Walking Back

The ceiling fan creaked softly as it spun, pushing the stale motel air around the room. Daryl opened his eyes slowly, the dull orange glow of dawn slipping through the thin curtains. He blinked, his head pounding faintly as the events of the past—or the future, depending on how you looked at it—replayed in his mind. Harley’s words came back to him, sharp and certain: “It’s going to sting like hell, but you’ll get through it.” She wasn’t wrong about the sting. But now that he was here, back in the past with Merle alive and the world still intact, he knew he didn’t have time to dwell on the details. He had a second chance, and he wasn’t about to waste it.

The digital clock on the nightstand blinked 6:00 a.m., but Daryl barely glanced at it. His eyes landed on the enchanted backpack resting at the foot of the bed, a gift from Harley that defied explanation. Next to it sat his crossbow—the one from this time, untouched by the years of survival and battle scars that lay ahead. It gleamed faintly in the dim light, its frame still factory-perfect. Inside the backpack, hidden from view, was its twin—the crossbow that had seen him through the darkest of times. Guess this is where it all begins, he thought, a mix of relief and dread settling in his chest.

The silence in the room broke with a loud creak as Merle stirred in the chair by the window. He sat slouched as always, one boot propped on the wobbly table, a toothpick dangling loosely from his lips. His sharp blue eyes flicked over to Daryl, and a grin spread across his face, equal parts amused and suspicious.

“Well, look who decided to wake up,” Merle drawled, tilting his head back as he smirked. “Thought maybe you’d sleep the whole damn day away. You dreamin’ about somethin’ sweet, little brother? You was twistin’ around all night like you were fightin’ off somethin’ fierce.”

Daryl let out a low grunt, dragging his hands over his face before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. His boots hit the floor with a dull thud as he sat up straight, trying to shake off the lingering stiffness from the jump. “Ain’t none of your business,” he muttered, his voice rough. “Just didn’t sleep good.”

“Didn’t sleep good,” Merle echoed, laughing around his toothpick. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and watched Daryl closely. “Yeah, no kiddin’. You was mumblin’ somethin’, looked like you were ‘bout ready to fight off the boogeyman. What’s goin’ on with you?”

Daryl ignored him, moving to the enchanted backpack. He unzipped it and began stuffing his clothes inside. The bag swallowed everything with ease, its weight never changing. He grabbed a couple of tools from the corner and slipped them in, the pack still looking practically empty despite its growing contents. He caught Merle’s sharp gaze out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t say anything.

Merle, however, wasn’t about to let it go. “Alright, you gonna tell me what the hell’s goin’ on with that thing, or am I supposed to sit here and pretend I didn’t just see you shove half the room into that bag?”

“It’s a bag,” Daryl said curtly, zipping it shut. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh, sure, yeah, don’t worry ‘bout it,” Merle shot back, standing up and gesturing wildly toward the bag. “You got some kinda magic trick goin’ on, and you don’t think I’m gonna ask questions? What the hell’s in there, huh? You packin’ somethin’ illegal?”

Daryl set the bag down and turned to face him, his jaw tightening. “Pack your stuff, Merle. We’re leavin’.”

“Leavin’? Where the hell are we goin’?” Merle raised an eyebrow, his grin fading as his tone grew more serious. “And why you actin’ like we’re skippin’ town? You piss someone off again?”

“We’re headin’ south,” Daryl said simply, grabbing Merle’s duffel bag and tossing his clothes inside. “You gonna come, or you stayin’ here?”

“South,” Merle muttered, shaking his head. “Right. Yeah, ‘cause that explains everything.” He crossed his arms, his sharp eyes narrowing as he studied Daryl closely. Something about him was different—stronger, harder, like he’d been through hell and come out the other side. “You gonna tell me what this is about, or am I just supposed to follow you blind?”

Daryl let out a long sigh, his hands tightening around the straps of the bag. “I need you to trust me, alright? I’ll explain everything, I swear. Just not right now.”

Merle stared at him for a long moment, the room falling silent except for the hum of the fan. Finally, he huffed and cracked a crooked grin. “Fine. I’ll bite. But if you leave me in the dark too long, I’m knockin’ some sense into you.”

“Fair enough,” Daryl said, his lips twitching into the faintest smirk. “Appreciate it.”

Merle’s smirk softened slightly, and he clapped Daryl on the shoulder with a heavy hand. “Hey, uh… just so we’re clear, I got your back, alright? Always have. Always will.”

Daryl blinked, caught off guard by the rare show of sincerity. He nodded once, his voice low. “Yeah. I know.”

They worked quickly, loading the truck with their gear and tying down Merle’s motorcycle in the bed. Daryl climbed into the driver’s seat, his hands tightening around the wheel as the engine roared to life. The enchanted backpack sat securely between them, but neither brother mentioned it for now. The sun had barely risen as they pulled out of the motel parking lot, the long stretch of road ahead of them.

---TWD---

The dealership lot gleamed under the bright morning sun, rows of trucks lined up like soldiers ready for inspection. Each one was polished to perfection, their chrome accents catching the light and practically daring someone to take them home. Daryl pulled the old, beat-up Chevy into a far corner of the lot, its rattling engine sputtering one last time before he killed it. The truck looked like it had been through a war—and lost—its faded paint and dented panels a stark contrast to the pristine vehicles ahead.

Merle climbed out of the passenger seat, his boots hitting the pavement with a thud. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, squinting at the rows of shiny trucks. “What the hell we doin’ here, Daryl?” he asked, his voice dripping with skepticism. “You plannin’ on window shoppin’ for somethin’ you can’t afford, or did you hit your head on somethin’?”

Daryl didn’t answer, his eyes scanning the lot with purpose. He started walking toward the lineup of trucks, his boots crunching against the gravel. Merle trailed after him, muttering under his breath. “Ain’t like you got the cash for this kinda thing. Hell, you couldn’t afford the air freshener hangin’ off the rearview mirror.”

Daryl stopped in front of a sleek black Chevy Silverado, its bold grille and angular design giving it a commanding presence. The paint gleamed like obsidian, and the massive all-terrain tires looked like they could handle anything. Daryl ran his fingers along the edge of the driver’s door, feeling the cool metal under his touch. This’ll do. Strong, reliable. Built for more than just roads.

Merle let out a low whistle, circling the truck like a predator sizing up its prey. “Damn. She’s a beauty, alright. But you? You couldn’t afford a Hot Wheels version of this thing, let alone the real deal. What’s the plan here, huh? You plannin’ on stealin’ it? ‘Cause if you are, I call shotgun.”

Daryl smirked faintly, shaking his head as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the enchanted money clip. He flipped it open, revealing a stack of crisp, pristine bills. Merle’s eyes widened, and he let out a bark of laughter.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Merle said, leaning closer to get a better look. “That some kinda magical money clip or somethin’? You rub it, and the cash just keeps comin’?”

Daryl’s smirk deepened as he glanced at his brother. If only you knew. He didn’t say anything, just snapped the clip shut and started toward the showroom.

Merle followed, still muttering to himself. “This don’t make no damn sense. You walkin’ around with a stack like that, and you don’t think to share? What else you got in your pockets, huh? A genie?”

Inside the showroom, the air was cool and smelled faintly of new leather and cleaning products. The polished tile floor reflected the overhead lights, and a few salespeople milled about, chatting quietly. One of them, a middle-aged man in a sharp suit, glanced up as the Dixon brothers walked in. His eyes flicked over their worn clothes, scuffed boots, and rough edges, and his smile faltered for just a moment before he turned back to his computer.

Merle noticed the slight and snorted. “Well, ain’t that somethin’. Guess we don’t look fancy enough for Mr. Armani over there.”

Daryl didn’t bother with the man. Instead, his eyes landed on a young woman standing near the corner of the showroom. She was dressed sharply but not overly formal, her blazer and slacks professional but approachable. Her name tag read “Jessica,” and she was flipping through a clipboard, her expression focused but not unkind.

Without a word, Daryl walked over to her, leaving Merle to trail behind. Jessica looked up as they approached, her professional smile snapping into place. “Good morning,” she said, her tone warm but measured. “Can I help you with something?”

“Yeah,” Daryl said, his voice low and steady. “That black Silverado out front. I’ll take it.”

Jessica blinked, clearly caught off guard by the directness. “Oh, uh… the Silverado? That’s a great choice. Would you like to discuss financing options, or—”

“Cash,” Daryl interrupted, pulling out the money clip and flipping it open. He thumbed through the bills, pulling out a thick stack and holding it up. “I’ll pay cash.”

Jessica’s eyes widened slightly, but she recovered quickly, her smile growing more genuine. “Alright, let’s get started on the paperwork.”

As she led them to her desk, Merle leaned in close to Daryl, his voice low but loud enough for Jessica to hear. “You sure you don’t wanna sweeten the deal, little brother? Maybe ask her to throw in her phone number while you’re at it?”

Jessica let out a soft laugh, clearly amused but not offended. “You’re bold, I’ll give you that,” she said, glancing at Merle as she sat down. “But I don’t think you could handle me.”

Daryl chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he took a seat. “Don’t encourage him. He’s bad enough as it is.”

Merle grinned, leaning against the desk. “Hey, I’m just sayin’. A man’s gotta shoot his shot, right? Ain’t no harm in tryin’.”

Jessica rolled her eyes playfully as she started filling out the paperwork. “Well, I appreciate the effort, but let’s focus on the truck, shall we?”

The process didn’t take long. Jessica was efficient and professional, walking Daryl through the details without missing a beat. Merle, meanwhile, kept up a steady stream of commentary, much to Jessica’s amusement and Daryl’s mild annoyance.

When the paperwork was done, Jessica handed over the keys with a smile. “Congratulations, Mr. Dixon,” she said. “You’re the proud owner of a brand-new Silverado. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you.”

Daryl nodded, taking the keys. “Appreciate it.”

As they walked back outside, Merle couldn’t help but grin. “Well, ain’t you just the smooth operator,” he said, clapping Daryl on the back. “You make the sale, and I get to flirt. Everybody wins.”

Daryl shook his head, smirking as he unlocked the truck. “Get in, Merle.”

Merle climbed into the passenger seat, leaning back with a satisfied sigh. “Alright, chauffeur. Let’s see what this baby can do.”

The Silverado roared to life, its powerful engine purring like a beast ready to run. As they pulled out of the lot, Jessica waved from the showroom, her smile lingering as she watched them drive away. Merle glanced back, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“You think she liked me?” he asked, grinning.

Daryl snorted, his hands steady on the wheel. “Not a chance, Merle.”

“Eh, worth a shot,” Merle said, settling into his seat. “Now, where we headin’ next?”

The lot where the old Chevy sat looked even rougher now that the new black Silverado was parked beside it. The two trucks couldn’t have been more different—one beat-up and weathered from years of hard use, the other sleek, pristine, and ready for anything. Merle stood between them, arms crossed and a toothpick dangling from his lips as he surveyed the situation.

“Well,” Merle said, tilting his head, “looks like we’re tradin’ up. She’s served us well, but damn, look at this thing. Like tradin’ in a mangy mutt for a purebred racehorse.”

Daryl, already at the old truck, didn’t bother with a reply. He opened the rusty tailgate, the familiar creak louder than usual in the quiet lot, and started pulling out their gear. The enchanted backpack was the first thing he grabbed, slinging it over his shoulder. It felt no heavier than an empty bag, despite holding most of their supplies, but he wasn’t about to let it out of arm’s reach. This goes up front. Ain’t leavin’ it sittin’ in the back with the rest.

Merle, meanwhile, made his way around to the bed, where his prized Harley was still strapped down. The bike looked as rough and road-worn as the truck, but Merle’s expression softened as he ran his hand over the seat. “Alright, baby,” he muttered to the bike, more to himself than anyone else, “time to move you to fancier digs.”

Daryl dropped the pack onto the passenger seat of the Silverado before climbing into the old truck’s bed to help. The motorcycle was secured with bungee cords that had seen better days, their rubber cracking under the strain. Daryl crouched down, undoing the straps while Merle grabbed the new, heavy-duty ones they’d bought earlier.

“Don’t drop her,” Merle warned, narrowing his eyes as Daryl gave the bike a careful push to loosen it from the bed.

“You gonna keep yappin’,” Daryl shot back, his voice dry, “or you gonna help?”

With a grumble, Merle climbed up beside him, the two of them working together to guide the bike down the ramp they’d set up between the trucks. The black-and-chrome Harley-Davidson Shovelhead creaked and groaned, but they eased it onto the pavement without so much as a scratch. Merle patted the handlebars like a proud father as Daryl grabbed one of the tarps from the old truck.

The tarp was a deep green, thick and durable, perfect for covering the bike in the bed of the Silverado. Daryl laid it down first, spreading it evenly across the truck’s pristine black paint. Then, with Merle guiding the front, they rolled the bike carefully into place.

Merle grabbed the second tarp—a matching green one—and threw it over the top of the Harley, tucking the edges tightly around the frame. “Ain’t nobody gonna know what’s under there,” he said, stepping back to admire his handiwork.

Daryl grabbed the new nylon straps from the Silverado’s backseat, the bright orange cords gleaming like fresh paint. One by one, he secured them around the bike, pulling each strap taut and double-checking the knots. Merle watched him closely, his arms crossed and his usual grin replaced with something closer to genuine concern.

“Don’t go scratchin’ the truck, neither,” Merle muttered as Daryl tightened the last strap. “Brand-new ride, and you already got it haulin’ my girl around.”

“You sayin’ I should’ve left it behind?” Daryl asked, his tone flat but with the faintest hint of amusement. “Could’ve saved us the trouble.”

Merle snorted, shaking his head. “Don’t get smart, little brother. You wouldn’t leave her behind, and you know it.”

With the motorcycle secure, they turned their attention to the rest of the gear piled in the old truck. The dented toolbox, gas cans, spare parts, and other odds and ends were transferred piece by piece. The enchanted backpack swallowed most of the load, its bottomless interior making the process quicker than either of them expected.

Merle watched as Daryl stuffed a rusted jack stand into the bag, his expression torn between fascination and discomfort. “Still don’t feel right,” Merle muttered, nodding toward the pack. “All that crap just disappearin’ like it’s nothin’. Ain’t natural.”

“Ain’t gotta feel natural,” Daryl replied, zipping the bag shut. “Just works.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Merle grumbled, grabbing the last gas can and setting it in the corner of the new truck bed. “Still say it’s creepy. Handy, but creepy.”

When everything was finally transferred, Daryl closed the Silverado’s tailgate with a solid thunk. The new truck stood ready to go, its bed neatly organized, the bike covered and strapped down like it belonged there. The enchanted backpack sat in the passenger seat, its black surface catching the sunlight streaming through the windshield.

Merle leaned back against the old truck, chewing on his toothpick as he looked between the two vehicles. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “This thing’s a damn upgrade, that’s for sure. Feels weird, leavin’ this old girl behind, though.”

Daryl climbed into the driver’s seat, gripping the leather-wrapped steering wheel. The faint scent of new car leather filled the cab, mingling with the warmth of the sun beating down on the windshield. He rolled down the window, looking over at Merle.

“You comin’, or you stayin’ here with the rust bucket?” Daryl asked, his tone teasing but soft.

Merle chuckled, pushing off the old truck and heading toward the passenger side of the Silverado. “Like I’m gonna let you take all the credit for this fancy ride,” he said, climbing in. “Let’s hit the road, little brother. Got places to be.”

The engine roared to life, its deep rumble a sharp contrast to the old truck’s sputtering whine. As they pulled out of the lot, the old Chevy sat behind them, its battered frame already starting to fade in the rearview mirror. Daryl kept his eyes on the road ahead, the weight of the magical backpack beside him a constant reminder of what lay ahead. Gotta keep movin’. One step at a time.

Merle leaned back in his seat, his boots resting on the dash as he shot Daryl a sidelong glance. “Alright, chauffeur. Let’s see where this new beast can take us.”

Daryl smirked faintly but didn’t respond, the Silverado rumbling smoothly down the highway as the Dixon brothers began the next leg of their journey. For once, it felt like they were heading somewhere—somewhere that mattered.

---TWD---

The RV lot stretched out before them like a sprawling village of homes on wheels. Towering Class A motorhomes with shiny exteriors and full-length awnings stood beside sleek, compact Class C campers, each one boasting some new feature to tempt potential buyers. The midday sun reflected off the glossy paint jobs, making the whole lot look like a sea of possibilities. The air smelled faintly of asphalt and faintly new upholstery, with the muffled sounds of the nearby highway adding to the buzz of activity.

Daryl parked the Silverado at the edge of the lot, its black exterior gleaming. The Harley was still safely tucked under a thick green tarp in the bed, tied down with bright orange straps. He cut the engine, glancing out the windshield at the seemingly endless rows of RVs.

“This is what we’re here for?” Merle asked, stepping out of the truck with a faint grunt. He shoved his hands into his pockets and squinted toward the RVs. “Damn lot looks like Disneyland for yuppies. What the hell are we even lookin’ for, huh? A house on wheels?”

“Somethin’ like that,” Daryl muttered, his boots crunching against the gravel as he started toward the lot. He wasn’t one to waste time on small talk, not when there was work to be done.

Merle trailed behind, muttering to himself as he took in the variety of options before them. “Look at these things,” he said, pointing toward a shiny, white Class A motorhome with gold and silver decals of mountains painted along the side. “Looks like a damn parade float. You plannin’ on enterin’ us in some kinda contest?”

“Just keep movin’,” Daryl said flatly, his eyes scanning the rows. Ain’t about fancy designs or luxury. Needs to be reliable. Durable. Somethin’ that can run in any condition.

As they reached the main office, a chipper-looking salesman stepped out onto the lot. He was middle-aged, with a round face and a short-sleeved, button-up shirt that was just slightly too tight. His name tag read “Carl,” and his grin widened as he approached the brothers.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen!” Carl called, his tone bright and overly enthusiastic. “Lookin’ for the perfect RV today? I can already tell you’ll find it here at Mountain View RV Sales. We’ve got every kind of rig you can imagine—perfect for road trips, camping, or even full-time living.”

Daryl gave him a curt nod but didn’t say anything right away. He wasn’t much for sales pitches. Merle, however, leaned into the interaction immediately.

“Every kind, huh?” Merle said, smirking as he gestured broadly to the rows of RVs. “Tell me, Carl, you got one with a built-in hot tub? Or maybe a personal butler? ‘Cause that’s the kinda luxury I’m lookin’ for.”

Carl chuckled nervously, glancing between the two brothers as if trying to gauge how serious they were. His eyes flicked over their worn clothes—Daryl’s faded flannel and jeans, Merle’s scuffed boots and battered leather jacket—and the faintest flicker of doubt crossed his face.

“Well, uh,” Carl began, recovering quickly, “we’ve got plenty of options to suit all needs. Let me show you a few models we’ve got in stock.”

“Yeah, you do that,” Merle said, giving Carl a toothy grin. “Lead the way, sunshine.”

Carl hesitated for a moment before turning on his heel and gesturing for them to follow. He led them to the first RV, a compact Class C camper with white paint and blue pinstripes. “This here is a great option for anyone looking to downsize without sacrificing comfort,” Carl explained, opening the door and stepping inside. “We’ve got a full kitchenette, a cozy dinette that converts into a bed, and a rear corner sleeping area. Plus, this model’s got solar panels, so you can stay off-grid for longer.”

Daryl climbed the steps and gave the interior a quick once-over. The beige walls, laminate counters, and small sleeping area all seemed… cramped. Not enough storage. Not enough room to move around. Won’t hold what we need.

“Ain’t bad,” Merle said, flopping onto the bench seat of the dinette. He gave the convertible table a couple of taps. “But this thing’s got about as much space as a shoebox. I’d be steppin’ on your toes every time I turned around.”

“Next,” Daryl said, stepping back outside.

Carl tried to keep his upbeat demeanor as he led them to the second RV, a massive Class A motorhome with a glossy black exterior and gold accents. The inside was luxurious to the point of absurdity—marble-look countertops, a full-size fridge, leather recliners, and even a fireplace built into the wall.

“Now this,” Merle said, throwing himself into one of the recliners with a wide grin, “is what I’m talkin’ about. Look at this thing, Daryl. I could stretch out, grab a beer from that fancy fridge, and call it a day.”

Daryl barely glanced around the interior. The excessive luxury was more irritating than impressive. Too flashy. Too much crap we don’t need. This thing screams ‘rob me.’

“No,” Daryl said firmly, already heading for the door.

Merle groaned loudly, throwing his head back dramatically. “You’re killin’ me, little brother! What, you want somethin’ plain as dirt?”

Carl adjusted his tie nervously as he caught up with Daryl. “Alright, let me show you one more option,” he said, his tone a little less chipper now. “I think you’ll like this one.”

The third RV was a Class C motorhome with a more understated design. Its muted gray exterior with black accents gave it a rugged, no-nonsense appearance. Inside, the layout was clean and practical, with plenty of storage and enough space to move comfortably. The kitchen featured durable Corian countertops, a mid-sized fridge, and a three-burner gas stove. The rear bedroom had a queen-sized bed with under-bed storage, and the bathroom was compact but functional. What caught Daryl’s attention most was the vehicle’s power system—a combination of gas, solar, and electric, giving it flexibility no matter the situation.

“This unit’s got a lot to offer,” Carl said, gesturing to the control panel near the kitchen. “You can switch between gas, solar, and electric power depending on what’s available. Great for off-grid use or just saving on fuel costs.”

Daryl opened one of the exterior storage compartments, nodding slightly at the amount of space available. This’ll work. Plenty of room for the gear. Won’t stand out too much, either.

Merle stood in the middle of the living area, looking around with an appraising eye. “Alright, alright,” he said, nodding slowly. “I’ll give it to ya—this one’s decent. Ain’t got a fireplace, but we can make it work.”

Daryl glanced at Carl. “We’ll take it.”

Carl’s eyes lit up, his earlier doubts clearly forgotten. “Fantastic choice! Let’s head back to the office and get the paperwork started.”

The sale didn’t take long. Daryl handed over the cash without hesitation, and Carl, now all smiles, handed over the keys. “Enjoy your new RV,” Carl said, shaking Daryl’s hand firmly. “And if you need anything, you know where to find us.”

Once they were back at the secluded clearing, Daryl grabbed one of Harley’s enchanted stickers from his pocket. Merle watched as Daryl pressed the sticker to the side of the RV, his expression a mix of fascination and discomfort as the massive vehicle began to shrink. Within seconds, the RV had folded in on itself until it was no bigger than a shoebox.

“Still freaks me the hell out,” Merle muttered as Daryl slipped the miniature RV into the enchanted backpack.

“Better this way,” Daryl said, zipping the bag shut. “Easier to move.”

Merle shook his head, climbing back into the passenger seat of the Silverado. “You got all this magic crap, and I’m still the one makin’ the smart decisions. Guess it’s up to me to keep us both alive.”

Daryl smirked faintly as he started the engine. “Sure thing, Merle.”

The truck rumbled back onto the highway, the enchanted backpack secure between them. As they drove off, the RV lot disappeared behind them, but the road ahead stretched wide and open—ready for whatever came next.

---TWD---

The Silverado hummed down the highway, its jet-black paint gleaming under the midday sun. The truck bed was neatly loaded—everything strapped and organized, the covered Harley secured tightly beneath a green tarp. Daryl kept his eyes on the road, his hands steady on the wheel. Beside him, the enchanted backpack sat on the passenger-side floor, while Merle sprawled in the passenger seat, boots predictably kicked up on the dashboard. He twirled a toothpick between his teeth, grinning like he’d just hit the jackpot.

“So, what’s next on the list, maestro?” Merle asked, smirking over at his younger brother. “Where’s this magical Dixon supply run takin’ us now? We hittin’ a candy store or what?”

Daryl shot him a look but didn’t answer right away, his mind already on their next stop. We’re gonna need guns. Plenty of ‘em. And more gear. Got a long road ahead. “Gun store,” he said finally, his voice low and even.

Merle’s grin widened, and he tipped an imaginary hat. “Now you’re talkin’, little brother. Guns, ammo, and probably some poor sucker to scare while we’re at it. Let’s hit it.”

The Silverado rolled into the gravel lot of Quickdraw Firearms, the small, unassuming shop tucked between a pawnshop and a diner that looked like it hadn’t been updated since the ‘70s. The wooden sign above the door was shaped like a revolver, its paint faded but still legible. Daryl parked the truck and killed the engine, his hands lingering on the wheel for a moment before he stepped out. Merle followed, his boots crunching against the gravel as he surveyed the shop with a grin.

“Well, well,” Merle said, rubbing his hands together. “Now this is my kinda stop. Guns, ammo, and probably some poor sucker behind the counter who don’t know what hit him when we clean this place out.”

Daryl shot him a look, his expression unreadable. “Just don’t make a scene.”

Merle smirked, throwing an arm around Daryl’s shoulders as they walked toward the entrance. “Come on, little brother. When have I ever made a scene?”

Daryl didn’t bother answering, pushing the door open to the sound of a faint bell. The smell of gun oil and leather hit them immediately, the air inside cool and quiet. Racks of rifles lined the walls, glass cases filled with handguns stretched across the counter, and shelves stocked with boxes of ammunition and accessories filled the space.

The shop owner, a wiry man with thinning hair and a “Vietnam Vet” cap perched on his head, looked up from behind the counter. His sharp eyes flicked over the Dixon brothers, lingering for a moment on their worn clothes and rugged appearances. “Afternoon,” he said, his voice gravelly. “Lookin’ for somethin’ specific?”

“Stockin’ up,” Daryl replied, his tone clipped but polite. He walked toward the glass case housing the handguns, his sharp eyes scanning the selection.

Merle, meanwhile, wandered toward the rifles, his grin widening as he ran his fingers along the polished stocks. “Oh, now this is what I’m talkin’ about,” he said, picking up a Mossberg 590 shotgun with a tactical rail. “This baby’ll turn anything comin’ at you into Swiss cheese.”

The shop owner chuckled, nodding appreciatively. “Good choice. Reliable as hell.”

Daryl tapped the glass case, his gaze settling on a Glock 19 with a matte black slide. “That one,” he said simply.

Merle glanced over, raising an eyebrow. “Glock, huh? Solid pick. But you know what we really need?” He set the shotgun down and walked over to the counter, leaning on it as he looked Daryl in the eye. “A sniper rifle. Somethin’ with range. If we’re walkin’ into somethin’ dangerous—and let’s not kid ourselves, we probably are—we need all the protection we can get. Ain’t no room for half-measures.”

Daryl’s jaw tightened slightly, but he nodded. “What you got for long-range?” he asked the shop owner.

The man’s eyes lit up, and he motioned for them to follow him to the back wall. “Got a few options here,” he said, gesturing to a row of rifles. “But if you’re lookin’ for precision, this here’s your best bet.” He pulled down a Remington 700 with a custom suppressor already attached. The sleek black finish and adjustable stock gave it a modern, tactical look.

Merle whistled low, taking the rifle from the man and testing its weight. “Now this,” he said, his voice almost reverent, “this is a thing of beauty. Smooth action, good balance. What kinda scope you got for it?”

The shop owner grabbed a Leupold Mark 5HD scope from a nearby shelf, handing it over. “Top of the line. Crystal clear, even at long range.”

Merle nodded, attaching the scope and peering through it. “Damn. This’ll do just fine.”

Daryl, meanwhile, had moved on to the handguns, adding a Smith & Wesson M&P Shield EZ and a Sig Sauer P320 to the growing pile on the counter. He also grabbed a few extra magazines and a cleaning kit.

“Don’t forget the ammo,” Merle said, setting the sniper rifle down carefully. “We’re gonna need plenty of it.”

Daryl grabbed boxes of 9mm, .45 ACP, and .308 Winchester, stacking them neatly on the counter. He also added a few boxes of .223 Remington for the Ruger Mini-14 Merle had picked out earlier.

Merle wasn’t done yet. He grabbed a Beretta 92FS with a stainless steel finish, holding it up with a grin. “Gotta have somethin’ with a little style, right?”

Daryl rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, adding it to the pile. By the time they were done, the counter was covered in guns, ammo, and accessories. The shop owner looked both impressed and slightly overwhelmed.

“You boys aren’t messin’ around,” he said, ringing up the total.

“Never do,” Merle quipped, winking as Daryl handed over the cash from the enchanted money clip.

As they loaded the gear into the truck, Merle leaned against the tailgate, his expression unusually serious. “Listen, Daryl,” he said, his voice low. “I know I give you a lotta crap, but I mean it—if we’re walkin’ into somethin’ dangerous, we gotta be ready. Ain’t no room for mistakes. You get that, right?”

Daryl nodded, his gaze steady. “I get it.”

“Good,” Merle said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Now let’s go find somethin’ else to spend your magic money on.”

Daryl smirked faintly, climbing into the driver’s seat. The Silverado roared to life, the truck loaded down with enough firepower to take on whatever lay ahead. For now, they were ready—or as ready as they could be.

The Silverado rumbled into the gravel lot of Big Bear Clothing Co., the mid-afternoon sun casting long shadows over the wooden bear statue standing proudly outside. Its friendly, raised paw and chipped paint gave it an air of charm, as if welcoming every weary traveler in search of clothes tough enough to last a lifetime. Inside, the store was packed with racks of durable jeans, rows of steel-toe boots, and walls adorned with heavy-duty Carhartt jackets. The faint smell of leather and fabric softener filled the air.

As they walked through the door, Merle’s grin spread wide. He grabbed a Stetson hat off a nearby rack and jammed it onto his head at a comically cockeyed angle. “Alright, let’s play dress-up,” he announced, spinning on his heel with mock bravado. “How do I look? Like a real cowboy?”

“You look like an idiot,” Daryl said flatly, brushing past him to head for the thermal shirt section.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Merle fired back, tipping the hat before tossing it onto a rack of scarves with no intention of putting it back properly.

Daryl rifled through a rack of heavy thermal shirts, grabbing a couple in muted tones—a forest green one and a navy blue one. He added a few plain gray thermals to the growing pile in his arms before turning his attention to the stacks of thermal long johns and heavyweight wool socks nearby. *Ain’t no way we’re freezin’ our asses off if it comes to it.*

“Hey, check these out,” Merle called, holding up a brown Carhartt Bartlett jacket lined with fleece. “Think this’d make me look distinguished?”

“Distinguished from what?” Daryl muttered, glancing at the jacket. “Get it if you want.”

Merle tossed the jacket onto the counter near the pile Daryl was starting to amass. Then he made a detour toward the boot wall, where every type of work boot imaginable stood proudly on display. He plucked a pair of brown Wolverine Durashocks off the shelf, running his thumb along the leather. “These look like they could kick some serious ass,” he said, holding them up for Daryl to inspect. “You want a pair?”

Daryl already had his eyes on a pair of black Timberland Pros with alloy safety toes. “I’m good,” he replied, grabbing the boots and placing them beside his growing pile.

The Dixon brothers made their way methodically through the store, picking up far more than either of them had initially planned. Daryl added several heavyweight flannel shirts to the mix, including one in red and black plaid and another in charcoal gray. He also grabbed two quilted work jackets—one in olive green and one in dark brown—as well as a sturdy pair of Dickies cargo pants in khaki and charcoal. *Practical. Tough. Durable. This stuff’ll last.*

“Now, don’t forget about these,” Merle said, tossing a pack of plain white T-shirts into the cart, then grabbing a pack of black ones with a smirk. “Gotta stay classy, right? Formal occasions and all.”

“Yeah, like you’re goin’ anywhere fancy,” Daryl muttered, shaking his head. But he didn’t argue when Merle threw in a bulk pack of plain gray hooded sweatshirts as well.

“Hey, what about hats?” Merle said, making a beeline for a display of beanies. He grabbed a dark gray Carhartt knit hat and pulled it on, adjusting it dramatically. “Now I look like a badass.”

“You look like you’re tryin’ too hard,” Daryl replied, grabbing a couple of beanies for himself—one in black and another in olive green. He also tossed in a pair of wide-brimmed hats for summer use, their khaki canvas designs offering decent sun protection.

Moving on to gloves, they each picked out multiple pairs: thick leather insulated gloves for winter, lighter work gloves for handling tools, and even a pair of cut-resistant gloves just in case. Daryl threw in a pack of fingerless gloves too, though he didn’t say why. *Might need the dexterity.*

The sock aisle was next, where Merle grabbed a few packs of wool-blend hiking socks. “Ain’t no way I’m runnin’ ‘round with blisters,” he declared, tossing them dramatically into the cart. “And you better grab a pair too, Daryl. Your feet ain’t special.”

Daryl rolled his eyes but added a couple of packs of merino wool socks, along with some lightweight ones for warmer weather. They also grabbed packs of underwear in various styles and sizes—boxers for Merle, boxer briefs for Daryl.

“Don’t forget coats,” Daryl reminded, steering Merle toward the jacket section again. He grabbed a heavyweight Carhartt Yukon Extremes coat for himself, its black exterior built to handle the harshest conditions. Merle opted for a Carhartt Sandstone Sierra jacket in dark brown with sherpa lining.

“Ooh, this one’s fancy,” Merle joked, modeling the coat with an exaggerated swagger. “Think it’ll impress the ladies?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Daryl said, already heading for the checkout counter.

By the time they were done, the cart was overflowing with clothes—flannels, thermals, jeans, jackets, socks, gloves, hats, boots, and more. At the checkout counter, Merle leaned on the cart and smirked at the cashier. “Bet you ain’t never seen a haul this impressive,” he said, winking.

The cashier—a gruff-looking older man with a bushy beard—didn’t crack a smile. “You payin’ cash or card?”

“Cash,” Daryl replied, pulling out the enchanted money clip. Merle shot him a knowing grin, but he kept his mouth shut for once.

Once everything was bagged and loaded into the truck, the brothers climbed back into the cab, their gear secured safely in the enchanted backpack. Merle leaned back in his seat, tipping his imaginary hat.

“Gotta hand it to ya, little brother,” he said, grinning. “This whole prepper thing you got goin’ on? Startin’ to grow on me. We’re gonna be the best-dressed apocalypse survivors out there.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Daryl muttered, starting the engine.

The Silverado roared back onto the highway, the sun dipping lower on the horizon as the brothers continued their journey, one step closer to being ready for whatever was coming.

The Silverado rolled into the expansive parking lot of “Harvest Mart,” its bright orange-and-green sign practically glowing in the dimming light of late afternoon. The towering supermarket promised everything they’d need and then some—fresh produce, bulk goods, and aisles brimming with possibilities. Daryl parked near the entrance, cutting the engine as he glanced toward the automatic doors, already bracing himself for what he knew would be a chaotic trip.

Merle hopped out first, his boots scraping against the asphalt as he grabbed a cart from the nearby corral. “Alright, little brother,” he said, giving his cart a firm shake to test the wheels. “What’s the plan? Divide and conquer? Or do we just see who can fill their buggy faster?”

Daryl stepped out, grabbing his own cart with a faint smirk. “Plan is to stock up. Grab what we need—real food. None of that junk you’re always throwin’ in.”

Merle let out a loud laugh as they passed through the automatic doors. “Define ‘real food,’ Daryl. ‘Cause if you think I’m walkin’ outta here without snacks, you’re dreamin’. Ain’t no way I’m skippin’ the Doritos.”

Daryl shook his head, already veering toward the produce section. “Just don’t fill the whole cart with crap.”

The produce section greeted them with vibrant displays of fruits and vegetables, arranged so neatly they looked almost artificial. Bright reds, yellows, and greens popped under the overhead lights, the smell of fresh produce hanging faintly in the air.

Daryl grabbed a bag of russet potatoes and tossed it into his cart, following up with a head of broccoli, a container of spinach, and a pack of organic baby carrots. He added a bag of tomatoes—Roma for roasting—and reached for a pint of cherry tomatoes and a box of grape tomatoes for salads. Nearby, he grabbed a bunch of bananas, a small carton of blueberries, and a bag of red seedless grapes.

Merle, meanwhile, was busy picking through the apples. “Honeycrisp,” he muttered, inspecting a bag before tossing it into his cart. He added a watermelon for good measure, the striped green fruit taking up a good chunk of his cart’s space.

“You really think you’re gonna eat all that?” Daryl asked, his eyebrow arching.

“Hell yeah,” Merle said, grabbing a bag of oranges with a grin. “These’ll keep us from fallin’ over dead from scurvy or somethin’. You oughta thank me.”

Daryl rolled his eyes, grabbing a clamshell of fresh basil. Merle spotted it and smirked. “Gettin’ all fancy on me, huh? What’s next, you buyin’ some cinnamon sticks?”

“Maybe,” Daryl said, moving on to grab some cinnamon from the spice rack. He added rosemary, thyme, and cilantro to his growing collection of herbs.

“And he calls me ridiculous,” Merle muttered under his breath as he tossed a head of iceberg lettuce into his cart. “We need greens too. Gotta keep it balanced.”

The coolers in the meat and seafood section stretched endlessly before them. Daryl headed straight for the chicken, grabbing a family pack of Tyson boneless, skinless chicken breasts and a pack of drumsticks. He added a turkey breast and a spiral ham, its shiny red foil wrapping catching Merle’s eye.

“Damn, look at this,” Merle said, grabbing a pack of brown sugar-glazed ham. “If we’re survivin’ the apocalypse, might as well do it in style.”

Daryl smirked faintly as he added a few pounds of ground beef, a pack of New York strip steaks, and some salmon fillets to his cart. He also grabbed a bag of frozen shrimp for good measure.

Merle, meanwhile, was busy filling his cart with ribeye steaks. “Certified Angus, baby,” he said, holding one up with a grin. “You want some, Daryl? I’ll even cook ‘em for ya.”

“Fine,” Daryl muttered, moving on to the deli counter. He grabbed a pound each of smoked turkey and honey ham, adding sliced American cheese, a block of sharp cheddar, and a tub of sour cream.

Merle appeared a moment later with a pack of Johnsonville smoked sausage links, holding it up triumphantly. “Breakfast sausage? Check. We’re eatin’ good tonight, brother.”

As they entered the dry goods section, Merle immediately veered toward the snacks, grabbing a family-size bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos. He added a box of Little Debbie Swiss Rolls and a jumbo bag of trail mix. “Gotta keep the energy up,” he said, smirking.

Daryl ignored him, grabbing a bag of rice and a box of Jiffy cornbread mix. He added a jar of Jif peanut butter, a jar of Smucker’s jelly in both grape and apple, and a loaf of whole-grain bread. Nearby, he found a box of Barilla spaghetti and a jar of Prego’s Meat sauce, tossing them into his cart alongside a bottle of Frank’s RedHot.

“You want Pop-Tarts?” Merle asked, holding up a box of Brown Sugar Cinnamon with a mischievous grin.

“Get whatever,” Daryl said, sighing as he grabbed a bag of almonds and another of walnuts. He tossed in a pack of Lipton tea bags, a 10 pound bag of sugar, and a jar of honey, glancing at the lemonade mixes nearby. “You drink lemonade?”

“Hell yeah,” Merle said, grabbing a tub of Country Time and tossing it into his cart. “Sweet tea and lemonade? You’re spoilin’ me.”

The frozen foods section loomed ahead, its glass doors frosted over from the cold. Daryl grabbed a bag of mixed vegetables and a couple of DiGiorno pizzas—pepperoni and supreme. He added a box of Eggo waffles and a tub of Breyers vanilla ice cream.

Merle, meanwhile, had his cart open for frozen burritos, mozzarella sticks, and Hot Pockets. “Now this,” he said, holding up a box of pepperoni pizza Hot Pockets, “this is survival food.”

“More like heart attack food,” Daryl muttered, grabbing a bag of frozen blueberries.

Merle shrugged, tossing in a bag of tater tots. “Worth it.”

The drinks aisle was their final stop, and Merle wasted no time grabbing a 12-pack of Budweiser and a case of Coca-Cola. “For hydration,” he said with a grin.

Daryl grabbed a case of bottled water, a carton of orange juice, and a bottle of Gatorade in grape flavor—Merle’s preference, of course. He added a gallon of Milo’s sweet tea for good measure, along with a 24 pack of Cherry Coca-Cola.

Merle rounded a corner with a canister of Folgers coffee. “Don’t forget this,” he said. “And get the powdered creamer. None of that fancy vanilla crap.”

Daryl grabbed a bottle of Coffee-Mate Original and a small can of Maxwell House for variety. “Happy now?”

“Damn right,” Merle said, steering his overloaded cart toward the checkout.

By the time they reached the checkout, both carts were overflowing. The cashier raised an eyebrow but said nothing, her hands moving quickly as she scanned item after item.

“You boys havin’ a party?” she asked finally.

“Somethin’ like that,” Merle said, leaning on the counter with a grin. “Just stockin’ up for the apocalypse. You know, the usual.”

Daryl ignored him, pulling out the enchanted money clip and handing over the cash. Merle’s grin widened as they loaded the bags into the magical backpack, his mood lighter than it had been in years.

“Gotta admit,” Merle said, climbing into the passenger seat. “This? This is the life. Unlimited cash, unlimited food… what more could a man ask for?”

Daryl smirked faintly as he started the engine. “You done?”

“Hell no,” Merle replied, cracking open a Coke. “I’m just gettin’ started.”

The Silverado roared back onto the highway, the truck bed packed tight with supplies as the Dixon brothers continued their journey.

---TWD---

The parking lot of Golden Plate Buffet glowed faintly under the midday sun, the promise of “All You Can Eat” shouting in bright red and yellow neon. The hum of the Silverado’s engine faded as Daryl turned the key, leaving the truck quiet at last. He sat there for a moment, one hand still gripping the wheel, before glancing toward the entrance of the buffet. The warm scent of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and sugary desserts floated faintly through the air, mingling with the heat waves rising from the asphalt.

The passenger door creaked open as Merle climbed out, his boots hitting the ground with an audible thud. “Well, hell, look at this,” he said, stretching dramatically and letting out a low whistle. “All-you-can-eat? You treatin’ me to lunch, little brother? What’s the occasion—world endin’ or somethin’?”

Daryl shrugged as he stepped out of the truck, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “Ain’t an occasion,” he muttered, his voice low. “Figured you’d want somethin’ other than gas station crap for once. Let’s go.”

Merle’s grin spread wide as he followed Daryl toward the entrance. “Decent food *and* you footin’ the bill? Damn, Daryl, you’re spoilin’ me today. What’s next, a steak dinner? Maybe I oughta get used to this.”

“Don’t push your luck,” Daryl said, pushing the glass door open. A small chime rang out as they stepped into the cool, air-conditioned room.

The buffet was just as over-the-top as the exterior suggested. Rows of steam trays stretched across the room, filled with everything from golden fried chicken to neon-colored desserts. Vinyl booths lined the walls, their red upholstery cracked with age, and the faint hum of conversation and clinking plates filled the air.

Merle let out an exaggerated whistle as he grabbed a plate and made a beeline for the fried chicken. “Oh, man,” he muttered, piling wings and drumsticks onto his plate like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. “This place is a damn goldmine. Daryl, you sure you’re ready for this? ‘Cause I’m about to make you regret bringin’ me here.”

Daryl followed more slowly, his own plate modest by comparison: a couple of pieces of chicken, green beans, and cornbread. His sharp eyes scanned the trays of sushi, but his gut told him to steer clear. *Ain’t trustin’ raw fish in a place like this.*

By the time they found a booth by the window, Merle’s plate looked more like a mountain, stacked high with chicken, mashed potatoes, baked beans, bacon-wrapped shrimp, and even a slice of meatloaf. Daryl slid into the seat across from him, his gaze lingering on his brother’s overflowing plate.

“You planning on eatin’ all that?” Daryl asked, arching an eyebrow.

Merle grinned, tearing into a chicken wing. “Damn right I am. All-you-can-eat means *all I can eat,* Daryl. Don’t think you’re gettin’ any of this, neither. Get your own damn buffet.”

Daryl shook his head, smirking faintly as he picked at his green beans. For a while, the only sound between them was the clatter of forks on plates and the hum of the room around them. But eventually, Merle slowed down enough to lean back in his seat, wiping his hands on a napkin.

“So,” Merle started, pointing a fork at Daryl. “You gonna tell me what the hell’s goin’ on? Draggin’ me all over creation, throwin’ money around like it’s nothin’—don’t get me wrong, I’m lovin’ it—but this ain’t like you, little brother.”

Daryl looked down at his plate, his jaw tightening slightly. He didn’t answer right away, the weight of the question settling over him. Finally, he let out a quiet sigh and leaned back against the booth. “Ain’t about me,” he said simply. “Been wonderin’, though—why you goin’ along with all this? You don’t even know what we’re doin’.”

Merle tilted his head, his grin softening into something quieter. He set his fork down and crossed his arms, his sharp blue eyes locking onto Daryl’s. “You really wanna know why?”

Daryl nodded, his expression unreadable. “Yeah.”

Merle leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as his voice dropped slightly. “It’s simple, little brother. My gut’s tellin’ me to trust you. And you know me—I ain’t never ignored my gut. Got me outta too many scraps in the Marines for me to start now.”

Daryl’s brow furrowed slightly, his focus sharpening. “Your gut?”

“Damn right,” Merle said, nodding. “Listen, back when I was in the Corps—sniper detail, you remember that—I had to trust my gut every damn day. Out there, it’s all you got. You gotta know when to move, when to stay still, when to pull the trigger, and when to hold back. That instinct kept me breathin’. Saved my ass more times than I can count.”

Daryl stayed silent, letting the words hang in the air for a moment.

“And right now?” Merle continued, his voice softening. “That same gut’s tellin’ me that whatever you’re doin’, it’s big. Bigger than I know. And yeah, maybe I don’t understand it all yet, but I know my place—I got your back. Just like always.”

Daryl’s jaw tightened, his gaze flicking toward the window. “Didn’t feel like you had my back when you were in the Marines,” he said quietly.

Merle winced, the words cutting deeper than Daryl probably realized. “Yeah,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah, I know. And I’m sorry for that. You were stuck back here with that bastard while I was off playin’ soldier, thinkin’ I was doin’ somethin’ important. Shoulda been here for you. Shoulda done somethin’.”

Daryl looked down at his plate, his fork still idle. The memories of their father’s fists, the drunken rages, the nights spent flinching at every noise—they were scars that had never quite healed. But Merle’s words, quiet and raw, meant something.

“You couldn’t’ve known,” Daryl said finally, his voice low.

“Don’t matter,” Merle replied, shaking his head. “I shoulda been there. And maybe this—” he gestured vaguely to the booth, the food, the truck waiting outside—“maybe this is my way of makin’ up for it. I ain’t sayin’ I’m perfect, but I’m here now. And hell, I don’t care where the money’s comin’ from. I done plenty of shady shit myself, so I ain’t judgin’.”

Daryl smirked faintly, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “Yeah, I figured.”

Merle leaned back with a satisfied sigh, picking up his sweet tea and taking a long sip. “Besides, this?” He grinned, gesturing to the buffet spread before them. “Blowin’ cash like it’s nothin’, hittin’ up every store in town, eatin’ like kings? Ain’t had this much fun in years. It’s got me thinkin’... maybe it’s time I start changin’ some things.”

“Like what?” Daryl asked, his tone cautious.

Merle hesitated for a moment, his grin fading slightly. “Like maybe I don’t gotta be the same screw-up I’ve always been,” he said finally. “No more drugs—that’s out. And the drinkin’... I’ll keep it moderate. And none when it’s dangerous. You can hold me to that.”

Daryl stared at him for a long moment, searching his brother’s face for any hint of insincerity. But for once, Merle seemed genuine.

“You serious?” Daryl asked, narrowing his eyes slightly.

“As serious as a damn heart attack,” Merle replied, raising his glass of sweet tea in a mock toast. “Here’s to new beginnings. Or whatever you wanna call it.”

Daryl smirked faintly, shaking his head as he picked up his fork again. “We’ll see if you stick to it.”

Merle laughed, the sound carrying across the booth. “Oh, I’ll stick to it. And when I do, you’re takin’ me to a steakhouse. None of this buffet crap—real steak.”

“For someone who’s tryin’ to change, you’re still greedy,” Daryl muttered, shaking his head.

“Greedy’s in my blood, little brother,” Merle said, tearing into another piece of chicken. “But don’t worry—I’ll make sure this new-and-improved Merle Dixon is the best damn partner you’ve ever had.”

The two brothers fell into a comfortable silence after that, the weight of their shared past lingering but not suffocating. For now, it was just them, a plate of fried chicken, and the faint hope that maybe, just maybe, things could start to change. Together. One step at a time.