On the side of an Atlanta highway.
Daryl Dixon parked his motorcycle, one foot propped on the ground, the other hand holding that crumpled note, facing the green destination sign on the roadside, his brows furrowed so tightly they could crush a fly.
He looked at the note, then looked at the sign.
Looked at the sign, then looked at the note.
Then he cursed.
"What the hell is written on this thing?"
Who the hell wrote this note? He didn't believe Merle could write; it would be a miracle if he could even write his own name. Couldn't the guy who wrote this have been neater?
Letters should line up, square and clear, so one could recognize the words at a glance.
He/she, on the other hand, had to write in cursive, all fancy and flamboyant, with every letter connected to the next, looking like a pile of wriggling earthworms.
Daryl had dropped out of elementary school. He had an unreliable father, and his brother was a frequent guest at juvenile detention centers. He had to rely on himself, working part-time as a hunter, doing odd jobs, and learning to drink, but he never learned many words.
He struggled to read road signs even on good days; this cursive was practically an alien language.
He flipped it over and over for a long time, barely making out that the first word seemed to be "Center"?
But the road signs behind it all said things like "Atlanta," "Marietta," or "Highway 85," and none of them matched.
"Fuck."
He cursed again.
Now he really wanted to find the person who wrote this note and shove it into his/her mouth.
No choice, he had to find someone to ask.
Daryl stuffed the note into his pocket and was just about to start his motorcycle to continue driving forward when he suddenly saw a vehicle appear at the other end of the highway.
A box truck.
White, with no markings on the cargo box, but it looked sturdy, and the tires were new.
Daryl's eyes lit up, and he quickly started the motorcycle to head toward it, waving his hand and shouting:
"Hey! Hey! Hey! Stop!"
The truck slowed down and stopped on the side of the road.
Daryl breathed a sigh of relief and walked over with a smile.
Just as he reached the side of the door, the door suddenly opened.
A fully armed person jumped down.
Black tactical gear, a bulletproof vest, a full-coverage helmet, and an MP5 submachine gun in hand—the muzzle pointed directly at him.
Daryl's smile froze on his face.
The rear door of the truck also opened, and five more people in the same attire jumped out.
They quickly spread out, forming a fan-shaped perimeter, all their muzzles aimed at him.
Daryl raised his hands, not daring to move.
"Don't, don't shoot!"
He shouted: "I mean no harm! I just want to ask for directions!"
The leader looked him over without saying a word.
His helmet covered most of his face, revealing only his eyes and chin; those eyes were as cold as a winter lake.
Daryl slowly reached out, took the note from his pocket, and held it up in the air.
"Just this."
He said: "I want to ask, how do I get to this place?"
The leader took a look at the note and reached out to take it.
He looked down at it.
Then his expression changed.
"This handwriting style looks a bit like Andrea's."
He said, his voice muffled from behind the mask: "Are you Merle's brother?"
Daryl was stunned: "You know Merle?"
The leader nodded and waved his hand.
The others immediately lowered their guns and stepped back a few paces.
"The note is signed by Merle Dixon; he is at the CDC now."
The leader said: "The Umbrella Corporation base."
Daryl breathed a sigh of relief and lowered his hands: "He joined?"
"Yes, everyone from the mining camp joined, except for you."
Daryl was silent for a few seconds.
That day he had gone out hunting, and when he returned, he found the camp empty; he thought something had happened.
Later he found this note on his motorcycle, studied it for a long time but couldn't understand it, so he had to keep driving in this direction, thinking he would eventually run into someone to ask for directions.
He hadn't expected everyone to have joined that so-called Umbrella Corporation.
"In which direction is the CDC?"
He asked.
The leader pointed north: "Keep driving along this road for about twenty kilometers; you'll know it when you see the place with the barbed wire fence."
Daryl nodded and straddled his motorcycle.
"Thanks."
He started the engine, and the motorcycle roared as he sped off.
The leader watched his back disappear at the end of the highway and shook his head.
"Let's go."
He said to the others: "Go look for the construction site."
Several people put away their guns and got back into the car.
Before the truck started, the leader suddenly sighed.
He had to urge his own children to study hard later.
Otherwise, like that guy just now, they wouldn't even be able to read such simple characters; what a hassle.
The truck turned off the highway and drove in another direction.
They were heading to several construction sites on the outskirts of Atlanta.
He heard there was plenty of steel and cement there; if they could transport it back, Jackie's planning proposal could start construction sooner.
Daryl sped all the way.
The motorcycle sped along the highway, the wind hitting his face, making it hard to keep his eyes open.
But he didn't care.
He just wanted to get to that place quickly, see if Merle was really there, and see what that so-called Umbrella Corporation was all about.
When passing a patch of woods, he saw the silhouettes of several buildings in the distance.
Were there people moving inside? Or Walkerss? He didn't have time to worry about that and kept driving forward.
After driving for another ten minutes or so, the highway curved, and a ramp appeared before him.
The sign on the side of the road read "CDC →".
Daryl turned in.
The further he drove, the more survivors he encountered on the road.
Some were walking, some were driving, and some were pushing supermarket shopping carts—filled with luggage.
They all wore a certain expression on their faces: hope.
Daryl whizzed past them.
Finally, he saw the place.
A chain-link fence, over two meters high, topped with barbed spiral wire. Inside were several buildings, and an antenna stood on top of the tallest building.
There were people patrolling outside the fence—wearing black uniforms, holding guns, walking slowly but steadily.
A few people were lined up at the gate, undergoing checks.
Daryl parked his motorcycle at the back of the line and killed the engine.
When it was his turn, a person in a uniform walked over with a registration book.
"Name?"
"Merle Dixon."
The registrar looked up at him, then looked down and flipped through the book, then picked up the phone nearby.
"Ms. Amy? That Daryl is here, yes, Merle's brother."
He hung up the phone and said to Daryl: "Go to that tent over there first, get temporary clothes, shower and disinfect, and then isolate for three days; those are the rules."
Daryl frowned: "Where's my brother?"
"He will come to find you."
Daryl wanted to ask more, but the registrar had already turned to the next person.
He had no choice but to push his motorcycle to the corner of the fence and walk toward the temporary tent.
Outside the temporary tent, Merle had been waiting for quite a while.
He was wearing that brand-new black tactical gear, military boots on his feet, a gun tucked at his waist; he looked incredibly spirited.
Seeing Daryl come out of the tent, wearing gray temporary clothes, his hair still wet, and looking reluctant, he couldn't help but laugh.
"Hey, don't make that face."
He walked over: "It's not like they're making you do time in prison, with a black boyfriend to keep you company."
Daryl looked at him, eyes wide.
"Merle?"
He looked the man in black tactical gear up and down, unable to believe this was still his unreliable brother.
His hair was cut short, his beard was shaved clean, he stood straight, and his eyes were steadier than before.
"Didn't expect..."
Daryl said, his tone carrying a hint of surprise: "You look decent in that outfit."
"Fuck!"
Merle glared at him: "Since when did you become as sharp-tongued as those women?"
Daryl's mouth curled up slightly, a rare smile appearing.
Merle took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, pulled one out, and threw it to him.
Daryl caught it, looked down, and saw a hard pack of American cigarettes.
His eyes lit up instantly.
He put the cigarette under his nose and inhaled deeply.
That familiar tobacco scent drilled into his nasal cavity, making his whole body relax.
More than a month into the apocalypse, he had almost forgotten what cigarettes tasted like.
"Heh heh, don't be like that."
Merle smiled and handed over the lighter: "You're acting like an indigenous person who has never seen a cigarette."
Daryl took the lighter, lit it, and inhaled deeply.
The smoke swirled in his lungs and was then slowly exhaled.
That was the taste.
He closed his eyes, feeling as if he had returned to those idle afternoons before the apocalypse—sitting on the hood of a truck, smoking, waiting for Merle to bring back the next meal from some unknown place.
"Give the lighter back."
Merle reached out his hand: "Don't think about swiping it."
Daryl rolled his eyes at him: "Even if I swiped it, I wouldn't have a cigarette to light."
Merle laughed and patted his shoulder: "Come on, let me take you to see our new home."
The brothers walked inside side by side.
Daryl smoked, watching the people in uniforms around him, watching the recruits in training, and watching the towering main building.
He suddenly felt that maybe this time, his brother had really made the right choice.