The sun was kissing the treetops by the time we reached the gates of Alexandria. The light had that kind of dying warmth that warned you night was coming—and with it, trouble usually wasn't far behind. I had mud on my boots, blood on my gloves, and a severed head in Daryl's grip. Caleb looked like he'd aged five years in one afternoon.
The shadows grew long, but the noise near the gates wasn't from crickets or the wind.
Something was off.
As we drew closer, I caught sight of a crowd gathering just past the main road near the center of town. That kind of cluster didn't happen unless something had gone tits up.
Then I saw them.
Glenn and Aiden, tangled on the ground like feral dogs. Aiden was on the receiving end—his face already a mess of blood and panic while Glenn drove his fists into him with a kind of fury I hadn't seen in the lad before. Not from Glenn.
"Bloody hell…" I muttered, slowing my pace as I watched the chaos unfold.
Nicholas broke through the crowd, probably to jump in and help his buddy. Daryl—quick as a snap trap—dropped the head he was carrying and his crossbow, He tackled Nicholas mid-sprint, slamming him hard into the dirt with a satisfying thud. The crowd recoiled. Daryl stayed on top, making sure the lad didn't get back up.
I didn't even need to tell him. The man just knew.
Izzy and Heath stepped in next, yanking Glenn off Aiden with effort. Glenn didn't fight them, but his whole body was trembling—with rage, with exhaustion. Annie and Scott dragged Aiden off the pavement, blood smearing the gravel as they moved him toward the clinic.
Me and Caleb watched it all from the gates. He looked like he wanted to ask what the hell was happening, but didn't. I was thinking the same damn thing. Glenn was level-headed. If he lost it like that, then something had gone very, very wrong.
Deanna arrived a few moments later, pushing through the crowd with Reg close behind her. Her eyes went wide at the sight of her son's bloody face. She stopped dead, visibly rattled. "What the hell is happening here?!" she snapped, trying to sound authoritative but the crack in her voice betrayed her worry.
Glenn didn't miss a beat. He stepped forward, raw and fuming, his chest rising and falling fast.
"Your son," he started, loud enough for everyone to hear, "abandoned Bob during the supply run."
A wave of murmurs swept through the crowd. Deanna blinked, her mouth slightly open.
Glenn kept going, pacing like he was trying to burn off the grief that was boiling inside him. "Bob hurt his foot. He couldn't move fast. We had time—Aiden could've helped him. Could've carried him. Instead?" Glenn's voice broke. "He ran. He left him behind."
Gasps rippled through the crowd like shockwaves. I looked around—faces changed in an instant. I saw pity, shame, and anger.
And I felt all of it.
Cowardice like that gets people killed. And today, it cost us Bob.
Sasha, who had been standing off to the side—eyes locked on Glenn—stepped forward, voice trembling. "Where is he?"
No one answered. Izzy looked down. Rosita bit her lip. Heath couldn't meet her eyes.
Glenn shook his head slowly. "I'm sorry."
"No," Sasha said, backing up. "No—he could've escaped. He might've made it." Her hand went to her rifle. "I need to find him."
She started walking toward the gate, fast, determined.
"Sasha."
I stepped in front of her, one hand out—not aggressive, just firm.
"Let me go, Price." Her voice cracked. "He could still be alive."
Her eyes were glassy with grief, her jaw clenched. She wasn't thinking straight.
"You'll get yourself killed," I said gently. "We don't know what's out there. If he's out there, I promise—we'll find him. But not like this."
She shook her head. "I can't just do nothing."
"No one's asking you to," I replied. "Just not like this. You don't go alone."
She stood there, torn between anger and heartbreak. Then Melina—Elijah's wife—stepped in, placing a hand on Sasha's shoulder. Maggie and Carol followed behind her.
"Come on," Maggie said softly. "Let's go back. We'll talk. We'll figure it out."
Sasha's shoulders slumped, her grief finally crashing down. Tears fell freely as they led her away.
I turned toward Deanna and Reg, who had just processed the full weight of Glenn's words. Their faces—shock, shame, and a sobering realization.
They knew what had to happen next. But they were too stunned to say it.
So I did.
"A hearing will be held. We'll find out exactly what happened on that run. But for now, everyone return to your posts."
My voice cut through the air, clear and sharp. I wasn't giving a suggestion—I was giving an order.
Deanna didn't stop me. Spencer had just arrived, standing near his mother, clearly shaken by the whole thing.
I walked past them toward where Daryl had dropped the severed head earlier. The one with the "W" carved into its forehead. I picked it up by the hair, the skin cold and tacky. A grotesque trophy, but necessary.
Rick, Michonne, and Davidson arrived just as I turned around, confusion across their faces.
"We've got threats," I said, motioning them toward me. "Ones that need to be dealt with now."
Rick's brows furrowed. "What threats?"
I looked at them, eyes hard. "We found a quarry—a few miles out. Old stone pit. Thousands of walkers packed in tight. Like a dam waiting to burst."
Michonne's eyes widened. "Thousands?"
"More than I've ever seen in one place," Daryl added, coming up beside me. "Only thing holding them back's a rock wall that's ready to give."
I let the words hang in the air, watched the color drain from their faces.
But I wasn't done.
"And this," I said, lifting the head for them to see, turning it so they couldn't miss the carved "W" in the forehead. "The Wolves. They're nearby. Marking their dead like dogs. And I guarantee they ain't far from where we scouted."
Davidson muttered something under his breath. Rick took a step back, like the realization had punched the wind out of him.
"One threat would've been bad enough," I said, dropping the head with a wet thud. "Now we've got two—and a green community full of people who've never seen a real fight. Yet, it's a good thing that they've been trained on how to fight. But training and experience are two different things."
Deanna finally found her voice. She straightened, nodding once. "Let's convene. At our house. Now."
Good. Because we needed a plan—and fast.
War was already on our doorstep.