The group had combed through nearly every corner of Senoia.
Even the rescued women were taken out on runs, learning to scavenge and fend off walkers.
By the end of the week, most of them had seen blood for the first time and survived it.
Joe made a run to drop supplies off for Casey and Nicole. That day, they decided to leave their old home behind and move into the museum.
On the way back, a small cluster of walkers lurched from between two buildings. Joe cut them down with practiced ease.
Nicole had watched wide-eyed, itching to try, while Casey's face paled at every swing.
"You'll learn," Joe told them flatly. "Both of you. My people will teach you how to survive."
Casey flinched at the thought, but Nicole nodded quickly, almost eager.
They reached the museum without trouble, where they were welcomed warmly and quickly drawn into the group's rhythm.
---
Casey insisted she was ready to stand. Hershel had worked with her daily, showing her simple rehab exercises and watching her steps carefully. The progress gave her hope.
Joe kept pushing the group harder.
He joined scavenging runs with his wives, wanting them sharper, faster, less afraid.
When he felt they were ready, he stepped back, letting them run without him.
But not the pregnant ones.
Amy and Emma accepted his ban without a word, preferring to help inside with cooking and cleaning.
Andrea, as expected, pushed back stubbornly. She argued, tested, needled until Joe relented.
His condition was firm, she only went out in groups. She agreed to this quickly, afraid he would change his mind.
Joe, Rick, and Daryl split duties, leading scavenging parties and teaching the rescued women.
They drilled them on checking corners, conserving ammo, and never breaking formation.
More than half the group were now women with no combat experience and they had no need for that many hands in the kitchen.
---
By the second week, things looked different.
They were a stronger group.
Some had died in the early runs, mistakes paid in blood. But the deaths had stopped.
Those who remained were sharper now, more capable.
Joe brought Casey and Nicole out with him one afternoon. Sophia, Carl, and Clem tagged along, each with a silenced pistol.
Joe didn't let the kids fight hand-to-hand, not yet. He didnt think they were ready, but he wanted them to be confident up close.
So, he crippled some walkers so they could test themselves. The kids took to it fast.
Casey was another story. Fear weighed on her, though she forced herself through it.
Nicole's presence pushing her forward. Slowly, she grew braver. Too brave even...
At a small house on the corner, she rushed through, clearing rooms without checking every shadow.
A walker lunged, jaws snapping inches from her neck.
A silenced shot rang out. Sophia stood in the hallway, her small hands steady on the pistol.
The walker dropped dead.
Casey froze, eyes wide, body trembling.
Joe's voice was ice. "Careless. You almost died."
Casey nodded rapidly, whispering apologies, shaking so badly she could barely speak.
Joe rested a hand on her shoulder, grounding her. "Don't do it again. Lets grab what we can. We're done here."
---
Tuesday night came fast, it was their last night in Senoia.
The museum was lit with lanterns, the group gathered in a loose circle.
New faces mingled with old, survivors brought in from scavenging runs, tired but alive.
Joe stood before them, katana at his side. His voice cut steady through the room.
"Tomorrow, we move. Fort Benning's our next step. Whatever waits there, we'll face it together. You've all learned something here. How to fight, how to scavenge, how to stay alive. Remember it. Rely on each other. We move forward together, or we die alone."
The group murmured, then nodded one by one. The decision was unanimous.
Fort Benning was the best chance they had.
...
When they woke the next morning, the rain was heavy and relentless, drumming against the museum roof.
Everyone shrugged into coats and jackets, hoods pulled tight, and filed out toward the vehicles.
Joe climbed into an old Silverado they'd salvaged, a battered trailer hitched behind it.
The motorcycles were loaded up alongside heavy crates of tools. The truck bed was stacked with the camping gear. everything they'd need if the road grew long.
The convoy pulled onto Route 85, tires slick on the wet asphalt, heading south toward Fort Benning.
They rolled past Haralson without trouble, but as they hit the edge of Alvaton, everything ground to a halt.
A wall of death waited for them.
Thousands of walkers clogged the streets, packed so thick the town looked like it was alive and shifting.
The moans rolled over the rain, a low, constant roar. Heads snapped toward the convoy, and arms started to claw at the air.
"Shit," Daryl muttered over the radio.
They didn't have time to think. Joe gunned the truck, swerving hard, the convoy following close.
The horde turned sluggishly, but began to flow after them like a tide.
They almost had to backtrack all the way to Haralson before Joe cut sharply onto AL Robert's Road.
Mud kicked up as the convoy followed. After a few more miles, once the moans had faded into the rain, Joe pulled the truck to a stop.
He jumped out, rain dripping off his jacket, Rick and Glenn joining him at the roadside.
"We can't keep south," Rick said flatly. "That horde's got Alvaton locked down."
Glenn pointed westward. "Luthersville. It's not far, and we might be able to cut south again once we're past them."
Joe looked between them, then gave a sharp nod. "Alright. West it is."
They broke the huddle and climbed back into the vehicles. The convoy turned, engines growling, pushing west toward Luthersville.
The rain hadn't let up. Sheets of water made the world hazy, but they pressed on.
They evaded scattered packs of walkers. It was nerve racking but nothing the drivers couldn't steer around.
For now, they were moving again.
...
After hours of driving through the backroads, the convoy rolled into Luthersville.
Tired and nerves frayed from close calls, they spotted a small store in the middle of town and decided to stop.
Joe pulled the Silverado up front, rain dripping off the hood. He was just reaching for the door handle when the storefront erupted.
Pop-pop-pop!
Semi-auto fire shattered the silence. Glass exploded, bullets sparking off car metal.
"Ambush!" Joe roared, ducking down.
The group opened fire in return, automatic bursts shredding the air as the convoy peeled out.
A couple of enemy cars gave chase, but were quickly turned into burning husks under the group's suppressing fire.
When Joe finally steered them south onto Highway 27 and the gunfire had long faded behind them, he called the caravan to a stop.
Rain hissed against the cooling engines as he moved vehicle to vehicle, checking faces.
Most were fine. Some had scratches, cuts. But two hadn't made it.
Leah lay slumped, blood streaking her face from a headshot. April had been hit in the chest, direct hit to the heart. Dead before she even realized.
Joe carried April out of the vehicle.
The group gathered, heads bowed in silence. Hannah stepped forward, hands steady as she drove a knife into April's skull.
No one spoke. They just stood there, listening to the rain.
When they finally rolled on, the mood was black. Nobody needed reminding of how cruel the world had become.
---
They pushed toward Greenville but never made it. The highway was jammed solid with wreckage, forcing them off onto Todd Road.
A small sign pointed toward a Baptist church. With the sun setting and the rain clouding their vision, they agreed it would have to do.
The church wasn't much. No paved lot, just a dirt lot that was fenced in.
They lined up the cars bumper-to-bumper, sinking into the ground slightly.
Their headlights cut across the wet ground, illuminating the front of the church. It was small, dingy even.
The siding was peeling and it looked like it had been abandoned even before the end of the world.
Joe hopped down from the truck, Daryl stepping beside him.
T-Dog smirked. "Home sweet home, huh, Daryl?"
Daryl shot him a glare. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Joe cut in, voice firm. "Enough. Let's clear the place."
Daryl grunted, following Joe. Rick, Glenn, and T-Dog came up behind them, rifles raised.
Inside was quiet. Except for the faint sound of dripping water. The roof was leaking in multiple spots.
The church wasnt much, just a reception area, the main chapel, a single back room.
In the preacher's chamber, they found a lone walker. Emaciated. Starved. Daryl put the walker down with a bolt.
T-Dog shook his head. "Poor bastard."
Daryl spat. "Sum'bitch must've wasted away."
Joe stepped forward, hefted the frail body over his shoulder without a word, and carried it out back.
The cemetery stretched behind the church, crooked stones jutting from the earth.
He laid the corpse beneath a weathered stone cross before turning away.
Something caught his eye through the rain.
Up the tree line, a hunter's blind clung to the branches. Curious, Joe jogged over and climbed up.
Inside he found a couple Slim Jims tucked in a box and four Cuban cigars wrapped tight in plastic. Small luxuries.
He dropped down, scanning the woods. Nothing but endless trees and the road stretching on.
Jogging back to the church, he slipped in through the rear door. Amy and Maggie were seated on a pew with Beth between them.
Beth perked up. "Where were you?"
Joe shrugged. "Tossing a body."
Beth's face fell. "Oh."
Joe smirked, holding up the Slim Jims. "Found a hunter's blind out there. Scored these."
Beth snatched one, tearing it open eagerly. Amy grabbed the other, splitting it with Maggie when she noticed her pout.
Joe chuckled as they settled, happy to see them getting along with each other.
Andrea and Emma came over, trays of food in hand, setting them down across the pew. The group ate in silence, the rain pattering on the church roof.
When Joe finished, he rose. Maggie looked up. "Where you going?"
"Talk with Rick for a bit," Joe answered. Maggie nodded.
He found Rick, Daryl, and Glenn in the back, talking quietly. He tossed each of them a cigar before lighting his own. The four men stood together, smoke curling toward the ceiling, talking their next move.
"Tomorrow we keep south," Joe said.
"Greenville," Glenn added, coughing violently.
Daryl nodded slowly, the glow of his cigar ember lighting his face. "Alright then. South it is."
...
In the middle of the night, Joe stirred at the gentle tug on his arm.
His eyes cracked open to find Andrea draped across his chest, her breathing slow and even.
At the side of the bedroll stood Clem, fidgeting, eyes wide and damp with tears.
Joe's voice was soft. "Something wrong, sweetheart?"
"I… I had a nightmare," she whispered. "Can I sleep with you?"
Joe gave a small nod and lifted the blanket. "Come here."
Clem slid in carefully, curling into his side. She clutched his shirt with a tiny hand, as if letting go would send her back into the dark.
Joe wrapped an arm around her and smoothed her hair, slow and steady. Her breathing calmed against him, softening into the rhythm of sleep.
He stayed awake, staring into the dark of the church. The rain whispered on the roof, steady and endless.
Around him, the others slept in uneven rows, shadows shifting with every flicker of the lanterns.
Andrea stirred faintly in her sleep, tucking herself closer against him. Clem's tiny breaths warmed his chest. For a brief moment, Joe let himself breathe easier.
These were his people now. His women, his kids, his family.
The world outside was chaos. Gunfire, blood, teeth in the dark.
But here, in this small bubble of quiet, he felt something dangerous.
Hope.
Joe's hand rested lightly on Clem's back, keeping her close as she slept.
His eyes drifted shut again, the thought lingering in his mind like a stubborn ember.
'If I can keep them safe, maybe this world's still worth something.'
...
By dawn the rain had eased, dripping steady from the eaves of the old church.
Gray light filtered through the stained glass, painting dull shapes across the pews where the group stirred awake.
Joe shifted, easing himself out from between Andrea and Clem without waking them.
Clem still had his shirt bunched in her fist, sleeping soundly at last. He pulled the blanket higher over her and Andrea before standing.
The church smelled faintly of smoke and damp wood, but also of food. Real food.
Amy and Emma were already up, working at a folding table they'd set up near the front. They'd cracked open supplies from Crook's market.
Cans of fruit, packs of crackers, some flavored oatmeal, and even some jerky.
Emma was slicing canned peaches into bowls while Amy spread peanut butter onto crackers.
"Morning," Joe said, his voice low but carrying.
Amy smiled, kissing him. "Morning. Hungry?"
Joe gave a short nod. "Looks like you two went all out."
Emma grinned. "Might as well. We've got enough to last awhile. No sense eating like beggars when the shelves are full." Joe leaned down kissing her softly.
Beth wandered over, rubbing her eyes, hair a mess. She kissed Joe's cheek before she snatched up a peanut butter cracker.
She sat down to help them finish. "This is way better than beans," she mumbled.
Carl, Sophia, and Clem soon joined them, bowls of peaches in their hands. Clem leaned against Joe's leg, eyes still sleepy but calmer than the night before.
Rick rolled his blanket, watching the kids eat with something almost like relief.
Daryl sat by the door chewing jerky, crossbow balanced across his lap.
Glenn and T-Dog joked quietly over packets of trail mix, the sound almost normal.
With all the food from crook's, breakfast felt less like survival and more like living. People talked, even laughed a little.
Joe lit the last stub of his cigar, leaning against a pew.
He let the chatter run a while, but when the food was finished and the mood had settled, he stubbed it out and stood.
"Alright," he said, steady and calm. "Pack up. We roll in thirty. Greenville's next."
No one groaned or argued. They'd eaten well, slept safe. That was enough.
The pews cleared, bags slung, weapons checked. The old church emptied, leaving behind nothing but the faint smell of peaches and smoke.
Joe was the last out. He shut the door behind him, glanced once at the crooked cross above the entry, then headed to the Silverado.
It was time to move again.
...
They rolled back onto the highway, engines growling as the rain thinned to a steady drizzle. Greenville wasn't far.
But just over halfway, they reached a huge jam.
Cars were stacked bumper to bumper in both lanes, twisted at odd angles like someone had built a barricade out of the wreckage.
Rust and rot streaked the metal. Doors hung open, windshields spiderwebbed, some dark with old blood.
The wall of vehicles stretching beyond their line of sight. There was no way they were getting through.
"Damn…" Daryl muttered over the radio.
Rick's voice came back steady. "We'll have to turn back."
Joe spun the Silverado in a wide arc, the rest of the group following. They cut off onto Andrew Mills Road, the asphalt cracked and narrow. It snaked southward through heavy woods.
At first, the ride was clear. Then the walkers came.
One by one at first. Then in clusters. By the time they hit the halfway mark, the road was thick with them, staggering out of the trees.
"Keep moving!" Joe barked.
Gunfire cracked through the drizzle. Rifles and pistols cut down the closest threats as the convoy pushed forward.
Bullets pierced through skulls, walkers collapsing in heaps, but the noise only drew more from the treeline.
The Silverado's tires fishtailed on the wet asphalt as Joe floored it, plowing through a pair that staggered into the road.
Their bodies crunched beneath the wheels.
The convoy surged behind him, doors rattling, engines screaming.
By the time they broke clear, smoke curled from a few hot barrels and shell casings glittered on the floorboards.
Breathing hard, the group pressed forward on Andrew Mills Rd, turning down Rocky Mountain Road eventually.
The map showed it running straight south, all the way into Greenville.
Joe slowed just enough for the others to tighten their formation. "Stay sharp," he said over the radio. "We follow this road straight through."
The convoy pushed on, the forest closing in around them, the wet road stretching like a black vein toward Greenville.
...
By the time they reached Greenville, the sun was already dropping behind the tree line.
The group was weary from traveling, tense after so many close calls. Rick called a halt, and they began searching for shelter.
On the edge of Greenville, they stumbled across another band of survivors.
Five of them, armed but cautious, scavenging through an old convenience store.
Rick raised a hand, voice calm but firm, offering them a place in the convoy. The strangers shook their heads politely.
"We're fine on our own," their leader said firmly. The rest of his group looking at them nervously.
The two groups parted ways without issue, fading in opposite directions.
Rick soon spotted a two-story motel, its neon sign long dead but the building still intact.
"There," he said. "We'll bed down for the night."
Joe led the clearing detail, pushing through the musty lobby with a couple others.
The place seemed empty until a voice came from behind the counter.
"Rooms are available," the man said smoothly. He wore a faded bellhop vest, smiling like the world hadn't ended.
"Payment required, of course. Dinner included. Complimentary."
The others exchanged confused looks. Joe felt something sour twist in his gut, but he said nothing.
By nightfall, they had rooms. And dinner.
The food was warm, seasoned, better than anything they'd eaten in weeks. People smiled, even laughed quietly.
But Joe ate slow, watching the man at the front desk. Watching the way he smiled just slightly too wide.
He watched as the other went to their rooms sleepily. Then felt his limbs grow heavy. His eyelids dragged.
'No!'
Joe forced himself upright, fighting the fog. His scarred hands gripped the wall as he staggered into the hallway.
Voices blurred, footsteps faded. His vision swam, but he pushed on, steadying his breath.
Up ahead, the man... Norman Bates, he'd called himself, was wheeling a service cart.
A pale hand slipped from under the sheet covering it.
Joe's stomach tightened.
He followed, silent despite his haze. Norman pushed into a room, dragged the bodies one by one inside.
When the door shut, wet sounds filled the air, tearing, crunching, and chewing.
Joe shoved the door open quietly.
Two figures feasted.
A woman and a little girl, both walkers, their jaws tearing flesh from the corpses on the floor.
And Norman… smiling as he watched.
Joe raised his chrome 1911, the barrel pressed against the back of Norman's head before the man even realized he wasn't alone.
Norman froze.
Joe pulled the trigger.
The shot cracked like thunder in the small room, and Norman dropped.
The walkers turned, reaching at him uselessly, they were both chained to the bed.
Joe double-tapped each of them, their bodies collapsing beside the half-eaten dead.
"Fucking apocalypse," he muttered, breath ragged.
Kneeling, Joe checked the corpses. His chest tightened.
Hannah. Jane. Kenna.
Three of the rescued women, butchered like livestock. His face hardened.
That was it. No more trust.
From now on, strangers were guilty until proven innocent.
He pushed deeper, spotting another door. When he opened it, the stench hit like a hammer.
Five bodies hung from meat hooks, their skin gray and splitting, maggots crawling beneath the flesh.
The air was thick, rancid, and absolutely suffocating.
Joe closed the door slowly, jaw clenched tight. He turned away calmly, forcing his steps steady despite the drugs coursing through him.
He made his way back down the hall slowly, his legs growing heavier each minute. Leaning heavily on the wall for support.
When he returned to the room, he slipped back onto the mattress between Emma and Andrea.
Amy and Maggie curled close on the other side, Clem smashed between them.
For a long time, Joe stared at the ceiling, the images burned into his mind. The weight of the chrome pistol pressed cold against his side.
Sleep never came. Even as the drugs tried to force his eyes shut.
...
The next morning, the motel felt almost normal. The group stirred awake, stretching and smiling, voices light.
Everyone agreed it was the best night's sleep they'd had in weeks.
None of them knew how close they'd come to waking up on hooks in a room downstairs.
While they loaded up their gear and started toward the vehicles, Joe caught Rick's and Daryl's eyes.
"Walk with me," he said quietly.
They stepped off to the side of the motel lot, away from the others. Rainwater dripped from the gutters, pattering into the mud.
Joe lit a cigar, exhaling slow before he spoke.
He told them everything. The food laced with drugs.
Norman wheeling dead bodies through the halls. The woman and little girl walkers being fed like pets.
The corpses of Hannah, Jane, and Kenna. And the back room... the meat hooks with bodies hanging.
Rick's face hardened as the words sank in. He didn't ask questions. He didn't need to.
Daryl's jaw tightened, his crossbow shifting in his grip. "Son of a bitch," he muttered.
Rick finally spoke, voice low and certain. "We keep this quiet. The group doesn't need to carry it. They've got enough weight already."
Joe nodded once, flicking ash into the wet dirt. "Fine by me. But from here on… nobody is innocent. Not anymore."
Daryl gave a sharp grunt of agreement. Rick's silence was its own answer.
When they walked back, the others were already climbing into the vehicles, laughing softly, still glowing from a rare night of rest.
Joe, Rick, and Daryl said nothing. They just loaded up, the convoy pulling away from the motel like nothing had happened.
Only three men knew the truth of what had happened. And it was enough to change how they'd see every stranger from here on.