Joe and Daryl pushed through the ruined back of the department store, weaving through toppled shelves and the reek of rot.
The front wasn't any better.
Broken glass scattered across the floor like glittering teeth, sunlight cutting jagged shapes through the dust-filled air.
The store was a complete and utter mess, but Joe's eyes caught a relatively intact rack near the wall.
He walked over, knelt, and pulled out a couple of gray trench coats that were caked in dust but still usable.
He shoved them into his backpack.
Daryl gave him a curious look until the memory hit.
"Walker guts trick," he muttered, nodding. "Smart."
Joe grunted. "Better to be prepared."
They continued deeper into the store, Joe leading through an old stairwell.
His leg, once a source of pain, now held up far better. Step after step, level after level, until they reached the chained rooftop door.
Blood-smeared handprints marred the walls and doorframe.
The chain was still intact.
Joe pulled the bolt cutters from his bag.
They weren't in great shape. The cutting edges dulled, the hinges slightly rusted.
He grimaced as he bit down on the chain with the jaws and squeezed.
The handles bent inward. The cut was rough... barely made it through.
Snap.
It gave way.
Joe sighed, knowing Dale would probably scold him for wrecking the bolt cutters.
He didn't care.
Daryl shoved through the door the second it opened. "Merle!" he called out, scanning the roof frantically. "MERLE!"
But there was no answer.
Just an empty rooftop... and something far worse.
Joe walked over to where tools were scattered across the ground—pliers, screwdrivers, wrenches. He grabbed everything. A 10mm socket trying to evade him causing a sigh.
Then he saw Daryl drop to his knees with a guttural sound of disbelief.
"No… No… No!"
Joe approached slowly, gaze falling to the spot in front of Daryl.
Blood. A hand. A rusted hacksaw, bloodied. The handcuffs now empty.
Joe's serious expression faltered. A chuckle escaped him. "Guess Merle's… All Right."
Daryl turned, his face unreadable for a moment. Then he let out a small huff. "Asshole."
Joe's voice lowered. "He couldn't have made it far with that kind of handicap. Let's look around. Follow the trail."
Daryl nodded silently, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapping the severed hand before tucking it away.
Joe blinked. "Spare parts."
Daryl ignored the comment, already tracking the faint trail of blood.
Small droplets, smudges on the floor. Joe followed behind, shotgun in hand.
They tracked the blood around an AC vent and toward a blue service door.
Daryl eased it open, crossbow raised. They slipped down a flight of stairs into a dim office level.
Hallways cluttered with overturned chairs, posters peeling from the walls.
A downed walker lay slumped in a corner, its skull caved in.
Daryl looked down. "Had enough in him to take the sum-bitch down."
They moved deeper, finding another corpse. A crowbar embedded in its skull, a crescent wrench lying nearby.
Joe picked it up, wiping off some congealed brain matter before slipping it into dales tool box.
In the breakroom, they paused.
The faint hiss of gas. A burner still active. A blackened iron skillet stained with blood and… flesh.
Joe sniffed the air. "Bastard cauterized the wound."
Daryl nodded, jaw tight.
Footprints led away, smeared slightly with blood. Daryl followed them around a corner.
Joe stayed back momentarily, rummaging through some supply shelves. Not much, a scratchy old blanket which he ignored.
But then he spotted a pack of Marlboros tucked behind a box.
He smirked.
He pulled one out, lit the cigarette using the burner. Taking a puff and then turning the gas off.
Following the trail...
He rounded the corner just in time to see Daryl standing still, crossbow up. Aimed at a wiry teen with dark hair and a pack slung over one shoulder.
The boy froze, eyes darting between the two armed men.
"Seen a man come through here?" Daryl growled. "One hand. Mean as hell."
The kid shook his head quickly. "I-I don't know anything, man! I swear! We... I'm just looking for supplies."
Joe stepped in, cigarette dangling from his lips.
He grabbed the kid's collar, lifting him a few inches off the ground until they were eye to eye.
"With a group… huh?"
The boy opened his mouth to deny it.
Joe cut him off, voice low and dark: "Ah, ah ah… no lying. You wanna know how I got these scars?"
Daryl arched an eyebrow. Even he was a little creeped out.
The kid cracked under the pressure, his voice trembling. "Me and my group... we're just trying to survive, okay? That's it!"
Joe leaned in slightly. "Gunshots we heard?"
"No idea!" the kid insisted. "But… we're not the only group still in the city. I swear."
Joe and Daryl exchanged a glance. That wasn't good news.
Suddenly, more gunfire echoed from deeper in the city, closer.
The kid's face paled, looking for an exit.
Daryl grinned. "What's the rush? You said it wasn't your problem."
The kid's eyes flicked to the side.
Too obvious. He lunged, trying to headbutt Joe and make a break for it.
Bad move.
Joe ducked the headbutt easily and drove his elbow into the kid's temple. Crack. The boy dropped like a stone.
Daryl snorted. "Nice dodge."
Joe shrugged, flipping the kid over and tying his wrists behind his back. A quick frisk revealed a five-shot revolver, half-loaded.
Joe slipped it into his boot.
"Let's check out those shots."
Daryl looked at the unconscious boy. "And him?"
Joe eyed a row of lockers. "He won't be up anytime soon. Let's stash him... a walker won't nab him in there." Pointing at a nearby locker
Together, they hoisted the kid into one of the metal lockers, closing the door and slipping a pipe through the handle, enough jiggling and it would open.
Joe adjusted his pack and nodded toward the window. Daryl opened it, spotting a fire escape just below.
They climbed out quietly, boots echoing off the rusted rungs.
Whatever waited in the city… it had guns. And they were heading straight toward it.
...
Pinpointing the gunfire wasn't easy, but Joe's experience helped.
He listened to the echo, the pattern, the intervals. Piecing together a mental map of the chaos.
They moved through crumbling side streets and alleys, careful with every step.
At one narrow alleyway, Joe stopped beside a large rusted dumpster.
He knelt, slinging off his pack and setting it behind the bin, toolbox following. Hiding both beneath some old pizza boxes and a soot-covered tarp.
Daryl followed his lead, tucking his satchel beside it.
Joe reached into his jacket and pulled out a red bandana he'd taken from the kid earlier. He passed a similar one to Daryl.
Daryl raised a brow. "What's this for?"
Joe tied his around his neck and pulled it up over his nose. "Better to look like allies," he muttered. "Or at least like someone they won't shoot on sight."
Daryl shrugged and tied his on, face now hidden except for his eyes.
They pressed on, shots still echoing faintly, closer now. Walkers started to appear in small clusters.
Drawn to the noise.
They moved methodically, taking them out with knives and bludgeons. Silent, quick.
They couldn't afford a trail of walkers behind them. They needed their escape route clear.
Just in case things went south.
Crouching at the edge of another alley, they peered around the corner.
A warzone.
Bodies littered the ground between two burnt-out cars and a sagging loading dock.
Smoke drifted from broken windows. The gunfire slowed as they watched, people from both sides scrambling for cover or dragging injured comrades.
Then something happened that stopped both men cold.
Several of the "bodies" began to stir. Not twitch. Not moan. Rise.
Walkers.
But the wounds weren't bites.
Joe observing. "They weren't bit…"
Daryl finished the thought, eyes hard. "We all come back..."
The implication hit like a thunderclap. You died, you turned. That was it.
But there wasn't time to think. The battlefield was shifting. Both groups were being overwhelmed, retreating into confusion and panic.
Joe glanced at the number of weapons left behind—assault rifles, shotguns, pistols, ammo belts.
He looked at Daryl.
That was enough to arm the entire quarry.
Hell, twice over.
Without a word, Joe stepped out into the warzone.
Shotgun raised. Slugs barked out, tearing walkers and the living apart in gruesome bursts.
Limbs, heads and torsos exploded as Joe advanced with surgical brutality, weaving between cars and bodies, taking cover only when needed.
Swapping his shotgun for a rifle when he ran out of slugs.
Daryl followed close behind, switching to his Taurus G3C. His shots were clean, precise. Between the two of them, it was a massacre.
The remaining survivors, already weakened and scattered. Stood no chance at all.
A few turned to flee. They didn't get far.
By the time the smoke cleared, silence returned.
Joe exhaled, the air thick with powder and decay. "Move fast," he said.
They rounded up every usable weapon, stuffing them into a nearby blue Ford Focus. Rifles, pistols, smgs, and magazines lying around.
Anything not nailed down. The seats and trunk were packed within minutes.
...
Joe drove, tires squealing. He pulled into the alley where they'd stashed their gear. Daryl stayed in the car while he moved toward the dumpster.
As he bent to retrieve his pack, he heard it...
Footsteps.
He spun. A flash of metal.
Joe caught the arm mid-swing, the blade mere inches from his face.
The kid from earlier. Bruised. Desperate. Knife clenched tight.
Snap!
Joe twisted hard, breaking the boy's arm at the elbow. The knife dropped.
Joe caught it mid-air, yanked the boy in, and slammed his head into the wall with a dull crack.
The kid slumped, dazed but Joe wasn't finished.
He buried the blade into the space between the fourth and fifth rib. Straight to the heart.
The boy's eyes widened. Disbelief. Pain.
"I gave you a chance," Joe said stiffly, unfazed.
The boy opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Joe let him fall, leaving the knife where it was.
He grabbed the packs, slung them over his shoulder, lifted the toolbox and crept back to the car.
Daryl opened the door, helped him toss everything in, and raised an eyebrow. "That the kid?"
Joe didn't answer as he got into the driver's seat and started the engine.
They drove in silence.
Daryl glanced sideways.
"What? Lovestruck now?" Joe side-eyed him.
Daryl grinned. "I saw what happened. Sum-bitch almost got you."
Joe chuckled. "Almost."
They both laughed. Quiet, unhinged relief.
The tension finally bled off as they sped through the outskirts. Then Daryl straightened suddenly, pointing.
"Pull over!"
Joe hit the brakes.
A black car, beat-up, windows rolled down...
Passed by in front of them. Bandana-masked passengers. Armed.
Daryl's grin widened. "Wanna push your luck?"
Joe smirked. "Why not?"
They turned and followed.
The tail took them behind a building. Joe parked silently in a side alley.
Together, they climbed onto a nearby roof, staying low, rifles out.
They watched.
The car's occupants exited and then…
They helped a group of elderly people out of the back of a building.
Stretching. Laughing. Doing aerobics.
One man called out instructions with the energy of a cheer coach.
Joe blinked.
Daryl whispered, "What the hell is this?"
Joe slowly shook his head. "Let's leave 'em."
They climbed back down, unseen, and returned to the car.
"No more distractions," Joe muttered. "I gotta get back."
Daryl grinned. "Gotta get back to your sweetheart, huh?"
Joe didn't answer.
Daryl laughed, clearly amused.
They returned to where the bike had been hidden, still there.
Daryl hopped out, lifted it upright, and choked the carbs.
One hard kick... and it roared to life.
He mounted. Joe following him from behind.
And just like that… they were headed back to camp.
Guns. Gear. And ghosts in their rearview mirrors.