Chapter 54 – The Vatos Gang
At dawn the next morning, the sky was still dim and gray.
Hanks packed two bulging backpacks and handed them to the visibly surprised Dixon brothers.
They were stuffed with canned food, compressed biscuits, bottled water, and basic medical supplies.
"Take these," Hanks said flatly, his tone calm but decisive.
"Venison doesn't keep well. This is more practical."
Daryl took the pack, weighed it in his hands, then looked at Hanks with a complicated expression.
His lips moved as if he wanted to say more, but in the end he only gave a low reply:
"Thanks."
Merle snorted softly from the side.
He didn't say anything, but the hostility and wariness in his eyes had clearly faded.
In a world like this, food was life—and this parting gift was no small thing.
"And this."
Hanks returned the confiscated compound crossbow, hunting knife, and arrows.
"Your gear. Back where it belongs."
Daryl silently accepted his crossbow, checked it over, and slung it across his back.
Merle reclaimed his knife and slid it into its sheath, visibly more confident with steel at his side.
"One more thing," Hanks added, watching them prepare to leave.
"If you run into an Asian kid named Glenn—pizza delivery guy—"
"He went to Atlanta looking for a friend. If you see him, watch his back. Tell him I said so."
Daryl paused, then nodded.
"Glenn… Asian… delivery guy. Got it. We'll keep an eye out."
Merle rubbed his still-aching chest and silently decided that if they did run into Glenn,
they'd take real good care of him.
There were no long goodbyes.
Merle and Daryl shouldered their packs, took one last look at the camp that had fed them, beaten them senseless, and sent them off with supplies—
then turned and disappeared into the misty woods, heading toward Atlanta.
After they were gone, the camp felt lighter—but the sense of urgency sharpened.
Hanks turned his gaze toward the direction of Creekwood.
"Kenny," he said, "pack up. We're heading into town."
They needed maps.
They needed clearer routes.
And they needed to assess whether this so-called Vatos Gang would become their next threat.
Kenny nodded grimly, patting his shotgun.
"Hell… just crawled outta one wolf's den and now we're walking into a tiger's mouth. Let's go."
Hanks holstered his P226, a tactical knife strapped to his thigh.
Kenny carried his M590 shotgun, a Glock tucked into his waistband.
"Lee, Carley—camp's yours," Hanks said.
"Stay sharp. We'll be back."
With a final look, Hanks and Kenny left the riverbank camp, moving one behind the other.
Following Daryl's directions, they used the lingering morning fog and dead roadside brush as cover, advancing toward Creekwood.
The closer they got—
the heavier the silence in the air became.
Abandoned vehicles lay scattered along both sides of the road. Some sat with doors hanging open, empty inside—nothing left but dried, blackened bloodstains.
The wind no longer carried the scent of grass and trees. Instead, it brought the faint stench of rot mixed with dust.
They avoided the main road, moving instead along the outskirts of town through patches of woodland and tall grass.
Hanks led the way.
At this moment, his stealth skill and heightened perception were pushed to their limits.
He held his tactical knife in a reverse grip, the blade catching a cold, muted gleam in the weak morning light.
Kenny followed close behind, shotgun at the ready, fingers clenched around the fore-end. Sweat slicked his palms.
He tried to mirror Hanks's movements, but he was noticeably clumsier.
The faint snap of a dry twig underfoot made his heart jump, forcing him to freeze and scan his surroundings every time.
Kenny kept his breathing shallow. Fine beads of sweat gathered on his forehead.
This kind of stealth was safe—but brutally exhausting. Not something just anyone could pull off.
The town felt like a silent grave.
Now and then, walkers wandered across the streets, letting out meaningless groans—but they weren't the real danger.
Hanks suddenly dropped into a crouch and raised his fist.
Kenny followed suit instantly, heart hammering.
At the intersection ahead, two men in mismatched street clothes strolled past, machetes in hand, moving with lazy confidence.
Cigarettes hung from their mouths as they murmured to each other. Their patrol route was loose, almost careless.
The Vatos Gang's patrol? Just like Daryl said.
Hanks signaled Kenny to detour.
They pressed against the walls of nearby buildings and slipped into a narrow alley, vanishing from the patrol's line of sight.
From there, they threaded through a maze of ruined streets and half-collapsed houses, avoiding open roads whenever possible.
Guided by instinct and perception, Hanks consistently anticipated danger and chose the safest routes.
Kenny stayed glued to his back, equal parts awed and reassured.
Following Hanks always seemed to turn dead ends into narrow escapes.
Still, the town was larger than expected, its intersections confusingly numerous.
Daryl had only said the post office was "on the other side of town."
Which side, exactly…?
Left for you, right for me—everyone's got their own version.
At the mouth of an alley clogged with trash bins, Hanks stopped again, frowning.
They'd been circling for nearly half an hour—no sign of the post office. Worse, they'd almost bumped into another patrol.
"Damn it," Kenny muttered under his breath, wiping sweat from his brow.
"This place is a maze. Where the hell is that post office?"
Hanks didn't answer. His eyes swept the surroundings, searching for any signage or recognizable landmark.
Just as he hesitated—left or right—
Click.
A soft, crisp sound came from the corner to their right.
Hanks's pupils shrank. He reacted instantly.
He lunged.
His left hand clamped over the mouth of the person stepping around the corner, cutting off the scream mid-breath.
At the same time, the cold edge of his knife was already pressed against the stranger's throat.
The entire sequence took less than a second—too fast to react to.
"Mm—!"
The captive let out a muffled, terrified whimper, struggling violently.
It was a boy—no more than fifteen or sixteen—wearing an oversized jacket that didn't fit him at all.
His face was filthy, his eyes wide with fear. In his hand was a civilian radio.
As he restrained the boy, Hanks smoothly disarmed him—stripping away a fully loaded handgun as well.
Kenny rushed in at once, shotgun aimed past the corner.
After confirming there were no other threats, he finally looked at the boy.
"Don't make a sound," Hanks said coldly, his voice low and lethal in the boy's ear.
"If you want to live, don't move."
The knife pressed a fraction closer.
The boy froze instantly, trembling, too afraid to even breathe.
Kenny picked up the dropped handgun and radio, staring at the kid—who was still just a kid—with a complicated expression.
Hanks dragged the boy deeper into the shadows of the alley.
"Where's the post office?" he asked flatly. No room for negotiation.
The boy shuddered, eyes flicking instinctively toward a direction.
"I–it's east," he stammered softly.
"Two blocks… there's a small plaza… it's right next to it…"
"How many people in your gang?" Hanks continued, relentless.
"What weapons do you have? Patrol patterns?"
He fired the questions one after another—giving the boy no time to think up lies.
Terrified, on the verge of tears, the boy spilled everything he knew:
The Vatos Gang had around sixty people.
Plenty of weapons.
Patrols ran in pairs, rotating roughly every thirty minutes…
Once he had what he needed, Hanks's gaze turned ice-cold.
He pressed a firm hand against the back of the boy's neck.
In his other hand, the grip on the knife tightened—just slightly.