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The scent of gunpowder, blood, and ash still clung to the air, a heavy reminder of the battle they had fought. Smoke curled lazily from the collapsed rooftops, drifting into the overcast sky like a lingering ghost of what had once been.
The survivors wasted no time. They had won, but the town was still wide open, its defenses in ruins.
The gate the Governor had smashed through with his truck stood in wreckage—the metal twisted and mangled, wooden barricades shattered like kindling. The once-sturdy walls now lay open, exposing Woodbury to whatever threats lurked outside. If they were going to hold this place, if they were going to rebuild, they had to fix the walls.
Rick stood by the remains of the gate, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his sharp blue eyes narrowing as he assessed the damage. His brow furrowed, deep in thought, his expression hard, calculating—this wasn't just some temporary setback; this was a problem that could get them all killed if they didn't handle it fast.
T-Dog and Glenn were already hard at work, lifting debris, salvaging anything they could repurpose. Glenn's shirt was stained with sweat and dirt, his breath coming in short, focused bursts as he bent to haul a chunk of broken metal aside. T-Dog grunted as he pushed aside a piece of the shattered barricade, his muscles straining, his face set in grim determination.
Dale stood nearby, hands on his hips, his expression lined with exhaustion and worry. His weathered features, usually carrying a sense of calm wisdom, were now creased with tension as he studied the damaged entrance.
Amy and Andrea moved through the wreckage, their boots crunching over broken glass and spent shell casings as they stacked wooden planks and metal sheets against the exposed portion of the wall. Amy's hands trembled slightly, whether from exhaustion or lingering fear, but she kept moving. Andrea's expression was set, focused, but there was something haunted in her eyes.
Daryl, on the other hand, was silent.
He stood apart from the others, his posture rigid, his fingers twitching over the grip of his crossbow. His jaw was tight, his breathing slow and measured, but his eyes—his cold, steel-blue eyes—were fixed on something far away.
His brother was dead.
And the man responsible was still out there.
Shane, standing a few feet away, leaned against the half-destroyed barricade, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like he was grinding his teeth to dust. His fingers tapped against his thigh, his entire posture coiled, tense, ready to snap.
He had been watching everything unfold, his mood growing darker by the second.
Then, it happened.
Murphy had been giving orders, directing people where to go, telling them how to secure the perimeter, organize supplies, establish patrols.
And they listened.
They looked to him.
Then someone—an older woman with streaks of gray in her hair, her face lined with exhaustion but her eyes steady—spoke up.
"Murphy should lead us."
Silence.
Then another voice.
"He got us through this."
More murmurs, more nods.
And suddenly, it wasn't just a suggestion.
It was a decision.
Shane's face darkened immediately. His nostrils flared, his shoulders stiffening, his hands clenching into tight, shaking fists.
"The hell is this?" he snapped, pushing off the barricade, his movements quick, aggressive. "We're just handin' the town over to him?" His eyes burned with fury, locking onto Murphy.
Murphy, still holding his rifle over his shoulder, tilted his head slightly, his lips quirking into an amused smirk.
"I ain't takin' it," he said smoothly, his voice calm, controlled. "They elected me."
Shane's breath hitched, his teeth baring in frustration. "This ain't a damn democracy—"
"Actually," Murphy cut him off, his smirk widening, his tone carrying just enough mockery to push Shane further over the edge, "turns out, it kinda is."
He gestured toward the gathered crowd—the people of Woodbury, battered, exhausted, but standing strong, weapons in hand.
Shane's fingers twitched, his fury barely contained. His gaze snapped to the crowd, scanning their faces, their expressions.
They weren't questioning Murphy.
They were backing him.
Murphy grinned wider, enjoying the moment. "President Murphy does have a nice ring to it, huh?"
Shane's chest rose and fell rapidly, his jaw locking so hard it looked painful. His hands balled into white-knuckled fists, the tension rolling off him in waves.
Rick, watching the exchange carefully, finally stepped forward, his expression unreadable but his stance firm.
"Back off, Shane," he said, his voice low but carrying enough weight to demand attention.
Shane's eyes flicked toward Rick, sharp, almost disbelieving. "You're serious? We're just gonna let this guy—"
Rick stared him down, his posture unwavering. "They chose him."
Shane's lips curled into a sneer, his breath coming out in short, angry bursts. He looked from Rick to Murphy to the people of Woodbury, his mind racing, searching for some angle, some way to push back.
But there was none.
Murphy had won.
Shane exhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring, his rage simmering just below the surface.
Murphy's smirk didn't waver, his blue eyes locked onto Shane's with that same, almost lazy amusement.
"Like I said," Murphy said, voice smooth as silk, "elected."
Shane's fists shook at his sides. He wanted to throw a punch, to argue, to fight.
But there were too many people watching.
After a long, tense moment, he finally stepped back.
"For now," he muttered, voice tight with resentment.
Murphy raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Shane turned sharply, stalking toward the remains of the gate, muttering curses under his breath.
Murphy turned to face the town, his smirk fading into something more serious.
"Alright, folks," he called out, his voice carrying over the gathered survivors. "Let's fix this damn place up."
There was no hesitation.
People moved immediately, grabbing supplies, working on the walls, securing their home.
Rick lingered for a moment, watching Murphy with an intense, unreadable gaze before finally turning away.
Shane stood at the gate, his hands gripping a chunk of twisted metal so hard his knuckles turned white.
The tension eased slightly, but only for a moment.
Because then, Daryl stepped forward.
His eyes burned like fire, his entire body coiled with barely restrained fury, his fingers twitching over the grip of his crossbow. The blood and dirt smeared across his face did nothing to hide the pure rage simmering beneath the surface.
Murphy turned to him, his smirk fading, replaced by something more serious, more calculating.
"That so?" Murphy asked, his tone unreadable.
Daryl's jaw clenched, his breath coming out slow and sharp through flared nostrils. His fingers flexed dangerously over the trigger of his weapon.
"We ain't lettin' that bastard get away," he growled, his voice low, rough, edged with barely controlled rage.
Rick, T-Dog, Glenn, and the others watched silently, their eyes bouncing between the two men, knowing full well that Daryl wasn't asking for permission—he was making a statement.
His chest rose and fell heavily, his knuckles white against the grip of his weapon. He looked like a man on the verge of snapping, like someone who wouldn't rest until blood had been spilled.
"We go after him," Daryl continued, his voice firm, final. "We find him. We put him down."
Murphy exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable. His sharp blue eyes studied Daryl carefully, as if measuring his resolve, weighing the request.
"You think he's still out there?" Murphy finally asked, his voice calm, steady.
Daryl's fingers curled tighter around his crossbow. His lips pressed into a hard line.
"He ain't makin' it far," Daryl growled. "He was bleedin' out when he ran. He's dyin' somewhere."
A long pause.
Then Murphy nodded.
"Go," he said simply.
Daryl blinked. For a brief second, his rage paused, as if he hadn't expected it to be that easy. He had expected resistance. He had expected Murphy to deny him, to tell him that revenge wasn't the answer, to try to shut him down.
Instead, Murphy just shrugged.
"Man killed your brother," Murphy said, adjusting the strap of his rifle. "You got the right to make sure he don't crawl back."
Daryl's teeth clenched. His jaw worked, his breath slow, steady, but sharp. He nodded, a short, jerky motion, then turned on his heel.
His crossbow was tight in his grip, his fingers coiled around the trigger like a viper waiting to strike.
Rick stepped forward, his voice steady.
"Glenn, you go with him," Rick said. "He needs backup."
Glenn, who had been watching the entire exchange with uncertainty, hesitated. His eyes flicked between Rick, Murphy, and Daryl.
Going out there again? After everything they had just been through?
But then he saw Daryl's face.
The pure hatred, the deadly focus, the desperation hidden beneath all that anger—and Glenn knew.
Daryl wasn't just going to find the Governor.
He was going to kill him.
Glenn inhaled sharply, nodded once.
"Alright," he muttered.
Daryl didn't wait.
He stormed off, his shoulders tense, his steps quick and forceful, like a man with one goal in mind and nothing to stop him.
Glenn swallowed, adjusting his grip on his gun, then hurried after him.
Murphy watched them disappear down the dark road, his expression unreadable, his jaw set.
Rick watched, too, his hands resting on his belt, his eyes dark, knowing full well what this meant.
T-Dog let out a low exhale, shaking his head. "Daryl's out for blood."
Murphy sighed, rolling his shoulders. "Let 'im have it."