A Broken World

Seventy-Seven

The prison didn’t wake up that morning.

It braced.

You could feel it in the air before anything actually happened. The way the fence sounded—too tight, too strained. The way the dead moved—less wandering, more pressing. The way people spoke—short, clipped, like every word had to earn its place.

Something was coming.

I felt it in my chest before I saw it.

“Corner’s going,” Daryl muttered beside me on the catwalk.

I followed his gaze.

The southwest section—the one we’d patched over and over—bowed inward again. Not a slow bend this time. A deep, ugly warp like the metal had finally decided it was done pretending.

Walkers stacked three deep. Hands clawing. Teeth grinding. Bodies piling over bodies until the bottom ones stopped moving and just became footing.

“Rick!” I called.

He was already moving below, shouting orders before the word even left my mouth.

“Truck! Now! Pull them off!”

Carl was in position above the yard, rifle up, eyes sharp.

Daryl grabbed his crossbow. “Stay behind me.”

“I’m not doing that,” I shot back, already moving.

He didn’t argue. He just adjusted his position so we were side by side instead.

Rick gunned the truck, horn blaring, engine roaring through the yard. The sound cut through the dead like a blade, pulling the back half of the herd away.

But the ones at the front—

They didn’t move.

Too many. Too packed. Too committed.

The fence screamed.

Metal snapped.

And then—

It gave.

The corner collapsed inward in a violent crunch, steel folding like paper under the weight. Walkers spilled through the opening, tripping over each other, clawing forward in a thick, relentless wave.

“Inside!” Rick shouted. “Fall back!”

Gunfire erupted.

Carl dropped the first few clean. I fired into the mass, recoil slamming through my shoulder as bodies dropped and were immediately replaced.

Daryl moved beside me, fast, efficient. Knife. Bolt. Repeat. No wasted motion.

“Too many!” I yelled.

“No shit!” he snapped.

The yard filled faster than we could clear it. Walkers poured through the breach, spreading out, colliding with fences, walls, each other—then reorienting toward us.

Rick slammed the inner gate shut. “Hold here!”

We formed a line.

For a second, it worked.

Then the second problem hit.

Gunfire.

Not ours.

Sharp. Controlled. From the tree line.

My head snapped toward the sound.

“People,” I said.

Daryl’s face went cold. “Told you.”