Chapter 53 — Learning More
Hanks unloaded the deer onto the open space in the center of the camp.
The heavy carcass hit the ground with a thud, kicking up a faint cloud of dust.
"Kenny," he called, "you handle it. Make sure you cut off both antlers and clean them."
Then he turned to Daryl.
"You look like you've done this before. Go help him by the river. Keep the guts downstream—don't bring us any unwanted trouble."
Kenny set down his shotgun and nodded.
He still eyed the two strangers warily, but he never questioned Hanks' orders.
He rummaged in the RV's toolbox, found a few workable knives, and handed one to Daryl.
Daryl took it, thumb brushing the handle in a practiced gesture.
He said nothing—just followed Kenny, and together they dragged the deer toward the riverbank.
The river masked most of the cutting sounds, its current washing away the blood.
Kenny began bleeding and skinning the deer with practiced efficiency.
Daryl held the legs, helping guide the cuts—steady, clean motions that showed he was no novice in the wild.
For a while, only the wet scrape of blade against flesh filled the air.
Daryl finally spoke, his voice low and testing:
"How long… have you been with him?"
Kenny didn't pause.
"Not long. Long enough."
He sliced through a tendon with a deft flick of his knife.
"Long enough to know that without him, all of us would've been dead ten times over."
Daryl was quiet for a moment.
"He fights well."
"Well?" Kenny snorted, lifting his head, wiping blood off his cheek with the back of his hand.
"That bastard's terrifying."
His tone held awe… and a whisper of fear.
"His aim's inhuman, he moves like a damn shadow, and he never—never—seems to get tired."
"He's always in front. Always takes the dangerous job. First to stand guard. First to rush in.
Tell me, does that sound like a normal man to you?"
Kenny wasn't complaining.
He was bragging.
And Daryl could hear it—the mix of respect, gratitude, and disbelief.
"You look at him now," Kenny jerked his head toward the camp,
"like nothing happened."
"But I saw how much he burned through last night. Bullets spent, strength drained—
the number of walkers he put down alone could build a damn hill."
"He just keeps going.
Because he knows…"
Kenny's voice dropped.
"…if he falls, we fall. We die."
Daryl's knife slowed as he thought back to the earlier fight.
The man's cold, calculated calm.
The flawless, lethal movements.
And last night's blood moon…
He and Merle were lucky—they stayed deep in the woods.
With the way walkers behaved under that red glow, they would've been torn apart out on the road.
Kenny's words colored that memory with a new understanding.
"Where… are y'all heading?" Daryl asked.
"Savannah." Kenny didn't look up.
"That little girl's parents might be there. He said he'd take her. We follow."
"Savanah…" Daryl murmured, something flickering in his eyes.
"Wait—are they not related?" he added, realizing Kenny's wording.
"Nope." Kenny shrugged. "According to Clem, they just… ran into each other."
Daryl fell silent.
A man fighting through hell with a child he didn't know…
just to honor a promise…
Something in Daryl's chest shifted.
The two worked in silence after that—slitting open the deer, cleaning it, washing off blood, trimming branches into skewers.
They threaded chunks of venison onto the sticks, rubbing salt from the vehicles' supplies onto the meat.
In camp, Katjaa finally relaxed seeing the kids laughing and playing again.
Then she noticed Merle sitting off to the side, battered, sulking, and bruised.
She sighed softly, grabbed what little disinfectant was left, and walked over.
"Hold still," she said gently, dabbing the gash on his cheek.
"—tsshh! Son of a—"
Merle flinched, muscles twitching, but when he met her gentle, motherly eyes…
"…Thanks," he muttered, the rest of the curse dying in his throat.
"Easy now." Katjaa smiled, unfazed by his awkwardness.
Nearby, Lee and Carley sat close, speaking quietly about the woods and the strangers they'd met—voices calm, steadying.
---
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the warm glow painted Lee and Carley in soft shades of amber.
From a distance, the two looked less like hardened survivors and more like a pair of young lovers whose sparks had just begun to fly.
Hanks adjusted the hunting rifle in his hands, peering through the scope into the fading light.
The bigger the caliber,
the happier he was—
Because he, too, was a big-caliber kind of man.
Night eventually swallowed the last streaks of sunset, the sky turning into a vat of ink.
On the riverbank clearing, a campfire crackled to life. The heat pushed back the evening chill, washing everyone's faces in flickering amber light.
Katjaa and Carley tended to the venison skewers, the fat dripping into the flames with a satisfying hiss.
The rich scent of roasting meat spread through the camp—an almost luxurious peace in a world like this.
Duck and Clementine stared at the golden browning venison, both swallowing loudly.
Merle, bruised and swollen, sat beside the fire with a skewer of sizzling deer loin stuffed into his hands.
He bit into it awkwardly, burning his tongue and hissing through his teeth, but couldn't stop chewing.
He was starving.
Daryl sat beside him, silently eating, eyes flicking between Hanks and the others.
"You guys…"
Hanks handed Clementine a freshly cooked skewer before turning to the Dixon brothers.
"So—what's your plan from here?"
Merle muttered something through a mouthful of meat—
something very close to None of your damn business—
but the combination of Hanks' calm stare and the throbbing pain in his jaw reduced the volume to a sulky mumble.
Daryl swallowed his piece of meat and wiped his mouth.
"Atlanta," he said quietly.
"We… came down from the north. Place is crawling with walkers."
He hesitated. "But there's talk about shelters in Atlanta. Figured we'd try our luck."
"Atlanta…" Lee repeated, exchanging a weighted glance with Carley.
The radio broadcasts hadn't exactly been optimistic.
Hanks nodded, unsurprised.
"Heading south—any towns along the way?"
He paused.
"Or anywhere we can find a proper state map? Maybe a high-power radio?"
Daryl thought for a moment.
"Follow the river downstream about half a day. You'll hit a small place called Creekwood."
"Been there a couple times. Not big, but there's an old post office. Might have the maps you want."
He looked at Hanks, expression tightening.
"But that place… you'll want to be careful."
Kenny immediately perked up, meat forgotten.
"What do you mean?"
"Soon as everything went to hell, a group took over the town," Merle answered.
His voice carried its usual mocking edge, though weaker than before.
"Call themselves the 'Vatos Gang.' Buncha cowards who only bully the weak.
We tried sneakin' in once to grab supplies—damn near got ourselves wrapped up like dumplings."
Vatos Gang…
Hanks filed the name away.
"The post office—is it close to them?"
"Opposite end of town," Daryl replied.
"Few streets apart. If you're fast—and lucky—you might get what you need before they notice."
The information exchange ended, and silence returned.
Only the crackle of the fire and the soft chewing of hungry survivors filled the night.
Tension eased—not gone, but softened.
When it came time to assign night watch, Hanks intentionally paired himself with Merle for the first shift, letting Daryl rotate with Kenny afterward.
A watch… and a test.
Neither brother objected.
Daryl even requested the roughest shift—the pre-dawn hours.
The night passed without incident.
Strangely calm.