Walking Dead: Level Up or Die Trying

From the outside, Aiden looked composed. Calm, steady, like always. Arms crossed as he stood beside his truck, eyes on the treeline, scanning. His jaw didn't clench. His brow didn't twitch. His voice, when he gave quiet orders to the guards setting up the morning perimeter, was even and sure. No one would've guessed what was running through his head.

But inside? Inside, Aiden was raging.

He couldn't stop thinking about Sophia. Couldn't stop picturing her face—her pale skin smeared with dirt and dried tears, those wide eyes full of confusion and fear, the way her shoulders had shaken under the blanket. And behind that image, burning like gasoline thrown on an open flame, was the story she told.

She'd been left. Left alone. By a man—someone who was supposed to be a protector, a leader. A man named Rick. Rick Grimes.

Aiden's fists tightened just thinking about it.

He remembered that moment from the show. From a time before the world burned. Back when the world was fiction, and The Walking Dead was just a series to binge, not a preview of reality. He remembered how, even then, sitting safe on his couch, he'd clenched his jaw when Rick had told that little girl to hide by the creek. At the time, it seemed like a split-second call. A desperate, high-stakes move. He got it. Sort of.

But now? After everything Aiden had seen? After everything he'd done to survive?

No. That wasn't leadership. That was recklessness.

There were always better options. Always.

You don't leave a child. Not in the woods. Not at night. Not with walkers breathing down your neck. No matter how good your intentions are.

He ground his molars together, breathing out slowly through his nose.

He thought about how many times he could've made that same mistake. Could've told someone to wait while he took care of the danger. But he didn't. He never did. Aiden had made it his job to carry people out of hell, not leave them behind in it.

And yet this Rick, this so-called sheriff, this "leader"—left a terrified little girl to fend for herself, hoping she'd stay still like a deer and not panic like any normal kid would. And then what? Just lost track of her? Gave up? Moved on?

Aiden looked over his shoulder toward the truck where Sophia was resting, guarded by Mara and another member of the group. The girl was awake now, eating quietly, legs tucked beneath her. Still skittish. Still flinching at sudden sounds.

That was the damage left behind by bad decisions. That was what carelessness looked like, not just in the moment, but days later. Trauma etched into small faces. Trust was shattered before it even had a chance to grow.

What if he and the fleet hadn't come down that road? What if the spotlight hadn't caught her in that exact moment? How many hours—minutes—away from dying had she been? The thought burned in Aiden's chest like acid.

He turned away from the camp for a second, jaw set, fists tight, trying to cool the anger swelling in his gut.

It wasn't about the show anymore. It wasn't some plot point. It wasn't "TV Rick" making a mistake that the writers wanted to explore. This was real. This was a little girl he'd just pulled from the jaws of death. And she'd been abandoned by someone who was supposed to know better.

Panic wasn't an excuse. Fear wasn't an excuse. When you're a leader, people don't get to be your test run.

You don't leave a child alone in the forest.

You just don't.

Aiden could still remember what it was like when he'd first started surviving—really surviving. No safety net. No backup. Just instinct and grit. But he'd learned fast. Because you have to. And if someone had been counting on him back then—hell, if a kid had been counting on him—he'd have damn well died before letting them end up like Sophia.

He wasn't some messiah. He didn't see himself as a hero. He wasn't noble. He didn't follow orders well, and he didn't pretend to be someone he wasn't. But one thing Aiden always stood by, through every scavenged night and every blood-stained sunrise, was this:

You protect the people who can't protect themselves. Period.

Not because it's righteous. Not because it earns you praise. But because that's the deal.

And that deal? Rick Grimes had broken it.

Aiden turned back to the camp, his face calm again, no sign of the fire under his skin. The others were still moving—prepping gear, double-checking supplies, making sure the vehicles were ready to roll again. Sophia had finished eating now. She was speaking quietly to Mara, more words than before. Still nervous, but trying.

He didn't show what he felt. He wouldn't. There was no point in yelling at a ghost from the past. But one thing was certain in his mind: if they ever crossed paths with this Rick… if Aiden ever met the man who left that girl behind?

They'd have words. And they wouldn't be polite ones.

For now, though, Aiden had a job to do. He had people relying on him. He wasn't going to let emotion cloud his judgment.

But inside, the fire still burned.

And he'd carry that anger with him—not because it made him strong, but because it reminded him what kind of man he refused to become.

Still, there was work to be done.

The camp stirred with tired limbs and quiet chatter as the sun crept up through the trees, casting golden spears of light through the misty forest. Despite the weight of recent events—the rescue, the long drive, Sophia's arrival—Aiden's mind remained sharp and focused. He didn't let emotion weigh him down for long. Not when the next steps were always looming. The prison they were heading to—it wasn't just a place. It was an opportunity, shelter, a fortress waiting to be reclaimed.

But it wouldn't come easily.

Aiden stood near the rear of his truck, arms crossed, watching as others finished packing up the last of the morning gear. Then he gave a quiet nod to Mara and a few of the fighters nearby.

"Come on," he said, voice low but sure. "We're going into the woods. Need to get something started before we reach that fence line."

Mara gave a nod, shouldering her pack, and three others fell in without needing explanation. By now, they understood how Aiden worked—quiet, strategic, always thinking two steps ahead. No wasted movements. No wasted breath.

They moved off the dirt path and into the deeper woods. The ground was soft from last night's moisture, and the air still clung to a faint chill. Birds chirped overhead, blissfully unaware of the world humanity had lost.

As they moved between trees, Aiden explained.

"If that prison is like the one I saw from the ridge, it'll be surrounded by chain-link fencing. That's good. But fences don't stop walkers. Not forever. They'll crowd it. Press against it. They'll look for holes—any weakness."

He stopped, kneeling down beside a pile of fallen branches. His gloved hand picked up a long, sturdy one. He held it up, inspected its straightness, and gave it a light flex.

"This," he said, "can go right through a walker's eye socket if the angle's right. Through a fence, you won't even need to get close."

He tossed the branch aside—it was slightly splintered—and moved on, motioning the others to fan out.

"Look for young saplings. Straight ones. Chest-high or longer. If it's already dead, check the strength. No rot. If it's green, we can dry it out by fire later. If we get enough, we arm more people. Make it harder for anything to get close."

For the next few hours, the group moved like hunters—but not for food. They cut saplings with machetes and survival knives, stripped the leaves, sharpened tips with careful precision, and bundled them in makeshift slings for carrying back. Aiden didn't speak much after that. He focused on the task. Now and then, he tested a new spear with a jab into the bark of a dead tree, measuring its strength and how it handled in a thrust.

They found a grove of young trees, maybe twenty feet high, with perfect slender trunks. With Mara's help and two others working in rotation, they managed to cut down nearly fifteen solid saplings and another dozen decent branches. While others carried, Aiden stopped every so often to sharpen each tip with a whittling knife he kept in his belt pouch.

"This isn't fancy work," he said, sweat beading on his brow. "It's not elegant. But it's quiet. Efficient. That fence will work in our favor if we've got the tools to hold it."

As they wrapped up, one of the younger guys—Micah, barely twenty—asked, "You think it's gonna be surrounded?"

Aiden looked at him, nodding slowly. "If there were people before us, yeah. They'd use it. It's strong. But maybe they failed. Maybe it's empty now. Either way, we go in ready. Quiet weapons, silent kills. The walkers don't know tactics—but they don't stop coming either."

By the time they returned to the convoy, the sun was climbing toward noon, and their arms were heavy with sharpened stakes and bundles of fresh-cut wood. Aiden had made sure they had spares—more than enough.

"Extras are good insurance," he said to Mara quietly. "We lose one, we break one—grab another. No one's dying because we got lazy."

Back at the trucks, the group looked over the haul, impressed by the simplicity of the idea. The younger kids eyed the spears like they were ancient relics—primitive and powerful. Some of the adults offered to help finish wrapping handles with cloth for a better grip.

Aiden leaned against the front bumper of his truck, arms folded, eyes fixed on the prison just visible in the distance, dark and looming under the cloudy sky.

He wasn't sure what was waiting for them inside. Walkers? Survivors? Nothing at all?

But he knew one thing for certain: they wouldn't walk in blind, and they sure as hell wouldn't walk in unarmed.

This wasn't hope.

This was preparation.

This was survival.

And this this quiet morning in the woods, sharpening sticks like warriors from another time—was how they'd take back the world, one step, one fence, one kill zone at a time.

Aiden had been quiet the entire walk to the prison.

He didn't waste words, and the group behind him—seven fighters in total—respected the silence. They knew it wasn't nerves. It was a calculation. Focus. Every step closer to the old prison was another piece of a plan being shaped in Aiden's mind, like a puzzle only he could fully see.

The structure loomed ahead through the trees and thickets—steel and stone, rust and silence. A remnant of a world that had fallen apart. Its tall chain-link fences still stood, partially buried in creeping vines and brush. Some sections sagged with time and pressure, but the line still held. For now.

"Alright," Aiden finally said, voice low and crisp. "This place is going to be crawling. They'll be dormant, scattered, maybe even inside. But if we're smart, we can clean this place out bit by bit."

He looked toward Levi, one of the younger fighters, who had been fidgeting with something in his pack.

"Still got that blow horn?"

Levi nodded and held it up. The device was sun-faded and dented, but it looked functional. One of those industrial-grade airhorns is used at construction sites. Loud enough to draw attention from miles out.

Aiden nodded once. "We use it here. Not too close to the fence. Get the dead to come to us. Once they're at the fence, we don't fight head-on—we pick them off. Controlled. Precise. If too many push on one point, it'll collapse. So we move. We kill. We move again. Don't get lazy."

Levi raised the horn. The group took their positions, spears in hand, bows ready for backup.

The sound ripped through the air like a thunderclap.

The forest trembled. Somewhere, birds scattered from the trees. The horn's echo bounced off the prison walls and traveled far and wide.

Then came the moans.

First soft, like wind in a dying breeze.

Then louder.

Then many.

Figures began to emerge from the woods and shadows, drawn like moths to the noise. Some stumbled out from behind the prison walls, others emerged from the deeper brush behind. Dead eyes. Ragged skin. Torn uniforms, bloodstained faces. They were old inmates, old guards, random wanderers who had died nearby. All heading toward the fence with slow, grotesque hunger.

They piled forward.

And Aiden's trap was sprung.

"Now!" he barked, voice sharp.

The group spread out along the fence line. Aiden moved to the right side, between two bent posts, where the fencing dipped just enough for clear access. The first walker shoved against the wire, reaching blindly, mouth snapping.

Aiden didn't hesitate.

He rammed the sharpened spear forward, right through the walker's eye. The undead thing spasmed, then slumped against the fence, lifeless. One down.

"Keep moving down the line!" he shouted. "One kill, one step. Don't bunch up. Don't crowd the fence!"

The others followed suit. One after another, the walkers approached, and one after another, they were brought down. The team worked like gears in a machine. Spear, stab, step. Spear, stab, step.

Aiden kept moving, adjusting his angle every few feet. Each kill was deliberate. Clean. No wasted movement. Blood and rot clung to the tips of their makeshift weapons, but the work continued.

Sweat formed under the helmets. Hands blistered. The stench grew worse.

But the pile of corpses on the other side of the fence grew higher.

Some walkers got clever—climbing atop others, pressing against weak spots.

"Rotate!" Aiden called out. "Shift ten feet left! Push them across the fence evenly!"

It worked. By never letting them build up in one spot, the fence held firm. No breaks. No breaches.

After almost two hours of straight fighting, the sounds began to fade. The woods were still again. Only the heavy breathing of fighters remained, and the occasional drip of blood from spear tips onto the soil.

Aiden finally stepped back, wiping grime from his face with a bandaged forearm. He looked through the fence at the fallen. Dozens of bodies. All of them neutralized.

He exhaled slowly.

"That's phase one," he muttered, turning to the group.

"We'll rest, eat, then check the perimeter. If the outer yard is cleared, we move to the next step: sweeping the inside. But not until we're ready."

The others gave tired nods. They didn't cheer. They didn't celebrate. Not yet.

This was just a good start.

And for Aiden, good starts were only useful if you had the will to finish what you began. 

It took a while.

Longer than any of them expected.

Not because of numbers, but because of those damn riot-geared walkers. The ones still dressed in cracked helmets, bulletproof vests, and padded uniforms, remnants of prison guards who probably fell during the first days of the outbreak.

They were slow, but they didn't go down easily.

One of them had taken three spear strikes to the chest before anyone realized it wasn't working. The padding was absorbing the hits. Aiden was the first to adjust, slipping to the side and jamming his spear up beneath the helmet, straight into the jaw. The walker dropped like a stone.

"Go for the gaps!" he had shouted. "Throat, armpit, under the chin! Armor don't mean shit if you know where to stab!"

It worked, but it slowed the group down. Every riot walker needed more thought, more patience, more precision. It wore them out.

But they managed.

By the time the last riot walker dropped, face crumpling against the fence with a dull thud, the sun was already starting to dip. They stepped back, panting, sweaty, fingers sore from gripping weapons for too long. Their sleeves were caked in black-red grime.

Aiden gave them ten minutes to rest. No more. He handed out food—basic rations, nothing fancy. Just enough to settle the nerves and refill the tank.

Some of the group sat cross-legged on the ground, eating in silence. Others leaned against the fence or a tree, checking their gear.

Aiden didn't eat. He just stood there, watching the gate.

That old gate had been padlocked with a thick chain, rusted by years of weather and neglect. There wasn't a key, of course. But there were tools—one of the group had brought a crowbar, and another had a bolt cutter Aiden had salvaged weeks ago.

After some struggling, a hard twist, and one loud CLANG, the lock snapped.

The chain hit the ground with a metallic rattle, the gate creaked open a few inches.

Aiden looked through the opening.

Inside was silence.

The yard was large, flat, and the grass was now knee-high in some places. The prison building itself loomed ahead like a fortress—unwelcoming, gray, and ominous. A handful of shambling figures still wandered the grounds, maybe half a dozen stragglers that hadn't reacted to the earlier horn. Aiden counted them quickly.

"Six," he muttered. "We can do this quietly."

He gestured to the others, and they nodded. The bows came out.

One by one, they moved through the gate, spacing themselves out as Aiden had taught them. Each of the fighters had learned to be patient. Wait until the shot is clean. Don't lose arrows. Don't take dumb risks.

Aiden took the first shot.

The arrow whistled through the humid air and buried itself deep into the side of a walker's skull. It dropped without a sound.

The rest followed, and soon the yard was still again.

No gunfire. No shouting. Just the breeze, and the faint sound of insects buzzing in the grass.

Aiden walked the perimeter once more before they fully moved in. He checked fences, looked for breaches, and made mental notes. He didn't speak much, but the others knew the look in his eyes—it was approval. Quiet, rough, and real.

"This place…" he said at last, voice low, more to himself than to the others, "...could work."

The group slowly filtered in behind him, eyes scanning the looming cell blocks and towers. This wasn't a home yet. Not even close. But it was shelter. Structure. And most importantly, it was a step forward.

Aiden looked up at the guard towers, then back at the yard.

"Alright," he said finally. "Tomorrow, we clear the inside. Take stock. Lock it down."

And with that, the first day at the prison came to a hard-earned close.

[Ding!]

[Total normal walkers killed x35]

[Total Riot walkers killed x5]

[Total Exp gained: 95 EXP]