Joe kept the pistol trained on the man holding the shovel. His arms didn't shake.
His eyes were locked onto the man, like he'd done this a thousand times before, and he had.
"I said wake him up," Joe barked. "Now."
Morgan his eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights, held his hands up slowly, propping the shovel against a wall.
"Alright," he said cautiously. "Ain't trying to hurt nobody. I just… I thought he was one of them."
Joe stepped closer, the barrel unwavering. "That's not my problem."
"Alright," the man repeated. "Calm down, man. He's just unconscious."
Joe's jaw flexed. He scanned Rick's body no blood, just a large lump already forming on his temple.
Duane wide-eyed and trembling knelt beside Rick and gently shook his shoulder. "Mister? Mister?"
Rick groaned.
Joe exhaled through his nose.
Rick's hand twitched. He blinked up at the ceiling, groaning again as he tried to sit up.
"What… what happened?"
"You took a shovel to the head," Joe said, still watching the man. "Welcome back."
"Damn," Rick muttered, holding his skull. "Feels like I took two."
Joe still hadn't lowered the weapon.
The man stepped back and gestured toward Rick. "You see? He's fine."
"Is he?" Joe said, eyes flicking to the kid. "Because this could've gone bad. Real bad."
Rick slowly stood, leaning on the wall for support, and waved Joe down.
"Joe. It's okay. I'm good."
Joe hesitated. Then finally lowered the pistol—but didn't holster it.
The man held out a hand. "Morgan. This here's my boy, Duane."
Rick nodded, wiping blood from his temple. "Rick Grimes."
Joe said nothing.
Morgan's hand stayed extended for a second longer, then dropped it.
The tension settled like dust.
After a while, everyone sat around the small dining table in Rick's kitchen, a stale silence between them. Duane stayed close to his dad, while Joe sat against the far wall, arms crossed, weapon resting against his thigh.
"So," Rick said, breaking the quiet. "What the hell happened?"
Morgan rubbed a hand down his face. "We've been here since it started. Place was empty when we found it. Didn't think nobody was coming back."
Joe raised a brow. "And what exactly started this?"
Morgan looked at both of them. "Started about two months ago. First it was riots. People losing their minds in the streets. They said it was a virus at first, or some kind of chemical spill. Then folks started dying… and not staying dead."
Duane shifted uncomfortably.
"Military tried to contain it. National Guard rolled through town… but they pulled out fast. By the time they did, the hospitals were overrun. Phones went dead. Internet, too."
He shook his head.
"It's been about two weeks since the last of it fell. Since then it's just been survival."
Rick sat in stunned silence, letting the words settle. His gaze drifted to the empty living room, the baby pictures on the wall, the photo of Lori and Carl by the fireplace.
Joe leaned forward slightly. "Two months," he muttered.
Morgan nodded. "That's by design. Soldiers, quarantines, lies. Same story everywhere."
Rick looked over at Joe.
"You got anyone out there?" Rick asked.
Joe didn't answer right away. He stared at the floor, elbows on his knees, jaw tight.
"I did," he said finally. Voice low. "Wife. Son. Gone before the dead even rose."
Morgan lowered his eyes. Even Duane seemed to understand what not to say.
Rick swallowed hard. "I'm sorry."
Joe gave a slow nod. "I was overseas. Missed the funeral by about and was forced into one last mission, in which I was wounded pretty bad."
Rick leaned back in his chair, the weight of it all threatening to crush him. "Lori… my wife. Carl's my boy. I don't know where they are. Maybe dead. Maybe not."
"They're not here," Morgan said gently. "But that doesn't mean they're gone."
Rick looked up. "You think they made it?"
Morgan stood and walked over to the window. "There were evacuation centers. FEMA camps. Most of them didn't last, but people tried. I heard broadcasts a few weeks ago. One of them said Atlanta was still operational. Refugee center, CDC presence. That was the last anyone heard."
Rick stared at him. "How far?"
"Fifty, maybe sixty miles." Morgan shrugged. "Could be hell."
Joe stood. Limped to the mantle, looking at the photos of Lori and Carl. He didn't say anything.
"I'll go."
Rick turned to him. "You sure?"
Joe nodded once. "The hospital, the dead, the city... all of it. I'm not gonna wait around for it to come knocking. You've got a reason to go. I'll watch your back."
Morgan spoke up, arms crossed. "I'd come with, but... my boy. He ain't ready. We've got some food here. Water. It's safe for now."
Rick nodded. "We'll head out at first light."
Joe walked back to the table, grabbing his gear. "Get some rest. Tomorrow, we see how far the dead have spread."
The night settled heavy over the house.
Upstairs, Duane slept restlessly, the covers drawn up to his chin. Downstairs, Rick lay on the living room couch, one arm draped over his eyes. Joe sat cross-legged by the window, rifle across his lap, listening to the wind.
Morgan stood in the hallway, alone in the dark, staring at the family photo framed on the wall. His fingers grazed the edge of it.
It should've been peaceful.
Until.
BEEP—BEEP—BEEP—BEEP.
The sudden screech of a car alarm tore through the night like a knife.
Rick jolted upright. "What the hell?"
Joe was already up, peering through the blinds.
Morgan froze. "No… no, no, not tonight…"
He ran to the front window and peered out.
Under the moonlight, across the street, the source of the noise flickered—an old white sedan. Its alarm wailed, headlights flashing. Something had bumped it. Or someone.
Joe saw her first.
A figure stumbling into the headlights.
She wore a faded bathrobe, slippers. Her hair matted. One arm hung limp, like it had been broken and never healed. Her skin was pale and sunken, her face smeared with dried blood and dirt.
She groaned softly as she reached the front yard.
Morgan whispered, "Jennie…"
Rick looked over. "That's your...?"
Morgan's voice was hollow. "My wife."
Joe tightened his grip on the rifle, lost in thought.
The walker,formerly Jennie, slowly climbed the front steps. Her dead eyes fixed on the door as if she remembered it. As if some faint echo of her old life still guided her steps.
Duane's voice called down from upstairs. "Dad?"
"Stay up there! Don't come down!" Morgan barked.
Jennie reached the door and scratched at it gently. Not pounding. Not ramming. Just… reaching. Like she was knocking.
Everyone stood still.
Joe whispered, "She's not breaking in."
Rick said nothing.
Morgan trembled. His hands balled into fists. "She does this every few nights. Just walks up. Stares. Like she's waiting to be let in."
The car alarm cut off suddenly, plunging the world into silence again.
Jennie kept scratching.
Morgan stepped toward the door.
Joe moved quickly, blocking him. "Don't. That's not her anymore."
Morgan's eyes were glassy. "You don't know that."
"I do," Joe said firmly. "I've seen it."
Rick stepped between them. "We wait it out. She'll leave. She always does, right?"
Morgan hesitated.
Then slowly nodded.
Outside, Jennie turned in a slow circle, groaned, and staggered back down the steps, drawn again to the streetlights and shadows.
The front door remained shut. Locked.
But Morgan couldn't sleep.
None of them did.
...
About an hour later.
Outside, Jennie, what was left of her once again staggered up the steps to the porch, moaning faintly. Her fingers dragged across the doorframe, tracing memories only she could see. She didn't slam. Didn't claw. She just… waited.
Rick stood frozen. Morgan's fists clenched at his sides. The hurt was plain in his face like every cell in his body screamed for action, but his legs wouldn't move.
Joe stepped up beside him, watching the walker sway gently in the moonlight.
"She always comes back," Morgan whispered. "Like she's looking for something. Like she knows."
Rick swallowed hard. "Maybe some part of her does."
Joe didn't speak at first.
Then quietly, almost gently:
"Let her in."
Morgan turned, eyes wide with disbelief. "What?"
Rick tensed. "Joe..."
"No more waiting," Joe said, his voice steady but calm. "You don't want your boy seeing her like this again. You don't want to live through this loop one more night. Don't allow her to keep suffering like this."
Morgan's voice cracked. "I can't…"
Joe met his eyes. "You can. And we'll help you."
For a long moment, Morgan didn't breathe.
Then, with trembling hands, he reached for the door and unlocked it.
The knob turned.
Jennie stepped forward into the light.
Up close, her condition was worse, part of her face torn, lip split to the gumline. Her eyes were cloudy but still fixed on him. She moaned softly.
Morgan stepped back. "Jennie…"
Rick raised his revolver. Joe raised his hand and pushed Rick's gun down.
Morgan stood before her, trembling.
Then her head twitched.
She lungedat him.
Morgan stood there, frozen.
Joe moved swiftly behind her and controlled her limb before pinning her to the ground.
Rick moving to close the door, making sure to lock it.
Joe held the walker firmly, Morgan sinking to his knees. "I can't do it."
Joe nodded and said, "If this were my Claire, I wouldn't be able to either." Joe then pulled his knife from his belt and slid his knife into the back of the walkers head. Joe then backed away as Morgan moved to cradle what was once his wife.
Silence once again reigned in the house. Joe and Rick left Morgan to grieve for a while before they came back with thick sheet to wrap the body in.
From upstairs, Duane whispered through the bannister, "Dad?"
Morgan wiped his face. "It's okay, son. It's over." Morgan then climbed the stair to be with his son, and for the first time in days, he slept peacefully.