Chapter 16: Raiders
Hershel's farm shrank in the rearview mirror, wrapped in morning mist, until it finally disappeared from sight.
Kenny's old Ford pickup carried everyone's hopes as it rumbled down the deserted country road toward Macon County.
Inside the truck, space was tight.
Kenny drove, thick beard unable to hide the worry in his eyes.
His wife, Katjaa, sat in the passenger seat with Duck curled into her arms, whispering calm to soothe the frightened boy.
In the back, Hanks sat with Clementine nestled safely in his arms; Lee squeezed in beside them.
Silence hung in the cramped cabin—exhaustion, uncertainty, and the weight of a new journey pressing on everyone.
"Gas check, Kenny?" Hanks finally asked, breaking the silence.
Kenny glanced at the gauge. "Not great. Ten, maybe fifteen kilometers before we're running on fumes. Macon County shouldn't be far, but finding fuel will be a problem."
Hanks' mind instinctively ran through the mechanical calculations—fuel consumption, distance, terrain.
"Keep it steady. Drive economical. If you see a gas station or abandoned vehicles, call it out early."
"Got it," Kenny muttered, settling the speed into a fuel-saving range.
The scenery outside grew increasingly bleak.
More abandoned cars littered the roadside—some crashed together, some overturned into ditches.
Walkers wandered the fields, occasionally turning toward the engine noise, only to fall behind as the truck sped past.
Clementine held onto Hank's vest tightly, pressing her cheek against him.
Lee stared out the window, thoughts unreadable.
About thirty minutes passed before Kenny suddenly cursed under his breath.
"Damn it."
The fuel light blinked on, and the engine began to sputter.
"We're almost dry." Kenny slowed, scanning the road ahead. "Looks like the outskirts of a town—should be Macon County!"
Hanks leaned forward.
Sparse buildings appeared through the haze, and a half-fallen road sign confirmed it.
Beyond it—a gas station. Red-roofed convenience store, several fuel pumps standing like abandoned sentries.
"We head for the station," Hanks decided. "Coast in. Save every drop."
Kenny cut the engine and let gravity roll them down a slope until the truck finally coasted to a stop—just short of the station.
"That's it. We go on foot."
Hanks exited first, weapon ready, eyes scanning the surroundings.
The others followed. Kenny chambered a round in his shotgun.
Katjaa clutched Duck's hand tightly.
Lee checked his Glock's magazine and positioned Clementine behind him.
"Lee," Hanks said quickly, "you stay here with Kenny and his family—set up a perimeter."
Then to Kenny: "You know the drill. Watch them. I'll check the station—see if I can pull fuel."
Hanks knelt to Clementine's level. "Clem, stay with Lee. I'll be back soon."
Though afraid, Clementine nodded bravely. "Be careful… please."
Hanks ruffled her hat, then nodded to Kenny. "If something happens, fire a warning shot."
"Same to you, Officer," Kenny replied, resolute.
Hanks moved—body low, breath controlled—slipping into stealth like a predator on the hunt.
The closer he got to the station, the thicker the stench of rot became.
A few cars sat abandoned by the pumps. On one, the driver's door hung open—its occupant half-eaten, slumped lifelessly over the frame.
The convenience store door was shattered, darkness filling the space beyond.
No entry yet. Fuel first.
He reached the nearest pump, checked the mechanism.
"No power…" he muttered.
He scanned the ground—and spotted salvation: a crowbar lying nearby, the mechanical engineer's universal key.
With his newly acquired Mechanics knowledge, he quickly located the underground fuel hatch.
He pried open the heavy cover—fumes wafted upward.
Fuel.
A spark of relief flickered.
But another problem: how to extract it? The pump was dead.
He scanned the area again and spotted a manual siphon pump and rubber tubing beside the wall—someone else had tried the same idea before.
He went to retrieve it—
"Rrrghh…"
A low snarl echoed from the darkness of the store.
A walker in a convenience-store uniform, half its face missing, lunged out.
Hanks reacted instantly.
Without even turning, he swung the crowbar behind him in a brutal arc.
CRACK.
Backed by doubled Strength and Burst Power, the blow nearly took the walker's head clean off.
It collapsed, twitching once before going still.
No wasted time.
Hanks set up the siphon, feeding the hose into the tank, pumping until gasoline streamed into a small discarded fuel jug.
Glug—glug—glug…
Then—
Voices.
Not walker growls—human voices. Getting closer.
He froze.
The pump stopped mid-stroke.
Footsteps. Low conversation. Coming from the opposite street.
Hanks slid behind a rusted car and peeked.
Four figures crept toward the station.
Crude weapons. Scarred clothing. Predatory looks.
Their eyes fixed on Kenny's parked truck in the distance.
Raiders.
Hanks' gaze iced over.
He rapidly assessed:
Four targets. Lightly armed. Approaching from the flank. Kenny and Lee likely hadn't seen them yet.
He could not allow them to reach the truck.
Fuel forgotten, Hanks melted into the shadows, using wrecked cars as cover—circling behind them at lethal speed.
Their whispers became clear:
"Look at that pickup—bet it stalled."
"People inside. A couple and a kid…"
"Jackpot. We take the truck, the supplies—and the women—"
"Careful, maybe they got a gu—"
The cautious one never finished.
Hanks struck.
He exploded from behind a broken truck like a panther pouncing on prey—so fast he was only a blur.
The first raider sensed a cold rush of air behind him—but before he could turn—
CRACK.
The crowbar slammed into his temple with terrifying force. Bone shattered.
His eyes bulged, and he dropped like a poleaxed steer—dead before he hit the ground.
"Sh*t—behind us!"
The remaining three raiders finally realized what was happening and spun around in panic.
Hanks didn't pause for even a heartbeat.
Using the momentum of the first kill, he pivoted—crowbar whipping outward in a brutal arc toward the second raider's wrist.
CRACK!
"Argh!"
The man screamed as the machete clattered to the ground. His wrist twisted at an angle no human joint should bend.
Almost simultaneously—Hanks' left hand flashed to his holster.
American Iaijutsu—activated.
BANG! BANG!
Two shots overlapped like one. At this distance, he didn't need to aim.
Both raiders jerked as the bullets punched through their chests. Shock—and that same greedy intent—froze on their faces as they fell backward, lifeless before they hit the ground.
In the blink of an eye—
Four raiders: three dead, one crippled.
It had taken less than five seconds.
Clean. Efficient. Ruthless.
The last man sat on the ground, shaking uncontrollably. His pants darkened as fear overtook him; he tried to crawl backward with his uninjured hand.
He stared at Hanks—standing among the bodies like a grim reaper.
"D-Don't—don't kill me! Please!"
Hanks stepped closer.
The crowbar—slick with blood and bone—pressed lightly against the man's throat, cold metal silencing him instantly.
"How many of you are out here?" Hanks asked, voice low, flat—without emotion.
"Where's your camp?"
The raider swallowed, trembling so hard his teeth chattered.