The walls of Woodbury groaned under the weight of the living dead.
The Runner horde had reached critical mass. They surged like a tidal wave against the barricades—climbing, clawing, and stacking their own dead as crude ladders. Despite the gunfire, despite the flame, they just kept coming.
On the north side, Daryl stood with his back to the sandbags, crossbow in hand, eyes darting between targets. His face was smeared with blood and ash, jaw locked in grim focus as he loaded another bolt. A Runner lunged for the wall using the bodies of its fallen as a foothold. Daryl fired. The bolt struck its eye, and the body tumbled back, knocking down two more trying to climb.
T-Dog shouted over the chaos. "They're getting too close! We gotta fall back to the interior if we lose the wall!"
"No!" Murphy barked from above, firing into the throng. "We don't fall back! We hold!"
On the west side, Glenn wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve, eyes stinging from smoke and gunpowder. He spotted something just beyond the firelight—movement, strategic. His breath caught in his throat.
"They're stacking again!" he shouted. "They're using the corpses to climb!"
He swung his rifle around, locked onto the Runner at the top of the pile—an older male with half its face missing. Glenn didn't hesitate. He fired, catching it in the skull. The corpse went limp, collapsing backward and toppling the fragile pile it had helped form. The rest of the stack fell like dominoes, crushing two other Runners beneath.
"That'll slow 'em down," Glenn muttered, though his relief was brief.
On the central wall, Andrea and Amy worked in tandem. Andrea's shots were clean, precise, even as her expression betrayed her mounting exhaustion. Amy, her younger sister, gritted her teeth and fired wildly, jaw clenched, her eyes wide and burning with fear.
"Just keep going!" Andrea encouraged. "They can't climb if we keep the pressure!"
Below them, Dale reloaded his shotgun, fingers trembling but determined. "You mean they won't climb yet," he muttered. "Because they're damn well trying."
Down the wall, one of the Woodbury defenders—a teenage boy named Connor—let out a scream as a brick struck his chest, thrown by a Runner below. He tumbled backward, his rifle clattering to the ground. Two others rushed to drag him away, but the line wavered.
Behind the horde, obscured by the firelight and chaos, stood the Governor and Morales. They watched with grim satisfaction from behind the writhing sea of undead. The Governor's face was covered in soot and ash, but his single eye gleamed with anticipation.
"The Antichrist forces are weakening," Morales said calmly, his voice low and reverent. "The wall will fall. Murphy will belong to us."
The Governor grinned, his lips curling with sick satisfaction. "Good. Let them see what their precious leader can't protect."
Back in the heart of the town, Shane Walsh had other ideas.
He sprinted down the catwalk of the Woodbury wall, his breath coming in harsh gasps, his face twisted with rage and desperation. Sweat dripped from his temples, stinging his eyes as his boots slammed against the wooden boards. All around him, defenders fired down into the horde, the roar of gunfire mixing with screams of pain and fear.
Rick saw him running and shouted from the far end of the barricade, "Shane! Where the hell are you going?"
Shane didn't stop. He glanced back just long enough to yell, "I'm ending this my way!"
Rick frowned, ducking as a rock hurled by a Runner clanged against the metal railing beside him. "Shane—goddammit!"
Shane was already gone.
He bounded down the stairs two at a time, shoving past a trio of exhausted guards carrying boxes of ammo. His boots kicked up dust and blood as he stormed through the half-ruined front of Woodbury's town hall. The walls rattled with every distant explosion, and muffled cries echoed from every hallway. But Shane didn't care. His mind was fixed, his teeth gritted, eyes blazing.
He shoved open the door to the Governor's office so hard it nearly tore off its hinges. "Milton!" he barked.
The scientist jumped in surprise, dropping a handful of loose papers. His eyes went wide behind his glasses as Shane advanced, wild-eyed and heaving.
"Shane! What are you—what's going on?"
Shane slammed both hands on the desk, leaning over. "Where's the damn girl?"
Milton blinked, backing up a step. "What girl?"
Shane's nostrils flared. "The Governor's walker daughter. Don't lie to me. Where is she?"
Milton's hands trembled. "She's—she's in the closet. Back wall. Behind the shelves. She's locked in."
Before Milton could say another word, Shane stormed past him and kicked open the closet door.
Inside, shackled by a heavy iron chain, was the Governor's daughter.
Her skin was an unnatural grayish-pale. Her eyes were cloudy, lifeless—but she wasn't snarling. She didn't reach out. She simply stared, her head tilting ever so slightly.
Shane stared back, his face wrinkled with disgust and a strange flicker of pity. He reached in, grabbed the chain, and yanked her to her feet.
"Come on, sweetheart," he muttered through gritted teeth. "Let's see how much your daddy really cares."
Minutes later, Shane was back on the wall.
The battlefield below was chaos—flames from the forest cast a hellish glow, illuminating the madness. Dozens of Runners clawed at the barricades, some hurling bricks and jagged pieces of metal, while others scaled the walls using the corpses of their fallen.
Daryl shouted from the south wall, "They're comin' over!"
Glenn popped up beside him, eyes wide, firing into the thick of them. "We can't hold much longer!"
But then the gunfire stopped.
Two loud shots cracked through the night.
Shane stood at the center of the platform, holding the chained walker girl in front of him like a shield. One arm wrapped tightly around her torso, the other raised his pistol directly to her head.
"Enough!" he screamed, his voice echoing across the town. "Enough!"
Shane's chest rose and fell with ragged fury. His face was flushed, veins bulging in his neck, sweat soaking through his shirt.
"You call this a war?" he yelled into the night. "Come watch what I do to your little girl!"
At the back of the horde, Morales froze. The noise ceased. Even the Runners slowed, their heads twitching, some crouching low, waiting for a signal.
The Governor stepped forward from behind them, his body shrouded in firelight, ash sticking to his pale face. His eye locked on the limp form of his daughter.
Shane's grip tightened. "Call them off. Or I put her down, and this whole little apocalypse of yours goes up in smoke."
On the edge of the treeline, Morales stepped forward beside him, his face twisting in disbelief. "What are you doing?" he hissed. "She's not worth it! We're at the gates, Phillip! We have Murphy in our grasp!"
The Governor didn't answer.
Morales turned to him, furious. "This is our holy war! Finish them!"
The Governor slowly raised his pistol.
And shot Morales in the head.
The gunshot rang out like a cannon blast. Morales dropped to the ground, the top of his skull blown apart, his face frozen in a look of betrayal and shock.
The Runner horde... stopped.
They froze in place. Some twitched, others tilted their heads, confused. But none moved forward.
The Governor lowered his weapon and looked up at Shane. For a moment, there was nothing on his face. No rage. No hate.
Just emptiness.
And then he raised a hand.
The Runners began to pull back.
It wasn't immediate—but it was coordinated. Like a silent command rippled through them. One by one, the undead turned and slunk back into the woods.
On the wall, the defenders watched in silence, unsure if it was real.
Amy dropped to her knees, tears running down her soot-streaked face. Dale sat down beside her, breathing hard, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Andrea collapsed against the railing, gripping it so tightly her knuckles turned white.
T-Dog leaned against the machine gun, sweat pouring down his face, blood drying on his forearm. "Did that just happen?" he murmured.
Murphy stood frozen, jaw clenched, staring after the retreating horde. His blue eyes were dark, haunted.
Beside him, Shane finally lowered his pistol. His hand was trembling. He stared at the Governor's daughter, still breathing, still docile.
Rick appeared at his side, panting. "You did it," he said, voice low.
Shane didn't answer. He just nodded once and let the walker slump to the ground, her chain clinking against the metal.
Daryl stepped forward, glaring into the trees. "He let us go."
Murphy finally spoke. "No," he muttered, his voice cold. "He's not done."
They all stood in silence, watching the treeline. Waiting for what came next.
Because they knew it wasn't over.