A Broken World

Sixty-Five

The prison didn’t feel like the same place anymore.

The harsh, cold walls were still here, but they were softened now—by gardens stretching along the yard, by children’s laughter echoing faintly from the cell blocks. For the first time in a long time, it almost felt like… life.

Almost.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead as I knelt in the dirt, pulling weeds from the tomato plants. Maggie worked a row over, her belly flat but her hand lingering there more often these days. Glenn hovered like he always did, pretending not to stare at her every five seconds.

Across the yard, Rick knelt beside a patch of beans, a faint smile on his face as he watched Carl talking with Patrick and Lizzie near the fence. Farming Rick was something I never thought I’d see. A few months ago, he was a man held together by rage and grief. Now, he was… something else. Someone else.

Maybe we all were.

I felt him before I saw him—Daryl, his presence like a shadow at my back. He crouched down beside me without a word, pulling weeds like it was second nature.

“You missed one,” he muttered, nodding toward a stubborn stalk.

I shot him a look, but there was no heat behind it. “Thanks, farmer Dixon. You want a medal for spotting it?”

The corner of his mouth twitched—his version of a smile. “Nah. Just don’t want you slacking off.”

It was easy, these little jabs. Easier than talking about the night in the janitor’s closet. The kiss that still burned in the back of my mind every time he was close. We hadn’t said a word about it—not once. But sometimes, when his hand brushed mine or when his eyes lingered too long, I wondered if he thought about it too.

Before I could say more, a shout went up near the fence.

Rick was already on his feet, running toward Carl. I followed Daryl right beside me, his crossbow slung over his shoulder.

The walkers were pressing against the fence again. Dozens of them. Their moans were low and hungry, a sound that never stopped chilling me to the bone no matter how long I’d been hearing it.

“Damn it,” Daryl muttered, moving ahead of me to help reinforce the supports as they groaned under the weight.

This was the part that never changed—the dead always pushing, always wanting. No matter how much we built, how safe we felt, it was never enough.

Later that day, when the sun dipped low, Daryl gathered a group for a supply run—Glenn, Sasha, Tyreese, Bob, Zach, and me. He didn’t have to ask if I was coming. He just looked at me, and I nodded.

The Big Spot! The store wasn’t far, but the world had a way of turning short trips into nightmares.

And it did.

The yard buzzed with nervous energy as we loaded up the truck. Runs were routine now, but they never felt safe—not really. One wrong move, one second too slow, and you didn’t come back.

Daryl checked the crossbow slung over his shoulder and scanned the group—Glenn, Sasha, Tyreese, Bob, Zach, and me.

“All right,” he said, his voice carrying that steady calm that always settled the rest of us. “Same deal as always. Keep quiet, grab what we need, and don’t get greedy.”

“Copy that,” Sasha muttered, adjusting her rifle.

I tossed my pack into the truck bed and glanced at Daryl. “How greedy counts as greedy?”

He shot me a look that was all rough edges and hidden amusement. “Don’t start.”

I smirked but didn’t push it. He’d been different since the closet—warmer sometimes, sharper others. Like he was always on the edge of saying something but never did. Maybe I was too.

We hit the road. Zach sat in the back, grinning like this was a road trip instead of a supply run in the middle of the end of the world.

“So,” he said, leaning forward between the seats, “anyone wanna take bets on what I find first? Big screen TV? Flat-screen maybe?”

Sasha snorted. “Yeah, hook that up to what? The walkers’ entertainment system?”

He laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d heard all week. Part of me envied that—still being able to laugh like this world hadn’t chewed us up and spit us out.

The Big Spot! looked quiet from the outside. Too quiet.

Daryl signaled for us to spread out once we were inside. Shelves still lined the aisles, dusty but full. It was the closest thing to a goldmine we’d seen in months.

“Grab what you can carry,” he said, voice low. “Water, canned goods, batteries. And keep your ears open.”

I stuck close to Sasha as we swept down an aisle. Bob drifted near the liquor shelves like a moth to a flame, fingers trailing along the glass.

Zach reappeared at my shoulder with a grin. “Find anything good?”

“Not yet,” I said, keeping my voice even. He seemed sweet, but sweet got people killed.

The first sound was faint—a groan, low and wet. My stomach turned cold.

“Daryl,” I called softly.

He looked up, following my gaze.

The ceiling.

It was moving.

Something shuffled above us, slow and heavy. Then another sound joined it—the groan of metal under strain.

“Oh, shit,” Bob muttered.

The ceiling gave way with a scream of tearing steel.

And then it all came down.

A helicopter—rotting, rusted—crashed through the roof in an explosion of dust and debris. Walkers rained down with it, bodies bursting against the floor like sacks of meat. The sound was deafening—gunfire, groans, screams.

“Go!” Daryl roared.

I fired at the first walker that lunged at me, the recoil jarring my shoulder. Another came from the left. Sasha dropped it. Bob screamed—pinned under a fallen shelf. Liquor bottles shattered around him.

“Help me!” he yelled.

I was already there, shoving glass aside, blood slick on my hands. Daryl appeared on the other side, muscles straining as he heaved the shelf upright just enough for Bob to crawl free.

“Move!” Daryl barked, hauling me up by the arm.

We spun—and froze.

Zach.

He was on the ground, a walker straddling him, teeth sinking into his throat. He thrashed once, twice, then went still.

“Dammit!” Sasha shouted, firing a shot through the walker’s skull.

Daryl’s hand closed around my wrist, yanking me toward the exit. The ceiling was still groaning overhead, more cracks spidering out like veins.

We ran.

Out the back door. Into the daylight. Hearts pounding like drums.

Behind us, the Big Spot! groaned one last time and collapsed in on itself.

No one spoke on the ride back.

Zach’s blood was still on my boots.

And all I could think about was Beth—her soft voice, her bright eyes, the way she looked at him like maybe there was something good left in this world.

How the hell were we supposed to tell her?