking onto each and every person in the room. "Well, he didn't lose no sleep over it."
A few audible gasps rippled through the group. Some faces twisted into anger, others into fear.
A woman in the back shook her head, her voice shaking. "He—he wouldn't do that. He was protecting us."
Murphy let out a cold, humorless chuckle.
"Protectin' you? That why he ran?" Murphy's voice was sharp, cutting through their uncertainty like a blade. "That why he left y'all to die?"
The woman fell silent.
More murmurs filled the air—uncertainty turning to outrage.
A man near the front, his face streaked with soot, clenched his fists. "That son of a bitch really ran?" His voice was low, filled with raw disbelief.
Murphy nodded slowly. "Saw him with my own damn eyes. Took off toward the northern gate, bleeding like a stuck pig. Didn't even look back."
Anger swelled in the room like a rising tide.
Murphy seized the moment.
"This town needs a new leader," he said, his voice strong, unwavering. "Someone who ain't gonna cut and run when shit gets bad. Someone who's gonna fight for y'all, not experiment on ya like rats in a goddamn lab."
He let his words settle. No one interrupted. No one disagreed.
Then, slowly, a voice rose from the crowd.
"What do we do?"
Murphy stepped forward, his expression hard, determined.
"We take our town back."
The murmurs grew louder. People nodded. Some started grabbing weapons off the shelves, loading up, preparing themselves.
Murphy lifted a rifle and cocked it with a sharp click.
"First step? We clear them streets." His blue eyes burned with purpose. "We wipe out every last one of them sick bastards out there."
A roar of agreement surged through the group.
The mood had changed—fear had turned to fury. Hopelessness had turned to action.
Murphy turned to Dale and Amy, his lips pressing into a grim smile.