Joe didn't head straight for the gate. He went to the armory.
The room was quiet, lantern-light flickering against racks of weapons.
For weeks now he'd only stepped in to check inventory, to make sure the recruits were supplied for training.
But tonight wasn't training. Tonight was war.
He opened the locker and pulled out the black plate carrier. The straps creaked as he cinched it tight across his chest, fitting it like an old friend.
Next came the rifle. An M4 carbine, clean, oiled, reliable.
He slammed in a mag, checked the chamber, then set aside two more to strap on his vest.
At the side shelf lay a row of sidearms. Joe's hand went straight for the Glock 17, his muscle memory still tuned to it.
He loaded it smooth, checked the slide, and tucked it into a thigh holster. Three spare mags went into the vest pouches.
He grabbed a small pack, stuffing in water, gauze, and one smoke grenade. He slung his M4 across his back last, the steel resting above the body armor.
For a moment he caught his reflection in the dark window. Not the father holding babies, not the neighbor sitting on porch.
The other side of him. The side Alexandria hadn't yet truly seen. The unstoppable soldier. The killer. The survivor.
Joe turned, boots echoing as he left the armory behind.
Out at the gate, the night air was sharp and still. The watch guards stiffened as he approached.
None of them dared question him.
Joe walked straight to his motorcycle. The matte-black beast was parked against the wall, saddle already packed for emergencies.
He swung a leg over, rifle slung, gloves hanging from the handlebars.
He slid them on, tightened the strap, then gunned the engine to life.
The roar cut across the silence, making heads turn all through the street.
Rick appeared in the gatehouse, expression grim. "You sure about this?"
Joe revved the throttle once. "I don't wait on family."
Rick held his stare a beat, then nodded. "Bring him back."
Joe smirked under the helmet. "That's the plan."
The gate creaked open just enough, and Joe shot through like a bullet, taillight vanishing into the dark.
...
When Daryl came to, his hands were tied with rough rope, ankles lashed just as tight.
The AK was gone, his knife too. The three strangers had made camp in the ruins of the burned-out forest.
He kept his breathing steady, eyes cracked just enough to watch.
The blonde, Tina. Sat hunched close to a small fire, rubbing her arms.
Sherry sat beside her, whispering soft words, calming her down.
Dwight, though... he didn't sit. He paced with the stolen rifle in hand, gaze cutting through the trees, every sound pulling his trigger finger tighter.
Daryl listened.
Sherry's voice was low, urgent. "They'll be looking for us. You know they will. We should've kept moving."
Dwight shook his head, jaw tight. "They've got men everywhere. Patrols. Checkpoints. You don't outrun them. You hide. You starve. You wait, then maybe you slip through."
Tina's voice cracked. "We should've never left. If they catch us..."
"They won't," Dwight snapped, a little too fast. He rubbed his face, muttering, "They won't."
Daryl closed his eyes, the pieces falling into place. The ambush in the town. The cars, the gunfire.
None of it was meant for him, Abraham, or Sasha. These three were the real targets.
He pretended to stay under, body still as stone, waiting for Dwight to finally sit, to finally let exhaustion win.
But the man never did. All night, Dwight kept pacing, rifle never lowering, eyes burning in the firelight.
Daryl gave up waiting. He rolled to his side, muttering under his breath. "Hell with it." Then he drifted back to uneasy sleep.
...
The town was silent except for the shuffle and groans of the dead. The earlier gunfire had dragged them here like moths to flame.
Joe rolled the motorcycle to a stop, engine cut. He dismounted in one smooth motion, rifle left slung.
His knife gleamed in the moonlight as he drew it free.
One by one, he moved through the street. The blade whispered as it worked, piercing skulls with practiced efficiency.
Walkers crumpled at his boots, never slowing his stride. He carved a path until the moans died out.
Leaving only the drip of blood on pavement and the soft hiss of the night wind.
Joe crouched low over the broken asphalt. The blood stains were fresh, some smeared into long streaks from dragging.
Boot prints crisscrossed, panicked, violent. He traced them with his fingers, muttering under his breath.
"Daryl."
He found the trail... blood drops mixed with motorcycle tire grooves veering toward the edge of town.
It took hours of following, weaving through alleys and backstreets, but Joe never lost it.
His patience was honed from years of tracking men across deserts, through war zones.
Just before dawn he found the first wreck.
A black sedan, crushed against a brick wall, the front folded in like paper. Glass and blood everywhere, but no survivors.
No bodies either... they'd been taken or walked away. Joe scanned the area, caught the faint drag marks, and pressed forward.
The road stretched out ahead, empty but for the stink of fuel.
Joe followed until he saw the SUV. Smoke stains blackened the hood, oil pooled thick under the front axle.
Inside, a man sat slumped in the passenger's seat, a bullet hole neat and final through his head.
Joe pulled the door open, gave the corpse a quick search... nothing worth taking. He sighed, wiping his hands on his vest.
"Dumb bastard."
He stepped back into the road, the first hints of sunlight cutting across the treeline.
The air was colder in the dawn, but the sky was bleeding pink and orange. Joe shaded his eyes, scanning the horizon.
Somewhere out there, Daryl was still alive. He had to be.
Joe adjusted the rifle on his back, exhaled steady, and kept moving down the road.
...
Morning came rough. Daryl woke to a sharp crack across his face. Dwight's hand slapping him a few times.
"GET UP!"
Daryl groaned, head pounding, vision blurring again. He glared back, slow and mean.
Dwight crouched, pistol pressed hard to Daryl's temple. "On your feet."
Daryl rasped, "I'm not who you people think I am."
"Shut up," Dwight snapped, pressing the barrel harder. "You open your mouth again, I'll put you down right here."
"I ain't who you think," Daryl repeated, voice like gravel.
Dwight's face twisted. He racked the slide with a sharp clack, eyes blazing. "Say something else. Go ahead."
Daryl stayed silent, just glaring at him.
For a long second, nothing moved but the smoke curling from the cold ashes of the fire.
Then Dwight hauled Daryl to his feet by the vest, shoving him forward.
"Move."
Daryl stumbled, wrists raw against the ropes, boots crunching over burnt ground.
Sherry and Tina walked ahead, glancing back with pity but no defiance.
Dwight brought up the rear, pistol aimed steady at the back of Daryl's head.
They weren't just running. They were running from someone.
And Daryl knew sooner or later, he'd find out who.
...
Joe rode slow, the motorcycle rumbling low under him as the sun bled fully over the treeline. The road was quiet, no sign of life.
That's when something caught his eye.
A glimmer in the woods.
He cut the engine and coasted to a stop, boots crunching gravel as he scanned the treeline. There, half-hidden in the brush, was a shape he knew all too well.
Daryl's bike.
Joe pulled off to the shoulder and killed the ignition. Rifle slung, knife ready at his side, he stepped into the woods.
The closer he got, the clearer the scene became.
The bike leaned on its side, dusted in ash.
The ground around it was chaos... boot prints gouged into the dirt, branches snapped, leaves churned.
A fight had gone down here.
Joe crouched, running a hand over the disturbed ground. The patterns told the story.
Daryl had struggled, held his ground, then been forced down. And then, drag marks. Heavy ones. A group had hauled him off.
Joe's jaw tightened. He rose and followed the tracks.
The trail wound through the charred trees, crisp and clear in the soft morning light.
Broken brush, crushed grass, streaks in the ash. Joe followed like a hound, every step quiet, controlled.
Finally, he found it... a small fire pit, coals still smoldering faint red. Ash drifted faint in the air.
A makeshift camp, abandoned in a hurry.
He scanned the perimeter. Three sets of footprints. Two light, one heavy. And another, dragging along.
"Daryl," Joe muttered.
He crouched again, pressing his palm to the still-warm ground. They couldn't have left more than an hour or two ago. The trail was fresh.
Joe stood, rifle shifting against his vest, eyes narrowing down the path. Whoever had taken Daryl, they were close.
...
The trees whispered overhead, ash crunching under boots. Tina handed the water bottle to him, her hand trembling.
"Here. You should drink."
Daryl frowned at her and shook his head.
Before he could push it away, Dwight shoved it against his mouth, forcing him to take a swig. The lukewarm water slid down his throat like gravel.
"See?" Dwight muttered. "We're reasonable people. They find us, maybe we give you to them. Everybody's got their code. If you feel you gotta kneel, so be it. But we don't."
Daryl didn't answer, just filed it away. 'Kneeling. Whatever it meant, it was heavy.'
"Move," Dwight ordered, jabbing the barrel into his back.
They walked for a while before Tina whispered, almost childlike, "I can't believe we're back."
Sherry's reply was sharp. "It's not home anymore."
Dwight cut in, bitter. "It's a pit stop. We pick up Patty and we go."
Tina nodded weakly.
"How'd you do it?" she asked.
Dwight glanced at her. "You saw where we left the truck?"
"Mhm."
Dwight's tone was flat, "We opened the valve, drove in from Farmview Road, ran from the treeline to the pavement, dropped a match. Whole place went up. Dead ones burned. No more moans. Just fire."
Sherry's voice was distant. "We just watched it all burn."
Daryl's lip curled. "You did all this?"
Sherry nodded. "Right at the start. We thought people would fight together against the rotters."
Dwight snorted. "Man, were we stupid."
Daryl stopped, forcing them to halt. "And you don't think you're being stupid now?"
Dwight turned back, gun up. His eyes were wild, sleepless. "You saying I should kill you?"
Daryl said nothing.
Dwight's voice sharpened. "You gonna pull something on us? Am I being stupid leaving you alive? I'm serious... I really wanna know."
He stepped closer, pistol an inch from Daryl's face. Tina spoke softly, "You made the choice to kill for someone else."
Sherry added, "And for what? A roof? Three squares?"
Dwight barked, "Tell me. Am I being stupid?"
Daryl finally spoke, steady. "No. Look, I got somewhere I need to be. We can make a deal. I can help you."
Dwight shook his head. "No. You're one of them. You're hurt and you're alone, so you'd say anything. We should've never trusted you people."
He shoved Daryl forward. "Walk."
They broke out of the treeline into a clearing behind a warehouse.
A chain-link fence rattled with the weight of walkers pressed against it, moaning and clawing.
Sherry froze, tears in her eyes. "Patty…"
Tina whispered, "She could be in one of the containers."
Dwight's face went hard. "No. She's gone."
Sherry's voice cracked. "Then we make another plan."
"No," Dwight snapped. "We get out. That's the plan."
Before anyone could argue, Tina swayed. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed in the dirt.
In the chaos, Daryl lunged. He ripped the bag from Sherry's shoulder and bolted into the treeline.
"Son of a!" Dwight shouted, firing wild. Bullets snapped past Daryl, bark spraying his face. He ducked low, weaving between trees, lungs burning.
"Please!" Sherry screamed after him. "Bring it back!"
Daryl dropped behind a thick oak, panting.
He clawed through the bag with bound hands. His heart leapt when he felt the radio, but when he thumbed it on...nothing.
It was broken.
He cursed and hurled it at a tree.
Walkers stumbled toward the noise, hungry groans rising. Daryl ripped his crossbow from the bag, fingers clumsy on the string.
He loosed a bolt through the first walker's skull, then shoved the corpse aside.
He dug back into the bag and froze. A medical cooler. The label was smeared, but he knew what it meant.
Insulin.
Daryl swore under his breath. He looked back toward the clearing, jaw working.
A few minutes later, he crept from the trees, crossbow aimed dead steady. He tossed the bag into the dirt between them.
Daryl crept through the treeline, crossbow gripped tight, boots silent in the ash.
He'd doubled back while Dwight and Sherry fussed over Tina, too rattled to watch their perimeter.
Amateurs.
He circled wide, catching the gleam of the AK slung over Dwight's shoulder.
The bastard kept one hand near his pistol, like he expected Daryl to come back. He wasn't wrong... just too slow.
Daryl eased up behind him, breath steady.
Poke!
The crossbow string pulled taut, the bolt aimed square between Dwight's shoulder blades.
"Drop it," Daryl growled.
Dwight stiffened. Sherry froze mid-motion, eyes wide. Even Tina stirred faintly at the sudden tension.
"Now," Daryl pressed. "Guns. On the ground."
Dwight slowly raised the AK off his shoulder, set it down, then reached for the pistol at his hip.
"Two fingers," Daryl snapped. "Nice and slow."
Dwight did as told, lips curled, and let the pistol fall into the dirt beside the rifle.
"Kick 'em over."
He nudged both weapons toward Daryl with the toe of his boot.
Daryl stepped forward, snagged the pistol with one hand while keeping the crossbow leveled with the other.
The AK came next, slung across his back where it belonged.
Finally, he tossed the bag forward, letting it skid across the dirt.
"Get your insulin."
Sherry scrambled for it, pulling out the cooler and fumbling for the syringe.
She plunged it into Tina's arm, whispering frantic comfort. The girl's breathing eased, color coming back faintly to her cheeks.
Dwight's eyes burned holes through Daryl, rage twisting his face. "You should've kept running," he hissed.
Daryl's reply was cold, final, "Yeah. But I ain't you."
The silence stretched, thick with threat.
Daryl kept the crossbow steady, Dwight kept glaring, and Sherry kept her hands shaking as she held onto Tina.
The standoff was broken only by the distant groans of walkers drifting closer through the trees.