As we were about to reach the fork, I reached out to Rick through the radio. "Rick," I said, keeping my eyes on the road, "you go straight to the quarry. Get the ropes done and return to Daryl. And be careful—you never know what's out there."
Rick nodded without hesitation. "I'll have them set in no time. Watch yourselves out there."
"We always do," I replied.
At the fork, Rick peeled off toward the quarry while the rest of us stayed on the main route heading for the fuel depot. Merle leaned back in his seat, boots up. "Alright, bossman," he muttered with a sideways grin. "Time to wrangle ourselves some dead folk."
"Stick to the plan," I said, calm and measured. "No improvising unless you clear it with me first."
"Yeah, yeah." Merle waved me off but didn't argue.
Morgan, driving behind us, kept a steady pace. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, scanning the empty road ahead. When we reached the fuel depot, the convoy slowed into a crawl. The stench of old diesel still clung to the air, mingling with the smell of rot.
We parked around a hundred meters away from the depot. Daryl hopped out first. He slung his crossbow over his shoulder and moved forward with that silent, sure-footed precision he had. He didn't need instructions—I had already walked him through the plan the day before. Daryl knew exactly where to position himself so he could shoot strays without pulling away the aggro from the main herds.
"Daryl," I called quietly, "your job starts as soon as they follow us past the sign. Don't take unnecessary shots. Only the ones drifting off the main trail."
Daryl gave a short nod. "Got it."
"Once Rick finishes the ropes," I added, "he'll join you. Support each other but stay hidden. No loud weapons unless you've got no other choice."
Daryl smirked. "Ain't planning on makin' noise." With that, he jogged ahead, disappearing into the bush.
I watched him go for a moment before turning back to the others. "Alright," I said, tightening the straps on my gear. "Morgan, Merle—we start drawing the clusters same as we planned before. Three groups, roughly a hundred each. Keep distance. Keep pace steady. No sudden stops."
Morgan gave a firm nod. "We'll keep 'em clean."
Merle cracked his neck, his crossbow in hand. "Let's go fishin'."
Together we approached the depot grounds, each angling toward our assigned sectors. I started first from the southern section. I approached the sagging, partially broken fence. Then, I tapped my pry bar on the metal fence with rhythmic taps.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Light, controlled tones echoed across the yard. Walkers stirred immediately. Groans thickened. Hands stretched through the gaps in the fencing. I backed up a few slow steps, leading their gaze, giving them a point to chase. The walkers pressed harder. The fence groaned. Eight minutes in, the fence finally gave in.
SNAP!
Walkers spilled forward in a rush, stumbling over twisted metal. I didn't flinch. I stepped back to a supply crate. I lifted myself above reach and slammed my pry bar again.
CONG!
A deep, commanding note echoed across the yard. The walkers redirected toward me, merging with the walkers already locked into my movement. I waited a couple seconds—timing the cluster's adjustment—then stepped down and resumed walking. The larger cluster followed smoothly.
Morgan POV
After Zephyr gave last-minute instructions, I headed to my designated section, the northern one. I walked slowly toward a rust-covered, bent fence. Walkers nearby already converged toward my direction. I grabbed a piece of rebar from the ground and began tapping on the fence.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Walkers near my fence section perked up, groans vibrating through their rotting throats. They pressed in my direction, drawn by sound and movement, pressing into the already dilapidated fence. I watched as the fence screamed in protest as more and more walkers piled onto it. A couple minutes and the fence gave out.
SNAP!
They rushed forward, stumbling on each other. I walked backward slowly, giving them a target to follow. "Alright..." I whispered to myself. "That's it..."
I led them through the lane, clanging my knife on my rifle every few meters.
Merle Dixon POV
Merle Dixon never believed in subtlety. He slammed a piece of metal against a metal pole, producing a thunderous CLANG! That echoed through the eastern lot like a dropped bomb.
Walkers erupted everywhere. A dozen, two dozen, then more. Merle laughed. "C'mon ya brainless freaks! Keep up with Uncle Merle!"
One walker drifted sideways toward a distant noise.
Thunk! A bolt pierced its skull. Merle didn't even turn around. "Good lookin' out, Daryl!"
Hidden somewhere, Daryl grunted softly in return.
Daryl Dixon POV
Daryl moved like a hunting cat along the overlapping side lines of the three routes. Walkers tried to peel off now and then—drawn by random echoes or movement—but each one fell swiftly.
Thunk. Another bolt. Another clean drop. Daryl retrieved his bolts immediately after the walkers passed—no waste, no noise, no evidence. He paused atop an old guard booth roof, watching the three growing herds. They were forming exactly as planned: three slow-moving rivers of death, each guided by a different man.
"Keep 'em movin'..." he muttered. "No surprises..."
Rick Grimes POV
Rick's truck sped down the cracked highway, dust kicking up behind him in thick plumes. His jaw was clenched tight. He kept glancing at the back through the mirror where the heavy-duty ropes lay coiled—thick enough to hold a grown man.
He pulled up to the cliffside walkway, cut the engine, and sprang out. The drop to the quarry was steep enough that anything falling over the edge would shatter instantly. Exactly what they needed.
He slammed the first piton into the limestone, looping the rope through and testing the tension with a hard pull. It held. He checked his watch. Thirty minutes gone.
"Gotta move," he said, working faster.
(To be continued...)