𝐄𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬, 𝐁𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | TWD [Book 1]

XXXVII. The Hand of Fate

Yet, amidst the impending storm, the group's leader emerged as an enigmatic figure, his demeanor contrasting sharply with the brewing conflict. Rather than opting for punitive measures against Daryl, he presented a cryptic decree—a simple yet profound rule: "If you want something, claim it."

Walking along the desolate railway tracks, Joe, the group's leader, strides beside Daryl, the older man who remains an enigmatic puzzle with countless unanswered questions swirling in Joe's mind about him.

Silent footsteps echo against the gravel, punctuating the uneasy stillness enveloping the two men. Joe's probing gaze occasionally flickers towards Daryl, his curiosity evident in the subtle glances he casts at the weathered figure walking beside him.

Daryl, his face etched with the wear and tear of survival, maintains a stoic facade, revealing nothing of the intricate layers beneath. Joe observes the scars etched across Daryl's rugged features, the guarded demeanor that conceals a multitude of untold tales, and the penetrating gaze hinting at a past marked by unspoken experiences.

"So, what's the plan, Daryl?" Joe inquires, an arched eyebrow accentuating his curiosity as they continue to stride along the railway tracks.

Daryl glances at Joe, weighing his response carefully. "How so?"

"You're with us now, but you ain't soon?" Joe notes, pointing out Daryl's earlier assertion that he had no intention of staying for long.

"Yep."

"So what's the plan?" Joe presses, shouldering his bag and weapon, fixing Daryl with a pointed look.

"Just, looking for the right place is all." Daryl deflects, concealing his true intentions, the burning desire to continue his search for any trace of his people—especially for Beth, for Madeleine.

"Oh, we ain't good enough for you, uh?" Joe retorts with a touch of sarcasm, raising a cigarette to his lips. Daryl cringes at the smell, the acrid smoke a haunting reminder of Madeleine's lingering presence.

"Some of you ain't exactly friendly." Daryl snaps back, a hint of frustration in his voice, prompting a small chuckle from Joe.

"You ain't so friendly yourself," Joe points out, causing Daryl to fall into a momentary silence. "But you know you need a group out here."

"Maybe I don't."

"No, you do," Joe counters with conviction, a subtle nod accentuating his assertion. "You should be with us."

Their conversation is abruptly interrupted by the snarling approach of a walker, diverting their attention from their discourse to the imminent threat. The creature, growling and menacing, draws nearer to the group of confident men.

"People don't have to be friendly. We don't have to be nice or be brothers in arms," Joe states, his voice unwavering as the walker inches closer.

One of the men teases the creature, shoving it away with a weapon, while another restrains it before a third swiftly dispatches it with a fatal blow to the head.

"We just gotta follow the rules," Joe continues amidst the commotion, the urgency in his tone matching the intensity of the moment. "You claim. If you steal, you kneel. I know it sounds a little funny, but nobody laughs when something goes missing. And you don't lie. 'Cause that's a slippery slope indeed."

"What happens if you break 'em?" Daryl questions, his eyes narrowed in cautious contemplation.

"Oh, you catch a beatin'. The severity of which depends upon the offence and the general attitude of the day. But that don't happen much 'cause when men like us follow rules and cooperate a little bit, well, the world becomes ours," Joe explains with a sly smirk before whistling, signaling the group to halt with a whistle when he spots an abandoned place. "Right there. It's our abode for the evening."