Rick's POV
I'm standing at the edge of the stone quarry, boots planted firmly in the dirt. The sun's high enough to heat my shoulders, but the air's still cool—just enough to keep me sharp. I check my watch. 10:00 AM.
Below me, it's a pit of the dead.
Thousands of them, packed in tight. Shoulder to shoulder. No way out, yet. No way in unless you're stupid, desperate, or dead already. Their groans rise like a low hum, like a hive vibrating under the surface. It makes your skin itch if you listen too long. But you have to look. You have to understand what you're dealing with.
Down near the blocked exit, I see Elijah—our engineer. He's been leading the construction crew. Right now, he's waving over to the two men welding the semi-trucks together. Sparks fly, barely audible. They're making as little noise as possible. It's not just about not drawing walkers—it's about not attracting attention from the wrong kind of people.
Noah's down there too, standing beside Elijah. I didn't expect him to take such a strong interest in engineering or architecture, but he's asked to learn. After what happened to his family in Shirewilt, I think he wants to build something that lasts—to make sure no one lives behind weak walls again.
I glance up at the ridgeline where we've posted a watch. Alexandria's security team is stretched thin, but we've rotated shifts. People are doing their part, even if some still don't understand how close this place came to breaking. Price was right about that—the Wolves haven't found this place yet. Two days and no sign of them. But the silence... it doesn't feel safe. It feels like a pause before the storm.
Michonne and Davidson are here, too. Just saw their car roll in. I watch them step out and head down the slope toward Elijah and Noah. Davidson's got that cocky air about him. We learned that he was a prison warden before. Michonne's... well, Michonne. Sharp as ever. Always scanning, always reading the room, even out here where the only things to read are stone and death.
I turn to two Alexandrians standing watch on the ridge. One of them is a younger guy—Wes, I think. Still new, still trying to prove himself.
"You see anything?" I ask, voice low but direct.
Wes straightens. "No, sir. Nothing. Been quiet all morning."
"Good," I reply. "If you see anything—anything at all—you call it in on the handheld. Understood?"
Both nod.
I give one last look across the valley and start moving along the ridge, checking lines of sight, scanning the trees beyond. Two days ago, this quarry was just a problem waiting to happen. Now it's a problem we're trying to control.
That morning's hearing is still fresh in my mind.
Bob's death was hard. Hell, they all are. But something about it being preventable makes it worse. Aiden said he found Bob drinking in the liquor aisle. That when walkers broke in, Bob twisted his foot trying to escape. And then, Aiden made a call.
He left him.
He told us he thought there wasn't time. But he knew the others were close. He knew he could've bought time. He didn't. That's the difference between a survivor and someone who just wants to survive.
We've all made mistakes. I've made plenty. But we don't leave our people. Not when there's a chance.
Deanna's judgment was measured. She called out Bob's decision to drink—jeopardizing his team. But she also made it clear: Aiden had a choice. One that cost Bob his life and he was removed from the supply team.
The rest of that meeting, we laid it all out for Alexandria: the Wolves, the truth about Shirewilt, and the thousands of walkers penned up in this stone pit. That was the moment the walls of their little world cracked. Reality finally started creeping in.
And then Price… he gave them something else. A plan.
Not a hopeful one. Not a flashy one. But a plan that could work.
He said we deal with the Wolves first. Quietly. Then reinforce the quarry—tighten the lid on it. Use controlled fires to thin the herd after that. I'd offered to lure them away. But Price made a good point—it's too risky if we haven't handled the Wolves yet. All it would take is a loud noise, a wrong move, and it's all undone. I didn't like hearing it, but I respected it. Because he's right.
Buzz.
My radio crackles in my vest pocket. I lift it to my mouth just as Michonne's voice cuts through.
"Rick, you copy?"
"Go ahead," I answer.
"You should come down. Elijah's ready with a status update."
I look at the slope. I could hoof it down, but time's not something I want to waste—not out here.
"I'll take the car," I say, already turning for it.
I get in, fire it up, and ease it down the incline toward the others.
------
Maggie' POV
There I was, walking alongside Deanna, with Jane and Jasper trailing just behind us. The four of us moved through Alexandria like a slow current—steady, deliberate. Jane and Jasper had both been with Deanna since before the outbreak, back when this place was just blueprints and promises. Now, like the rest of us, they were trying to hold on to some piece of the world that once was, shaping it into something livable again.
Today was our weekly survey, a check-in on how the community was doing. Not just supplies or infrastructure—the people. How they were coping, how they were holding up.
Our first stop was the community farm. The air smelled of tilled earth, fresh and damp, and the morning light bounced off rows of vibrant green. The farm had grown—more rows, more variety. Tomatoes, squash, carrots. Some berry bushes starting to take. Even a few apple saplings. Chickens scratched around in the pen nearby—it was the only livestock we had, for now.
We were hoping the supply teams might stumble onto an untouched farm someday. Something with goats or cattle. Anything to diversify our meat source aside from poultry and fish.
Deanna broke away from our line, walking toward Melina, who was near the coop with her youngest daughter, Abigail.
"How's the farm doing?" Deanna asked, folding her hands behind her back, always composed, always observant.
Melina wiped sweat from her brow and smiled. "We're on track for a bigger yield next harvest," she said. "Vegetables and fruit are coming in strong. We'll need to expand soon. Maybe another plot closer to the north wall."
While they talked, little Abigail crept toward a broody hen—one of the aggressive ones. I barely had time to open my mouth before it flapped up, squawking and pecking, startling her. She screamed and ran, tears already streaking her cheeks as she bolted back to Melina, who scooped her up without missing a beat.
"Feisty one," Melina chuckled, trying to soothe her daughter. "She's been guarding those eggs like it's the end of the world."
Maybe it still was.
We moved on to the clinic next. Inside, it smelled like antiseptic and clean linens. Beth and Enid were there, both under the supervision of Dr. Holloway. My sister, Beth looked confident, in her element. She'd come a long way from the farm girl I knew. Enid looked focused—still green, but eager. There was a quiet strength in her that reminded me a little of Beth in her early days.
Dr. Holloway greeted us and pulled out a clipboard from the wall.
"Painkillers and antibiotics are finally back to safe levels," he said. "Thanks to the last few runs."
Then his tone shifted, a shadow falling across his voice.
"But... we're running low on muscle relaxants. A lot of the newer folks aren't used to physical labor. We're seeing more cases of DOMS—Delayed Onset Muscle Soreness. Most we can treat with heat and rest, but in some cases... meds are necessary."
He hesitated for a beat.
"I've notified the supply team," he added. "They know what to look for."
He didn't have to say it. The last run didn't end well.
We thanked him and left the clinic, making our way to the training grounds, where Gabriel and Spencer were leading firearm lessons. I'd never imagined I'd live to see a priest teaching people how to hold a pistol, but here we were.
The group in front of them was new. Nervous hands, unsure grips. But their eyes were focused, desperate to learn. The Wolves, the quarry walkers—they'd given even the most reluctant Alexandrians a reason to stop pretending the world was safe.
Gabriel stepped away from the group when he saw us.
"They're new," he said, gesturing to the line of trainees. "Said they don't want to be helpless anymore."
Jasper nodded. "And the last group?"
"Passed," Gabriel said. "Price tested them himself. Gave them the go-ahead. They'll rotate onto night watch starting next week."
That was good. We needed more eyes out there.
Our next stop was security. We found Abraham at the southern gate, arms crossed over his chest, his posture as solid as the reinforced steel wall behind him.
Deanna asked him directly, "How are we holding up?"
He nodded once, firmly.
"Community's under tight watch," he said. "Patrols are working double shifts to cover the construction crew at the quarry. But we're locked in. If the Wolves come knocking—hell, they won't make it past the perimeter."
That was Abraham. Blunt and sure, like a sledgehammer in a soldier's hands. But when he said something, I believed it.
Our final stop was the armory. Inside, the metallic scent of oil and gunpowder hung in the air. Tara, Eugene, Olivia, and two others were at a long table, meticulously crafting bullets. The rhythmic tapping of brass, the careful handling of powder and casings—it was like watching an assembly line from the old world.
Deanna turned to Olivia. "How are the weapons holding up?"
Olivia looked up from the ledger. "Cleaned, oiled, and sorted. We're doing maintenance checks every three days. If something jams, it's off the line until it's fixed or replaced."
Jane stepped closer to Eugene. "And how exactly are these bullets made?"
Eugene adjusted his glasses, never missing a beat. "Well, ma'am, the process involves assemblin' three core components—the projectile, the casing, and the primer. Powder charge goes in the casing, projectile's seated on top. We crimp it tight. Trickiest part's balancin' the powder for consistent muzzle velocity. Too much or too little and you're either jammin' or misfiring."
Jane blinked. "Right..."
"It's not alchemy," Eugene added, "but it sure as hell ain't baking cookies either."
We left the armory soon after, and Deanna called it—"That's it for today." We all exchanged goodbyes, and the group began to scatter.
The sun was already starting to dip low in the sky, casting long shadows across the street as I made my way home. The light caught on the windows like gold, soft and tired.
Price had left the day after the hearing. Said he was going to scout out the Wolves' hideout. That was yesterday. No word since. He was still out there, probably tracking, planning.
I reached the porch and saw Daryl sitting there, arms crossed, foot tapping. He didn't look up.
He wasn't happy. I knew why. Price hadn't taken him. Not on the recon.
But knowing Price, he had a reason. He always did.
A few feet away, Judith giggled in Sarah's arms. She looked content, unbothered by the world just beyond the walls. Caleb and Carl weren't around—probably are in the watchtowers helping, and on the lookout for the wolves.
I stepped inside the house and headed to the room I shared with Glenn. The sound of the shower had just ended. When I walked in, he was there—drying his hair with a towel, shirtless, relaxed.
He looked at me and smiled. "You're back. How'd it go?"
I let out a breath and slumped onto the bed. "Long. But yeah, we're done."
He sat beside me. "Next run's tomorrow," he said softly.
I turned toward him, rested my hand on his. "Be safe."
He looked at me, eyes steady. "I always am."