The gates of Woodbury exploded inward in a shower of splintered wood and twisted metal as a massive truck barreled through.
The engine roared one last time before skidding to a stop in the middle of the square.
Doors flew open and Joe's group poured out like a storm. Automatic rifles thundered, muzzle flashes lighting up the early dawn as bullets tore into the startled guards.
For a heartbeat, Woodbury's soldiers froze... shocked by the sudden, violent onslaught.
Then they scrambled for cover, returning fire from rooftops, barricades, and alleys.
Rounds ricocheted off walls and vehicles, a deadly hailstorm filling the air.
Joe's people ducked behind the truck and overturned carts, moving with disciplined precision despite the chaos.
"Suppress them!" Rick shouted, leaning out from behind cover to spray a burst across the street.
The Woodbury soldiers fired wildly under the relentless barrage, unable to aim properly as Joe's group advanced in a steady, coordinated sweep.
Daryl flanked to the left, crossbow slung over his shoulder as he emptied his rifle into the defenders.
T-Dog and Glenn pushed the right, forcing the enemy to retreat step by step.
When the last of the soldiers realized they were surrounded, they dropped their weapons, hands raised in trembling surrender.
...
The battle's fury gave way to a tense, terrible silence.
Joe strode forward, rifle slung on his shoulder, katana in hand.
The captured Woodbury soldiers knelt in the dirt, fear etched on their faces.
Civilians gathered in the shadows, whispering nervously, eyes darting to the man who had destroyed their walls in a single morning.
In the darkness of a nearby building, the Governor watched, hatred burning in his one good eye.
Joe stopped a few feet from the prisoners, his voice carrying through the broken streets.
"Nobody touches my people."
On his word, gunfire erupted once more. The kneeling soldiers were cut down in a storm of bullets, their bodies collapsing into the dirt.
The civilians screamed, stumbling back as blood pooled in the square.
Daryl stood apart, jaw clenched tight. He raised his rifle, sighted on a familiar figure struggling to reach for a weapon... Merle.
His finger hesitated for just a moment. Then the shot rang out, clean through the temple. Merle dropped, lifeless.
Daryl's eyes glistened, but he said nothing, lowering his weapon.
...
From the shadows, the Governor snarled and opened fire. Bullets slammed into Joe's chest, knocking him back.
His armor absorbed the worst of it, leaving him bruised but alive.
Joe gritted his teeth, raised his rifle, and fired into the darkness.
His rounds found flesh... one in the chest, two in the gut. The Governor gasped, staggering back, but didn't fall.
The Governor disappeared into the maze of alleys, leaving a trail of blood behind.
"T-Dog! Daryl!" Joe barked, voice hoarse but firm. "Bring me his head!"
The two men broke off, vanishing after the fleeing assassin.
...
Joe turned back to the civilians, who stood frozen in terror.
"Everyone out!" he commanded, voice like a whipcrack.
They obeyed instantly, spilling from their homes, gathering in a trembling line. Joe's group stood over them, armed and unyielding.
Joe scanned the crowd, then called out a name. "Milton."
The reaction was immediate. The civilians parted, leaving a scrawny man standing alone, sweat dripping down his face.
"Please," Milton stammered. "I. I never wanted..."
Joe's katana sang as it left its sheath. In one smooth motion, he struck. Milton's head tumbled to the ground, lifeless eyes staring at nothing.
Joe stooped, gripped the head by its hair, and raised it high.
"This," he said coldly, his voice echoing through the ruined streets, "is the fate of those who remain loyal to this place."
The civilians stared in horror, the message sinking in deeper than any bullet could.
Joe dropped the head and sheathed his blade. "You have two choices. Join us, or burn with what's left of your town."
The decision was unanimous. No one spoke against him. No one dared.
Behind them, smoke rose from the burning ruins of Woodbury.
The prison's war had been won... but at what cost, and what storm would come next?
...
The fires of Woodbury still smoldered as Joe stood amidst the wreckage, chestplate dented from the bullets he'd taken earlier.
Around him, Rick was ordering people. They were loading trucks with supplies, weapons, and the shaken civilians who had chosen to join them.
The air was thick with smoke, gunpowder, and silence.
The sound of boots crunching over debris broke through the haze.
Joe turned to see T-Dog and Glenn approaching from the far side of town.
Both men were streaked with sweat and grime, faces hard, and between them, T-Dog carried something by the hair.
He stopped a few feet away and let it drop at Joe's feet with a wet thud.
Leroy's severed head stared up at him, eyes vacant, mouth agape.
Joe's gaze lingered on it briefly before flicking up to meet T-Dog's. "The shooter?"
"Yeah," T-Dog said flatly. "Tracked him through the alleys. He didn't make it far."
Glenn added, voice hoarse but certain, "Caught him rushing through the shadows. He's the one that tried to kill you."
Joe looked at the head once more.
Something about the man's face, a common gunman's features, nothing distinct... gnawed at the back of his mind.
But his people needed certainty right now, not doubt.
"Good work," Joe said finally, his voice cold, decisive. "Let everyone see it. Let 'em know what happens to those who cross us."
T-Dog nodded, grabbing the head again to display it to the assembled survivors. Murmurs rippled through the Woodbury civilians, fear deepening as they saw the bloody trophy.
Joe watched them a moment longer, then turned to Rick and Daryl. "Load up. We're done here."
As the trucks began to roll out of Woodbury, leaving its ruins behind, no one noticed the faint trail of blood leading into the treeline beyond the walls
Or the man with one eye who watched them leave, hatred simmering in his lone, burning gaze.
...
The Governor stumbled through the dense woods, one hand pressed against his bleeding side, the other gripping his pistol like a lifeline.
Each step was agony, his breath ragged, vision tunneling in and out.
The forest around him seemed to close in... branches scratching, roots clawing at his boots as if trying to drag him down.
He pushed onward, guided by sheer hate. They took everything. They think they won. They're wrong.
Finally, through the trees, a crooked silhouette appeared.
A small, dilapidated hunting shack half-swallowed by overgrowth. He staggered toward it, nearly falling up the steps as he kicked the door open.
Inside was darkness and dust, the smell of mold and old wood.
A torn couch slumped against one wall, a rusted potbellied stove in the corner. The Governor collapsed to his knees, ripping his shirt open to inspect the damage.
Three bullet wounds. One in the chest, two in the abdomen. The bleeding hadn't stopped.
He didn't have time for clean bandages or proper tools. He needed to act now.
He fumbled for his pistol, ejected a handful of bullets into his palm, and pried one open with shaking fingers, spilling gunpowder onto each wound.
He found a small box of matches on a nearby shelf and struck one, igniting the tip.
The Governor took a deep breath, teeth bared. Then he pressed the match to the gunpowder.
The pain was indescribable. White-hot fire seared through flesh and nerve, the smell of burning meat filling the shack.
He let out a guttural roar that echoed into the night, collapsing to the floor as soon as he pulled away.
He repeated the process for the other wounds, each time the scream growing hoarser, weaker, until his voice broke entirely.
When it was done, he stumbled to the couch, collapsing into its filthy cushions.
Sweat drenched him, blood and soot streaking his skin. His breaths came in shallow rasps, but he was alive.
And as darkness closed in around him, he muttered to no one, his voice a rasping promise:
"They'll pay… every last one of them."
...
The heavy gates creaked open as the convoy of trucks rumbled into the yard.
The sun was just beginning to rise, casting an orange glow across the prison walls.
Inside the trucks, the rescued civilians from Woodbury sat silent and tense, their faces pale from what they'd witnessed.
Joe climbed out of the lead vehicle first, his armor scratched, streaked with soot and dried blood.
He scanned the yard quickly... a soldier's reflex... before relaxing just slightly.
Home.
Amy was the first to meet him, Julian balanced on her hip. She didn't rush to him, just met his eyes.
He gave her a small nod and she exhaled a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.
Maggie walking out from the watchtower, her face showing her relief.
Andrea, Emma, and Beth emerged from the building soon after, each holding one of the babies.
They all hovered at the edge of the group, relief plain on their faces but aware of the work still ahead.
Rick stepped forward, rifle slung over his shoulder. "We did it," he said simply.
Joe nodded once. "Woodbury's finished. The Governor's dead, his men are gone."
Daryl joined them, his wounded arm freshly bandaged, his usual drawl absent as he surveyed the nervous Woodbury civilians climbing down from the trucks. "Let's get this done," he muttered.
...
Inside the prison, the newcomers were gathered in the mess hall, seated at long tables under the watchful eyes of armed guards from Joe's group.
They whispered among themselves, glancing nervously at the hardened faces around them.
Rick stood at the front with Daryl at his side.
His voice was calm but firm. "You're here because you chose to be. This place isn't perfect, but it's safe, and we aim to keep it that way."
Everyone nodded quickly, Rick continued, "There are rules. You follow them, you stay. You break them, you leave. Is that clear?"
Murmurs of agreement rose from the crowd.
Daryl stepped forward, his tone sharper. "First things first, how many walkers you've killed. How many people. And why. We ask everyone. No exceptions."
One by one, the newcomers answered. Some had killed many walkers, some none at all.
Most had never killed another person... except one man who admitted to shooting a looter to protect his family.
Rick studied each answer carefully, gauging honesty, while Daryl watched their body language with a hunter's eye.
When they finished, Rick gave a small nod.
"Alright. We'll start integrating you into work rotations." A few people shifted slightly, Rick noticed this, "Nothing major, just gardening, perimeter duty, cleanup. We all pull our weight here. You'll be paired with someone from our group until we know we can trust you."
The civilians nodded, some with relief, others still wary.
Rick turned to Joe, who had been silent in the back of the room. "Go get some rest. You've done enough."
Joe looked like he might argue, but Amy appeared beside him, hand on his arm. "Come on," she said softly. "The kids are waiting."
For the first time since the assault began, Joe's expression softened. He gave Rick a final nod and followed her out.
...
Daryl leaned against the wall, watching the new arrivals disperse to their assigned quarters. "Think they'll work out?"
Rick crossed his arms, eyes still on the mess hall door. "They'll have to. We can't afford dead weight."
Daryl grunted in agreement.
...
Joe stepped into Cellblock C, exhaustion clinging to him like a second skin.
The noise of the mess hall faded behind him, replaced by the softer sounds of life within these walls.
Footsteps on concrete, the faint cooing of a baby somewhere down the corridor.
He turned the corner into the nursery and froze.
Maggie was there, sitting on the floor with Julian in her lap, playing softly with his tiny hands.
Andrea rocked Grace in one of the chairs, while Emma held Esther against her chest, humming quietly.
The sight made the tension in Joe's shoulders melt away.
Maggie looked up first, her face lighting with relief. "You're finally here."
Joe crossed the room in three long strides, kneeling beside her. He cupped her cheek with one calloused hand, then pressed a kiss to her forehead before leaning down to kiss Julian gently.
Andrea and Emma both rose to greet him, each receiving a brief but tender kiss, the babies passed to him one by one.
He held Julian first, then Grace, then Esther. Touching their tiny fingers, marveling again at how something so pure could come from him.
Only when he'd returned the infants to their mothers did he notice the two strangers standing near the door.
Tyreese and Sasha watched the scene with wide eyes, unsure what to make of it.
Amy glanced over her shoulder and smiled warmly. "Joe, this is Tyreese and his sister, Sasha. They showed up last night. We helped save a woman they were with. Hershel says she'll live."
Joe rose to his full height, extending a hand. "Good to have you here."
Tyreese shook it firmly. "Appreciate you takin' us in. Didn't expect…" He trailed off, glancing at the babies, then at Amy, Andrea, and Emma. "…all this."
Sasha, unable to hold back her curiosity, asked, "Are… are all three of those yours?"
Joe's lips twitched into the faintest smirk. "Yeah. They're mine."
Sasha blinked. "And… they're all…?" She gestured toward the three women.
Andrea arched a brow and answered for him, her tone proud rather than defensive. "We chose this. The world ended. We make our own rules now."
Tyreese looked from one woman to the next, then back to Joe. "Hell," he muttered, half to himself. "Guess you've been busy."
Joe chuckled low in his throat, unoffended. "Busy keepin' 'em safe. That's all that matters."
Amy stepped closer, resting her head on his shoulder. "We're safe because of him," she said simply.
The room grew quiet again, not with tension but with something rarer... peace.
Tyreese and Sasha exchanged a look, and for the first time since entering these walls, they allowed themselves to relax. Their place here confirmed.
Joe glanced at his children one last time before kissing Amy's hair. "Let's get some sleep," he murmured. "Tomorrow, we start fresh."