The arena was alive with roaring cheers, the air thick with sweat, smoke from torches, and the faint underlying stench of death. The townspeople of Woodbury were packed into the bleachers, their faces illuminated by the flickering firelight as they drank and laughed, oblivious to the horror that was about to unfold. The makeshift battleground, a wide pit of dirt surrounded by tall iron fencing, was primed for bloodshed.
At the center of the pit stood two fighters—grizzled men with hardened expressions, each holding dull blades in their hands. Their bodies bore fresh wounds from past battles, scars crisscrossing their skin, reminders of the cruel entertainment they were forced to partake in.
Above it all, from his elevated viewing platform, The Governor sat comfortably, one leg crossed over the other, whiskey swirling in his glass. A smug, calculating smirk curled at his lips as he basked in the adoration of his people.
Two men stood in the center of the arena, their muscles tense, their faces slick with sweat. They each held crude, dulled weapons—one a rusted machete, the other a chipped axe. Both were smeared with old blood from previous battles, but tonight, it would be their own blood that soaked the sand.
The announcer, a wiry man with a voice like gravel, lifted his arms to silence the crowd.
"Ladies and gentlemen of Woodbury!" he bellowed, his voice ringing through the stands. "Tonight, we have a fight for the ages! Two warriors! One victor! And, of course—"
He gestured toward the heavy iron doors at the far end of the arena.
"Our special guests!"
The heavy iron doors at the far end of the pit groaned open. The crowd roared, their anticipation peaking.
At first, they seemed like ordinary walkers, slow-moving figures with gaunt faces and rotting flesh. Their shackled chains rattled against the dirt floor, dragging behind them like the remnants of a broken leash. Their mouths gaped open—toothless, the remnants of their once-deadly bites now reduced to useless, gaping holes.
The crowd cheered, entertained by the apparent safety of the match. Without teeth, the undead were no real threat.
Then the first gladiator, a stocky man with a thick beard, lunged forward, swinging his blade at the closest walker's head.
He never got the chance to land the blow.
Before the sword could connect, the walker dodged
The bearded gladiator barely had time to react before the walker's arms shot forward, its hands gripping the chain around its own throat before violently whipping it forward—snapping the metal links around the man's neck with a vicious yank.
The crowd gasped. The fight had barely started, and already the tables had turned.
The gladiator's eyes widened in horror as the cold metal tightened around his throat. He dropped his sword, clawing desperately at the chain, but the walker was relentless.
It pulled tighter.
The veins in the man's forehead bulged, his face turning an ugly shade of red as his legs buckled beneath him. His boots kicked up dust as he thrashed against the unrelenting strength of his attacker. The crowd fell into a stunned silence, watching in disbelief as the gladiator, a man who had survived countless battles, was being choked to death by a walker.
Then, in one final, brutal motion, the walker twisted the chain with inhuman strength—and the gladiator's neck snapped.
His body collapsed to the ground.
The crowd erupted into chaos.
The Governor sat up sharply in his seat, his whiskey sloshing in his cup. His eyes narrowed, a deep frown forming on his face. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
In the pit, the second gladiator, a younger man with a shaved head and a leaner build, took a step back, his grip on his weapon faltering as he realized what had just happened.
But he had no time to process it.
A second walker lunged.
This one was faster, its hands snatching its own chain, swinging it like a weapon as it whipped it around the gladiator's arm, jerking him forward with brutal force.
The young man stumbled, his balance lost as the undead abomination closed the distance.
They weren't just hunting. They were fighting.
The walker moved like a predator, gripping the chain and using it to anchor itself to the man's body, twisting its arms around his chest, constricting like a snake. The gladiator let out a choked gasp as his ribs compressed under the unnatural force, his body contorting as he struggled to free himself.
His knee buckled as he dropped his sword. His fingers scrambled at the chains binding him, but the walker was merciless.
Then the young man fell And the second he hit the ground, the walker tightened its grip.
The arena, once filled with the deafening roars of an eager crowd, had fallen into an eerie, suffocating silence. The only sounds were the distant crackling of torches and the rustling of restless bodies shifting in their seats. Every eye was locked onto the scene below, where the last breath had just left the second gladiator's body.
A sickening, wet pop, like the snapping of an old, brittle tree branch, echoed across the arena as the walker tightened its hold around the young man's neck. The finality of it sent a shudder through those close enough to hear. His body, once tense with the struggle for life, went slack. His arms fell limply to the bloodstained dirt, fingers twitching once before growing still. The dust settled around his motionless form, framing him in death like a gruesome painting.
A thick, oppressive silence stretched over the arena like a storm cloud. The crowd had yet to fully react, the weight of what had just happened still sinking in. People held their breath, their drinks frozen halfway to their lips, their expressions locked in horrified disbelief.
The lifeless gladiators, now turned, pushed themselves up from the dirt, their movements eerily smooth. Their fingers flexed, their eyes vacant yet somehow aware.
Panic surged through the bleachers as people scrambled to their feet, knocking over drinks, trampling one another in their desperate attempt to flee. The once-laughing audience was now shrieking in terror, realizing they were no longer watching a fight—they were watching an outbreak.
The Governor's face twisted into something dark and unreadable. His grip on his whiskey glass was so tight that the glass cracked in his hand.
The Governor barely had time to react before the bullet ripped through his shoulder, sending him staggering back against his chair.
The whiskey glass slipped from his fingers and shattered against the floor.
A familiar voice, laced with pure amusement, rang out from the chaos.
"Well, look at that," Merle drawled, standing several feet away with his pistol raised, a wide grin splitting his face. "Ain't that just a damn shame?"
The Governor's good eye burned with rage as he clutched his wounded shoulder. Blood seeped through his jacket, staining the crisp fabric. "You son of a bitch," he spat, his voice ragged with pain.
Merle tilted his head. "Yeah, yeah. We'll have time for all the name-callin' later, Phil." He cocked the pistol again. "Now hold still, ya bastard. I'm about to do this town a real big favor."
Before he could fire, two of the Governor's guards tackled him from behind.
Merle roared in frustration, twisting violently as one of the men pinned his shooting arm against his back, forcing his gun from his grip. Another slammed a fist into his ribs, knocking the air from his lungs.
The Governor straightened, his face twisting into a snarl as he wiped the blood from his mouth. His eyes flicked toward the chaos in the arena, then back to Merle, calculating.
"Kill him," he ordered, his voice low and full of venom.
One of the guards yanked a knife from his belt, pressing it against Merle's throat.
Merle smirked, blood running down the corner of his mouth. He didn't look scared. If anything, he looked excited.
"Aww, c'mon, boys. You're makin' me feel special." His voice was hoarse but dripping with amusement. "Ain't ya gonna at least buy me dinner first?"
The blade pressed deeper—but before it could sink in, a crossbow boltsliced through the air and embedded itself into the guard's skull.
The man dropped like a sack of bricks.
Daryl.
The second guard barely had time to react before Merle, seizing the opening, slammed his metal stump into the man's nose with a sickening crunch. The guard howled in pain, blood gushing down his face as he staggered back.
Merle grabbed the fallen knife.
And without hesitation—he drove it into the man's throat.
The body collapsed at his feet.
Merle exhaled, shaking the blood off his hands before flashing a wolfish grin at the Governor.