The sterile scent of rubbing alcohol mixed with the lingering stench of decay in Milton's cramped laboratory. Dim fluorescent lights flickered above, casting sickly yellowish hues over the grimy counters and stacks of notes scattered across the workspace. The scientist adjusted his glasses, wiping sweat from his brow as he carefully prepared the next syringe, his hands trembling with a mixture of fear and anticipation.
Murphy's blood swirled in the vial he held, thick and dark under the artificial light, carrying an almost unnatural vitality. It was unlike anything Milton had ever seen. The way it pulsed, even outside a living body, unsettled him. He wasn't a fool—he knew this was no ordinary blood.
He turned his gaze to the two walkers chained against the far wall, their decayed bodies jerking and snarling mindlessly. The first test subject was a ghoul of a thing, missing half its face, the remains of its jaw barely held together by sinew and decayed flesh. The second had a milky white eye, its lips peeled back into a perpetual snarl, snapping at the air.
They were perfect specimens. Mindless. Predictable. Until now.
Milton exhaled sharply, steadying his hands as he inserted the needle into the first walker's decomposing arm, carefully pressing down on the plunger. The dark crimson liquid disappeared into the veins of the undead, its body twitching slightly as the blood flowed through it.
At first, nothing happened. The creature continued its frantic, instinctive lunges against its chains, fingers raking against the cold concrete floor in a blind, ravenous hunger.
Then… something changed.
The walker's movements slowed. Its head twitched slightly, as if confused.
Milton took a cautious step forward, his breath shallow. The undead thing blinked, slow and deliberate, its remaining eye shifting—tracking him. Not just reacting to movement, but watching.
Milton's stomach dropped.
The second walker let out a hoarse, rattling growl—but unlike the usual mindless groans of the dead, there was something different about this sound. Intent. Frustration. As if it was aware that it was restrained. Its clawed fingers twitched, but this time, instead of blindly swiping, it tested its chains. It felt them.
Milton stumbled backward, knocking over a tray of instruments. The metal tools clattered onto the counter, and the first walker's head snapped toward the sound.
Not just a reaction. Recognition.
Milton's pulse thundered in his ears. His hands scrambled for his notebook, pen scratching furiously against paper.
-Increased awareness
-Increased coordination
-Subject appears to be observing surroundings
-Possible cognitive response
The first walker tilted its head at the sound of the pen scribbling. It knew he was writing. It was aware of the action.
Milton's breath hitched.
The implications were horrifying.
He had to tell the Governor.
Philip Blake—The Governor—sat behind his desk, his fingers leisurely swirling a glass of whiskey as he listened to Milton's frantic explanation. The scientist sat across from him, pale and sweating, his glasses slipping down his nose as he gestured wildly.
"They're changing, sir," Milton insisted, his voice wavering. "Murphy's blood—it's doing something. It's enhancing their cognitive function. They're moving differently. They're thinking."
The Governor leaned forward, resting his elbows on the wooden surface. His one good eye fixed on Milton with quiet intensity. "Thinking?"
Milton swallowed hard. "Not like us. Not yet. But it's a step beyond the usual mindless hunger. They're… adapting."
The Governor took a slow sip from his drink, letting the whiskey burn down his throat. He sat in contemplative silence for a moment before setting the glass down.
"So what you're telling me is… this blood, this miracle blood, doesn't just stop someone from turning. It can make the dead smarter?"
Milton hesitated. He knew the Governor was the type of man who saw opportunity in things most people would fear. "I… I think so."
The Governor's lips curled into a slow, calculating smile. A glimmer of something dangerous flickered in his eye. "Now that's interesting."
He rose from his seat, pacing to the back of the room where a reinforced door stood slightly ajar. Milton's stomach twisted. He knew what was behind that door.
The room was dimly lit, the heavy air thick with the scent of old wood, whiskey, and something else—something rotting. The Governor's office was usually a place of control, a fortress where he dictated the fate of his people with an iron will. But tonight, as he listened to Milton's frantic words, something inside him shifted.
Milton stood before him, glasses fogging slightly from his own breath, hands twisting nervously at his sides. His lab coat was wrinkled, stained with ink, sweat, and something darker.
"They're changing, sir," he said again, voice trembling. "Murphy's blood—it's doing something. It's enhancing their cognitive function. They're moving differently. They're thinking."
The Governor leaned forward, his whiskey swirling lazily in his glass as he studied the nervous scientist. "Thinking?"
Milton swallowed. "Not like us. Not yet. But it's a step beyond the usual mindless hunger. They're… adapting."
The Governor was silent for a long moment. The only sound was the ticking of a clock in the corner, the faint echo of laughter outside—Woodbury's people, still clinging to some semblance of the world before.
Then, he stood.
He walked to his desk and set the whiskey down with a quiet clink, his expression unreadable. He turned, stepping toward the cabinet at the far side of the room. A heavy lock held it shut, but with a few practiced motions, he undid it and pulled the doors open.
Inside, in the cold glow of a single overhead bulb, sat the only thing in this world that truly mattered to him.
Penny.
His daughter.
She was slumped in the corner of the enclosed space, tiny hands twitching absently at the air, her matted blonde hair falling in tangles over her face. Her small, frail frame was wrapped in an old dress that had once been pink, now dulled with age and grime.
Her chains rattled softly as she shifted.
She was dead.
But what if she didn't have to be?
The Governor exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening into fists at his sides. He turned back to Milton, his eye burning with something unreadable.
"I want to test it."
Milton's stomach twisted. "Sir… we don't know the long-term effects—"
"I don't care." The Governor's voice was steel.
Milton hesitated, glancing toward Penny's slumped form. "Governor… this could be dangerous."
The Governor didn't blink. "More dangerous than leaving her like this?" He turned fully toward Penny, his jaw clenched. "She's still in there. I know she is."
Milton wanted to argue. But what could he say? How could he tell a grieving father that his daughter was gone for good, that she was nothing more than a rotting husk driven by instinct?
Instead, he simply nodded. "…Alright."
The Governor turned back to Penny, his expression softening as he knelt beside her. Carefully, he reached out, brushing aside the strands of dirty blonde hair covering her face.
"Daddy's here, sweetheart," he whispered.
Penny didn't react, her head lolling slightly, her vacant, cloudy eyes staring past him.
The Governor pulled a fresh syringe from his pocket, holding it up to the dim light. Murphy's blood shimmered inside the glass barrel, thick and dark, like liquid rubies. He exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening around it.
Then, with careful precision, he pushed the needle into her frail arm and injected the blood.
The change wasn't immediate.
For several agonizing seconds, Penny remained still, her body swaying slightly in place.
The Governor's grip tightened around the empty syringe, his breathing shallow.
Then—
Penny blinked.
Slowly. Deliberately.
The Governor froze.
His heart slammed against his ribs as he watched her milky eyes shift, her pupils constricting just slightly in reaction to the dim light.
She wasn't just staring blankly anymore.
She was looking.
At him.
Milton took an unconscious step backward, his breath hitching. "Oh… my God."
Penny's fingers twitched, curling slightly in the fabric of her dress. Her lips parted, and for a moment, the Governor braced himself—waiting for the snarl, the lunge, the mindless hunger.
But it didn't come.
Instead, she made a small, hoarse sound.
Not a growl.
Not a snarl.
Something else.
Then, to his utter shock—
Penny reached out.
And hugged him.
The Governor stiffened, his entire body locking in place.
Penny's tiny arms wrapped around his torso in a weak, uncoordinated motion, her grip loose but… deliberate. She wasn't clawing at him. She wasn't trying to bite.
She was holding on.
Milton's breath came fast and shallow, his eyes wide. "She—she knows you."
The Governor barely heard him. His hands shook as he slowly, carefully, wrapped his arms around Penny, holding her frail body close.
"Penny…" His voice cracked, the raw emotion spilling through.
She let out another quiet noise, pressing her cheek against his chest.
The Governor squeezed his eye shut, his jaw tightening. He didn't care that she was cold, that her skin was clammy, that her breath—if it could even be called that—was shallow and rasping.
She was here.
She was still his daughter.
Milton swallowed thickly, forcing himself to speak. "Governor… this changes everything."
The Governor pulled back slightly, just enough to look at her. His thumb brushed against her cheek, wiping away a smudge of dirt.
"You're still in there, aren't you?" he whispered.
Penny didn't answer. But she didn't attack.
And that was enough.
A slow, eerie smile crept onto the Governor's face.
He turned back toward Milton, still clutching Penny protectively.
His voice, low and steady, was filled with something dangerous.
"Get me more of that blood."
Milton hesitated, then gave a shaky nod. "Y-Yes, sir."