Chapter 51 — Merle Stands Up Again
Hanks kept a neutral expression.
He glanced once at Merle's unconscious body, then at Daryl — who was still sitting on the ground with Lee's Glock aimed at his skull.
"Search him," Hanks ordered, voice steady and absolute. "Check for any more weapons."
Lee approached cautiously, one hand on his pistol, the other patting Daryl down with quick, practiced motions.
He pulled a backup hunting knife from Daryl's waistband, along with a bundle of crossbow bolts.
"That's all."
Lee tossed the items aside.
Hanks bent down, picked up Merle's fallen hunting knife, weighed it briefly, then slid it into the back of his belt.
He also nudged Daryl's dropped crossbow farther away with his boot, just in case.
Daryl glared up at him — the savagery in his eyes still there, but dulled now by something else:
Wariness. Respect. A thin edge of fear.
His pulse hammered against the bruised temple where Hanks had elbowed him.
That strike had been too fast. Too clean. Too controlled.
Who the hell was this guy?
Hanks crouched in front of him, icy blue eyes meeting Daryl's without a flicker of hostility — yet radiating a quiet, crushing authority.
Like a cop who'd stared down a hundred men harder than him and never blinked once.
"Name," Hanks said.
Daryl's jaw tightened. He refused to answer — but his eyes flicked toward Merle, worry leaking through the cracks.
Hanks didn't push.
He just watched him with that steady, unreadable gaze — a gaze that didn't need shouting or threats to convey its message.
Finally, he spoke:
> "We're not raiders."
The words were calm — but iron-solid.
> "But if you decide to make yourselves a threat, I won't hesitate to eliminate you."
Daryl's throat bobbed as he swallowed.
Hanks' eyes shifted to the deer lying nearby, still twitching slightly.
"Judging by your hunt, you're looking for food," he added. "So are we. We're just trying to find a safe place to rest and restock."
He jerked his chin toward the cabin.
"Lee — open it. Careful."
Lee nodded, pushed the door gently with the muzzle of the Glock, and peeked inside.
"Clear," he called back. "Dusty, but intact. Old desk, some cabinets. Nobody here."
Hanks returned his gaze to Daryl and offered a hand — a rare gesture from him.
"We can talk," he said quietly.
"Or…"
His tone dropped half a note.
"You can lie here until nightfall. Or until walkers follow the blood scent."
Daryl's breath hitched — barely audible.
His eyes flicked again toward his brother, then to Hanks.
This man… wasn't bluffing.
And more importantly — he hadn't killed either of them despite how easily he could've.
Daryl licked his cracked lips, voice rough:
"…Daryl. That's… my brother, Merle."
Hanks nodded once and extended his hand again.
"Hanks. This is Lee."
After a tense second, Daryl accepted the grip.
Hanks hauled him upright with one smooth pull — stronger than Daryl expected.
A fragile ceasefire settled between them.
Hanks tapped Lee's arm. "Keep an eye on him."
Then he strode toward the ranger cabin, pushing the door wider but not stepping in yet.
He swept the interior with a quick, trained eye:
Dust drifting in the light.
Old wood.
Metal filing cabinets.
A rusted iron stove.
Piles of old tools and trash shoved into a corner.
It looked abandoned — but intact enough to shelter in.
Hanks stepped inside, eyes sweeping the room with the cold precision of someone who'd cleared too many buildings in his life.
[Insight] hummed under his skin, drawing his attention to a filing cabinet whose drawer tracks bore faint, recent scratches.
Behind him, Daryl entered slowly with Lee's Glock pinned to his spine, gaze locked on Merle's unconscious body outside.
Lee kept to the doorway — weapon down but not lowered, tense and ready to fire.
Hanks approached the file cabinet, tugged the drawer.
Locked.
He didn't bother searching for a delicate solution.
He stepped back, planted his heel, and—
"THUD!"
The wooden panel cracked.
Another sharp kick —
CRACK!
The whole drawer split open, revealing:
A stack of yellowed documents
An old, dust-coated revolver
A half-box of .38 Special
A single small key hanging from a rusted hook inside
He pocketed all of it.
Then his gaze slid to the wooden gun locker against the far wall, secured with a heavy padlock.
He tried the key.
Click.
The lock popped open.
When Hanks swung the cabinet door aside, his brows lifted slightly.
Inside lay:
One well-maintained Remington 700
Half a box of .308
Several scattered boxes of mixed gauge shotgun shells
And a handful of 9mm rounds
Not much — but for them, a godsend.
He slung the Remington over his shoulder and swept the entire cabinet clean, stuffing every last round into his assault pack.
He had just zipped the bag shut when—
"...ugh—"
A groan rolled in from outside.
Merle.
The bastard was waking up.
Daryl jerked forward instinctively, only to freeze when Lee pressed the Glock harder into his back.
"Don't," Lee warned.
Hanks quickly tucked the ammo into his pack, then nodded toward the door.
"Let him check on his brother," Hanks said. "Keep your eyes sharp."
Lee eased aside, just enough.
Daryl bolted out.
"Merle—? Hey! Hey, you good? Dammit…"
Merle shoved his hand away, staggering upright on his own.
A long, ugly lump bulged on his temple, blood trickling down the side of his face.
He shook his head violently — a mistake, judging by the wince — then lifted his eyes.
And saw Hanks.
His expression twisted instantly into pure malice.
"You son of a bitch— you blindsidin', half-breed—!"
He lurched forward, fury overriding pain.
Daryl caught him around the chest.
"Merle! Stop! You ain't beatin' him! You didn't even see him move!"
He hissed the next words urgently:
"They got numbers… and — hell — that guy ain't normal."
Merle glared between Lee and Hanks, breath ragged, chest heaving.
He wanted blood.
But even he wasn't blind — the memory of that blackout strike still throbbed violently in his skull.
Reason — what little he had — finally tugged on the leash.
His jaw clenched. Hard.
Hanks took a slow drag from Scarface's pack of cigarettes, the flame illuminating his eyes with a cold, detached amusement.
"What?" Hanks exhaled smoke. "Still wanna prove something?"
Merle spat, "Tch. Cheap-shottin' bastard."
"No problem," Hanks replied calmly, flicking ash aside. "Then we'll do it clean."
He stepped out onto the clearing in front of the cabin, rolling his shoulders — joints popping sharply in the quiet woods.
He tilted his head once,
and crooked a single finger at Merle.
The gesture was small.
Simple.
Disrespectful.
And it lit Merle Dixon on fire.
"SON OF A—!"
He tore free from Daryl's grip —
because no matter how beaten he was,
Merle Dixon stood up again.
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