The sun rose slowly over Woodbury, casting long golden streaks across the battered buildings and scorched streets. The air was thick with the scent of ash and steel, but it was quiet now—eerily peaceful compared to the chaos that had consumed the town only days before. Where once there was fire and gunfire, now there was the soft scrape of shovels, the clang of hammers, and the occasional voice calling out for supplies or coordination.
Rick stood in the center of what used to be the town square, his arms folded tightly across his chest. His worn sheriff's jacket had been rolled up at the sleeves, revealing dirt-streaked forearms that flexed with tension. His eyes, ever sharp and watchful, scanned the courtyard where a dozen survivors stood in uneven formation. Some held rusted machetes. Others gripped scavenged firearms like they were foreign objects.
Murphy stood beside him, more relaxed but just as focused. His sleeves were rolled up too, exposing a bite-scarred arm that had somehow become a symbol of hope for the people of Woodbury. His expression was a mixture of measured confidence and mild amusement. He watched the ragged line of survivors with his usual unfiltered sarcasm dancing just beneath the surface.
"Alright," Rick barked, stepping forward. "You've got ten fingers. Let's keep it that way."
The crowd chuckled nervously, but they listened. Murphy stepped in next, his tone more laid-back but no less direct.
"Rule number one: If you're gonna shoot, don't hesitate. If it's dead, you put it down. If it ain't dead but looks at you like you're dinner? You shoot it anyway."
Amy, standing near the front of the group, raised an eyebrow. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, her arms crossed. She looked tired, but alert. She glanced over at Murphy with a small smirk. "So... we shoot anything that moves?"
Murphy grinned at her, cocking his head to the side. "Only if it smells like roadkill and moans a lot."
She chuckled despite herself, shaking her head. "You really know how to inspire confidence."
"Hey," he replied with a wink. "I do my best work with low expectations."
Andrea, nearby, rolled her eyes. "Can we stick to the drills?"
Rick raised a hand to silence the chatter, then nodded at Murphy. "You take half the group, show them the stance again. I'll run point on live ammo training."
Murphy motioned for his group to follow, Amy among them, as they moved to an open space near the east gate.
"You ever even shot a gun before?" Murphy asked Amy as they walked, the gravel crunching under their boots.
"A few times. My sister was always better at it. I mostly stuck to lookout duty and yelling at people."
Murphy snorted. "Sounds productive."
She shrugged. "Well, yelling saves lives."
Murphy's smile softened, his gaze flicking to her profile. She had laugh lines near her eyes despite everything. He liked that.
"You did alright during the walker breach," he said. "You didn't freeze up."
Amy looked down for a second, then back up at him. "I was terrified. But if I stopped moving, I was dead. That kinda simplifies things."
They arrived at the training zone. Murphy handed her a revolver and pointed at a makeshift target nailed to a wooden post.
"Alright, sharpshooter. Let's see what yelling's done for your aim."
Amy tightened her grip on the revolver, her brows furrowed in concentration. Her knuckles went pale around the handle, the metal cool and unfamiliar in her grasp. She inhaled slowly through her nose, eyes narrowing as she fixed her gaze on the target. There was tension in her jaw, the kind that came from someone desperate not to fail—especially in front of someone they respected.
Murphy stood to her side, arms crossed loosely over his chest, observing. His sharp blue eyes flicked between her stance and her trigger finger, noting every tiny movement. He wasn't the type to bark corrections, but he was paying attention to everything. The corners of his lips twitched upward slightly as she squared her shoulders just right.
"Easy," he said, his voice low, calm. "Don't overthink it. Just breathe."
Amy let the breath go, slow and measured, her lips parted slightly. Then, with a firm squeeze of her finger, she fired.
The shot cracked through the air, echoing across the open courtyard. The bullet struck the edge of the wooden board, just inches from center. Amy blinked, surprised.
Murphy gave a slow nod, clearly impressed. "Not bad for a screamer."
She laughed, lowering the revolver. Her face lit up with a rare expression—genuine pride. "Guess all that yelling worked after all."
Murphy chuckled, stepping a little closer, his tone teasing but gentle. "Stick with me, and you'll be hitting bottle caps at twenty paces by next week."
Amy rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered. There was something warm behind her guarded expression now. A spark of comfort she hadn't felt in a long time.
Back in the main square, Rick was instructing his group on proper reloading techniques. His tone was sharp but encouraging, his eyes scanning each pair of hands with practiced efficiency. Andrea stood beside him, demonstrating each step with mechanical precision. Her face was a mask of focus—no room for emotion, just survival.
Meanwhile, Murphy adjusted Amy's stance with a gentle nudge to her elbow, his touch brief but steady. "Tilt your wrist just a bit. Like that. There you go."
Amy nodded, chewing her lower lip in concentration. She took another shot—this one closer to center. Her shoulders relaxed a little.
Murphy leaned back slightly, watching her with a satisfied grin. "Told ya. Natural talent."
"You just like being right," she said, a playful edge to her voice.
"Well yeah," he quipped. "Keeps me alive."
They shared a moment of silence, eyes locked longer than necessary, before the sound of another gunshot rang out from the other side of the square.
Both turned instinctively, their bodies tense. But it was just training. Rick's group continued their drills, the sound of gunfire regular, controlled. The tension bled out of them both.
Amy glanced back at Murphy, her expression softening. "I'm glad you stayed. After everything."
Murphy looked away for a moment, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. When he turned back to her, his smile had faded, replaced by something more serious.
"Didn't think I'd ever have something worth sticking around for," he said quietly. "But maybe this place… maybe it could be something."
Amy nodded slowly, the weight of that admission settling between them like a shared secret.
"Yeah," she murmured. "Maybe."
From across the yard, Dale watched them, his weathered face creased with thought. There was something reassuring about the scene—two people, still standing, still fighting, still human. Even in this world.
Rick called out for everyone to regroup, and the survivors began to gather near the center of the square once again.
Murphy turned to Amy, voice lighter now. "Come on, sharpshooter. Time to show off."
She smiled—genuinely this time—and followed him toward the group.