The gladiator games in Woodbury were a spectacle, a twisted ritual of entertainment that masked the brutality of survival. The torches flickered wildly, casting jagged shadows against the stone walls of the arena. The crowd's drunken roars and raucous laughter filled the air, mixing with the restless moans of the restrained walkers.
The Governor sat high above it all, whiskey in hand, his eyes scanning the crowd with satisfaction. He basked in their admiration like a ruler in his castle, completely unaware of the betrayal unfolding beneath his very feet.
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Daryl's breath came slow and steady as he crouched on the rooftop, his crossbow in hand. The cold steel felt familiar against his fingers as he scanned the arena below. His heart pounded, but his grip was firm.
His sharp eyes locked onto his target.
The Governor sat smugly in his seat, raising his glass in a silent toast to his people. Bastard. He'd killed good men. He'd twisted this town into something worse than a prison.
Daryl exhaled through his nose.
Adjusting his position, he lined up his shot. His finger hovered over the trigger, but he didn't fire—not yet. Timing was everything. The chaos had to start first. Then, when the moment was right, he'd put an arrow straight through the Governor's goddamn skull.
His jaw tightened as he watched Andrea and Glenn disappear beneath the arena.
It was almost time.
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The underground chamber beneath the arena was thick with the stench of damp stone and decay. The air was stale, heavy with the remnants of death that clung to the rough walls like an unshakable curse. Torches flickered along the corridors, their dim light casting jagged shadows that twisted unnaturally, making the cold stone walls seem like they were closing in. The oppressive atmosphere made Andrea feel like the space was shrinking, pressing down on her chest, suffocating.
She adjusted her grip on her pistol, her fingers flexing over the cold metal, seeking some sense of control. The echoing moans of the undead reverberated through the chamber, but these weren't the usual mindless groans of hunger. These sounds were guttural, deep, feral. It was almost as if they were aware of their captivity, aware of what was about to happen.
A cold shiver ran down her spine.
Beside her, Glenn stood rigid, his breathing shallow, his face pale under the weak torchlight. His hand rested near his knife, but his grip was tense, uncertain. It was clear he wasn't sure if a blade would even make a difference against whatever these walkers had become.
Then he saw them.
Caged like rabid animals, they stood in the darkness, their gaunt faces twitching with erratic movements. Their milky, clouded eyes locked onto Andrea and Glenn, but unlike the usual vacant stares of the undead, there was something else there—something wrong.
Glenn swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing as he whispered, "They're moving too fast." His voice was barely above a breath, like speaking too loudly might provoke them.
Andrea's heartbeat quickened. She took a slow step forward, her instincts screaming at her to keep her distance. The walkers were testing their chains, jerking against their restraints in short, almost methodical movements. Their shoulders rolled unnaturally, their fingers flexing—like they were trying to get a feel for their own strength.
That wasn't right.
Walkers didn't learn.
Walkers didn't adapt.
Her grip tightened on her gun. "They don't have teeth," she murmured, her voice tight. "How the hell are they this dangerous?"
Glenn hesitated, his fingers twitching against the handle of his knife. He finally tore his eyes away from the grotesque figures and glanced at Andrea, his voice carrying a note of dread. "I don't know." He exhaled shakily, glancing toward the ceiling as if he could pull answers from the stone above. "Maybe the Governor's been… experimenting."
Andrea's head snapped toward him, her eyes narrowing. "What do you mean?"
Glenn's face was grim. "Look at them. They move like they're still alive." His tone was strained, barely keeping the fear at bay. "This ain't normal. I've never seen walkers act like this before. It's like—"
A sudden lunge interrupted his words.
One of the walkers slammed against its chains, yanking so hard that the iron groaned under the strain.
Andrea flinched, her gun snapping up on instinct.
The walker's face, half-decayed and missing a jaw, twisted into something close to frustration as it tugged again, harder.
Andrea's stomach churned. Walkers didn't feel frustration. Walkers didn't understand restraint. But this thing—this thing—acted like it knew it was trapped.
Glenn stumbled back, nearly knocking over a crate, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. His eyes were wide, his fingers white-knuckled around the handle of his knife. "Jesus Christ," he breathed.
Andrea's mouth went dry.
The walker wasn't just reacting to movement.
It was trying to escape.
Further down the row of cages, another walker tested its chain, pulling at its restraints in short, calculated jerks. It wasn't flailing mindlessly—it was thinking.
Andrea forced herself to push down the rising panic clawing at her throat. "We stick to the plan."
Glenn looked at her, incredulous. "The plan? Andrea, did you see that? These things—"
"We stick to the plan," she repeated, her voice firmer, even as her pulse hammered against her ribs.
Glenn exhaled sharply but nodded. He didn't like it, but there was no turning back now.
Andrea turned to the first cage, reaching for the rusted latch. Her fingers trembled slightly, but she forced herself to stay steady. The lock was old, the mechanism rusted from moisture, but it clicked open with a sickening ease. The sound echoed, louder than she expected, sending a ripple of tension through the underground chamber.
The door swung open.
For a long moment, nothing happened.
The walker inside, a skeletal figure with sunken eyes and missing lips, stared at them.
Before Andrea could react, it lunged forward, yanking violently against its chain, its gaping mouth snapping shut where her throat had been a second ago.
Andrea jerked back, barely avoiding its grasp, her heart slamming against her ribs.
Glenn's knife was already drawn, his stance rigid. "What the hell?!" His voice cracked with disbelief.
The walker kept moving, frantic but precise. It wasn't just flailing—it was grabbing.
Its arms shot forward, clawing at the empty air with purpose.
Andrea's breath came fast and shallow. Walkers didn't do this. They didn't reach, they didn't try—they just were.
Glenn reacted first, slamming the cage shut with a loud clang before the thing could break loose. "Nope. No way. This ain't normal." His hands were shaking.
Andrea's own fingers felt numb as she quickly unlatched the next cage.
Then the next.
One by one, the walkers rushed forward.
Their chains rattled, their bodies jerked, and yet—not one of them tried to bite.
They weren't looking to feed.
They were looking to kill.
Andrea's stomach twisted, a nauseating realization settling in. These weren't walkers anymore.
These were something new.
Something worse.
Glenn stood frozen for a moment, his face pale as a sheet. "This isn't gonna go the way we thought, is it?"
Andrea's jaw clenched as she forced down the fear clawing at her gut. "No."
Her hands balled into fists.
The first walker lunged again, but this time, it did something even more horrifying.
It wrapped its chain around its own wrist—and tightened it.
Glenn's stomach twisted. "Oh, hell no."
"These things are gonna tear through that arena," he whispered.
Andrea's lips pressed into a tight line. "Good."
She turned, grabbing Glenn's arm. "Let's go."
Glenn hesitated, taking one last look at the twisting, unnaturally aware creatures before finally following her.