The Governor's truck sat still on the dirt road like a coffin abandoned beneath the stars. Its engine had long gone cold, dead smoke curling sluggishly from beneath the crumpled hood, vanishing into the suffocating silence that hung thick in the night air. The wind barely stirred the leaves on the skeletal trees that lined the road like silent witnesses. All that remained was stillness, the uneasy hush before the final breath.
Inside the cab, Phillip Blake—once feared, once obeyed, the self-styled Governor of Woodbury—was crumpled in the driver's seat, his broad shoulders sagging, his body hollowed out by pain and loss. Sweat matted his unkempt dark hair, and streaks of dried blood stained the sharp line of his jaw and soaked into the collar of his once-pristine button-down shirt. The right side of his chest was caked in blood, the bullet wound in his shoulder pulsing with every beat of his weakening heart.
His face—once proud, cold, and calculating—was now gaunt and slack with exhaustion. His eyes was glazed and unfocused, the iris a dull green like glass left too long in the sun. His chest rose and fell in uneven jerks, each breath catching, shallow and labored. The pain in his shoulder throbbed like a second heartbeat—fierce, insistent, reminding him that his time was nearly up.
He was dying.
The realization didn't come as a sudden panic or dramatic epiphany—it settled on him like a cold, familiar weight. The kind of truth you tried to ignore until it sat across from you, smiling. He knew it. Felt it deep in his marrow. But even now, his pride resisted. Phillip Blake had built a town out of chaos. He'd survived walkers, traitors, even mutiny. He wasn't supposed to die in some damn truck on a nameless road.
He clenched his jaw and squeezed his eye shut, trying to fight the creeping cold that had started in his fingertips and now crawled up his arms.
And when he opened them…
She was there.
Penny.
She sat in the passenger seat, as still as death—and just as silent. Her pale skin glowed faintly under the moonlight that spilled through the cracked windshield, her hair matted in tangled locks, her small dress stained and faded. Her cloudy, milky-white eyes stared at him without blinking, her lips slightly parted in that eerie way that never truly left his nightmares.
The Governor's breath caught in his throat, his heart skipping in both terror and awe. His good eye widened, trembling with emotion he hadn't let surface since he buried her.
"Penny…" he rasped, his voice cracking like brittle paper.
The little girl's head tilted just so, and her lips curled into a familiar, soft smile. Not a walker's snarl—no hunger or mindless rage. It was something else.
"Get up, Daddy."
He reached for her, his fingers shaking. For a heartbeat, he believed she was real—whole, restored. But before he could touch her, a new sound broke the silence like a gunshot.
The creaking of the driver's side door.
The Governor gasped sharply, body jerking, snapping back into reality with a jolt. His vision swam. Pain flooded him anew. He whipped his head around, the ache in his neck sparking as panic surged. Instinct screamed louder than reason.
A silhouette stood at the open door.
Tall. Gaunt. Motionless. Limned in the moonlight like a specter.
A walker.
He didn't hesitate.
His good arm lashed out for the door handle. He shoved it open and stumbled from the truck, his boots slamming into the dirt, legs immediately folding beneath him. He fell, hard. The breath burst from his lungs. His injured shoulder hit the ground with a sharp jolt of white-hot pain.
His world spun.
The road scraped his cheek, grit grinding into his face as he tried to crawl, dragging himself away from the truck, away from the thing. Blood smeared beneath him, dark and thick, soaking into the dry dust.
Then—he heard it.
A soft sound.
A chuckle.
Not animal. Not dead.
Human.
But twisted.
The Governor's eye darted up, his breath freezing in his throat. He turned, teeth bared, expecting rot and decay.
Instead, he saw a man.
Not just a man—a monster with the face of a man.
Morales.
He stood just behind the open truck door, half-shrouded in shadow, the faint gleam of the moon casting eerie highlights on his sickly gray skin. His features were familiar yet wrong—cheeks sunken, lips too dry, eyes gleaming with an unnatural intelligence. His clothes were ragged, stained, but clean in deliberate ways, as if he took care of himself—or as if something inside him still did.
His mouth was pulled into a smile—not of hunger or mockery, but of reverence.
Like a preacher standing before a fallen sinner.
"Relax," Morales murmured, stepping forward. His boots crunched softly against the gravel road. His voice was calm, measured, smooth as silk. "No need to run."
Phillip's muscles twitched, but there was nowhere to go. His body trembled under its own weight. His breath came in shallow, broken gasps.
"Y-you're…" he stammered, his eye darting to the trees beyond.
That's when he saw them.
Walkers.
Dozens.
No—hundreds.
No—thousands.
They lined the road in every direction, their decaying forms swaying slightly in the breeze. Shoulder to shoulder, unmoving. Their heads all turned toward him. Their eyes gleamed faintly in the darkness like glass beads. They should've been groaning. Moaning. Charging.
But they weren't.
They stood still.
Silent.
Watching.
His stomach twisted.
"Why… aren't they attacking?" the Governor rasped, barely able to form the words.
Morales knelt down beside him. His face, now fully visible in the moonlight, was lined with cracks—like dry stone—yet his eyes were alive. Too alive.
"Because they are under my control," Morales said with quiet reverence.
The Governor's lips trembled. "What… what are you?"
Morales smiled, gentle and wide. "I'm what comes next."
Silence stretched between them as the Governor's pulse throbbed in his ears. His hand trembled over the bloody mess that was his shoulder.
"Do you want to be reborn?" Morales asked, his tone low and serious.
Phillip Blake hesitated, torn between horror and desperation. His pride, even now, fought it. But the darkness creeping into his vision was stronger. The truth was undeniable.
He didn't want to die.
He wasn't ready to stop fighting.
"Yes," he whispered.
Morales's smile widened into something joyful. Reverent.
"Good."
The creature leaned forward, and the Governor's body tensed, breath caught in his throat.
Then—sharp, tearing agony.
Morales bit into his neck.
Phillip screamed.
The fire of infection ripped through his body like a storm. The Governor's back arched, his hands clawing at the ground as the venom spread—burning, consuming, rebuilding.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
When the Governor's eyes opened, everything was different.
The world no longer swam in fog. The pain that had crippled him, the unbearable ache that had dragged his breaths into shallow wheezes—it was gone. Wiped clean. His body no longer screamed in protest. The agony of the bullet wound in his shoulder had vanished, replaced by something new. Something worse… and better.
It started in his limbs. He felt it in his fingers first—flexing them slowly, experimentally. The movement was smooth, no longer sluggish or stiff. His hands moved like oiled machines, precise and coiled with potential. His legs, which had moments ago buckled beneath him, now hummed with strength. He curled his toes in the dust, pushing himself up from the ground like a soldier rising from a grave.
He sat up slowly, his movement eerily fluid, like a serpent uncoiling. A strange heat pulsed behind his ribs—an alien vitality that thrummed with every second. A heartbeat not his own, but something deeper, darker.
The night around him shimmered with strange clarity.
He could hear everything.
The rustling of branches high in the trees. The subtle skittering of mice several yards off the road. The distant crackle of a burning log, probably miles away. His ears twitched involuntarily, catching every minute detail in the air. Each breath of wind carried with it the decaying perfume of the undead. Once, it would have turned his stomach. Now?
He inhaled slowly.
It was pleasant. Inviting.
The scent of rot reminded him of rain on dry soil. Familiar. Comforting.
Standing before him, silhouetted by moonlight, was Morales. His face was a mask of calm pride. His leathery skin stretched taut over high cheekbones, but his eyes burned with unnatural life—dark orbs that gleamed with sentience no walker should have. His lips curled into a soft, patient smile, like a teacher proud of his pupil.
"Welcome back to the world," Morales said quietly, reverently. "You're part of something greater now."
The Governor licked his lips, his expression unreadable. His tongue felt alien in his mouth—rougher, like a cat's tongue, textured for tearing rather than speaking. Even that small motion sent signals of hunger through him.
And then he felt it.
The Hunger.
It wasn't mere emptiness. It was a need. A demand. A gnawing void that clawed at his insides with cruel urgency. It made his chest feel hollow, made his jaw twitch involuntarily. The sensation was deeper than physical starvation—it was primal. Spiritual. As if something had been taken from him, and now only meat could fill the gap.
His body stiffened as it surged up from within, and his face contorted briefly—shock, disgust, confusion. He brought a trembling hand to his stomach, expecting the sensation to subside.
It didn't.
Morales was already watching him with knowing eyes.
"Here," he said, almost gently.
He reached into a small, tattered satchel slung over his shoulder and pulled out a hunk of meat. It was dark, blood-wet, and raw—stringy tendons clinging to exposed bone, chunks of desiccated flesh still wriggling faintly with decay. The stench was overwhelming.
The Governor's gut clenched, and his mind screamed to recoil.
He didn't.
Instead, his mouth watered.
He stared at the meat as if it were the most succulent roast he'd ever seen. His instincts warred with the echo of his humanity. Somewhere, buried under the layers of this new body, Phillip Blake was still alive—horrified, trapped, screaming.
But that voice was distant now.
Too far.
Morales extended the meat toward him, his expression one of almost religious solemnity. "You'll need it," he said simply.
The Governor reached out with one hand. His fingers curled around the rotten flesh.
And he ate.
The first bite was a shock—cold, chewy, thick with decay. It burst against his tongue like curdled blood. His teeth—sharper now, stronger—tore into it with unnatural ease. There was no gag reflex. No bile. No resistance.
And then came the taste.
It was unlike anything he had ever known. It wasn't just flavor—it was energy. Memory. Strength. His eyes fluttered for a moment, his body trembling as the meat filled him with something raw and powerful. He tore off another bite, then another.
Morales ate with him, but slower, savoring each chew like a man at communion. They didn't speak as they fed, but the silence was heavy with understanding.
By the time the meat was gone, the Governor's hands were slick with blood. He wiped them across his chest carelessly, smearing crimson over his already-soiled shirt.
He exhaled, the breath ragged and wet, and sat back on his heels.
His eye locked on Morales.
"You did this to me," he said, his voice deeper now—coarser, like it echoed from somewhere beneath the earth.
Morales didn't flinch. "I saved you."
A beat of silence passed.
Then, after a moment, Morales spoke again.
"We have a mission," he said, as though reciting sacred scripture. "A holy mission."
The Governor raised an eyebrow, chewing slowly, thoughtfully. "That right?"
Morales nodded. "We are to find the one who corrupts the balance. The Antichrist."
The words didn't shock the Governor. If anything, they thrilled him. A slow grin spread across his face—jagged, wolfish, full of new teeth and new hunger.
His fingers twitched involuntarily at the sound of that name.
Antichrist.
The meaning clawed into his thoughts like a worm wriggling in his skull. He didn't know why it felt familiar… until his nose caught the scent.
It hit him like lightning.
Faint, distant, but unmistakable.
That smell. That blood. That power. His nostrils flared.
Murphy.
A low growl escaped the Governor's throat. His jaw clenched, and he bared his teeth without thinking.
Of course it was him.
The arrogant mutant. The outsider. The liar. The one who walked into his town, into his plans, and unmade everything. Murphy, the so-called immune, the would-be cure.
The Governor's eye narrowed with new purpose. The Hunger twisted again—but this time it wasn't just for meat.
It was for vengeance.
His lips curled into a dangerous smile as he turned to Morales, wiping the last of the blood from his chin.
"If we're gonna do that," he said, voice low and thick, "then I got a demand of my own."
Morales tilted his head, curious. "Speak it."
The Governor's expression turned savage.
"When we find him…" he growled, his new instincts buzzing like hornets under his skin, "…he's fed to my daughter."
Morales paused. His expression didn't change—if anything, he looked almost… pleased. As if the demand made perfect sense in his broken theology.
He nodded slowly.
"Agreed," he said.