The interstate highway stretched straight toward the northwest, with waist-high weeds growing out of the cracks in the road surface.
Five humvees drove in a single file, their black bodies sporting a matte finish under the midday sun, while the red and white Umbrella Corporation logo on the doors looked like moving flags.
Rick gripped the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
Glenn sat in the passenger seat with his feet propped up on the dashboard until Rick slapped them down.
"Sit properly."
Glenn put his feet down and rubbed his knee: "Rick, don't you think Lori is a bit too nervous? Every time you go on a mission, she practically wants to stuff the entire trunk with compressed biscuits."
Rick didn't speak.
Glenn continued: "Last time you said she didn't want you to go on missions and wanted you to stay at the base and keep watch like Shane. Shane is guarding the gate every day now, looking like a gatekeeper."
"The base is short-handed."
Rick finally spoke up: "Who doesn't have a wife and kids? If I just hid in the base because of a few words from Lori, what would others think? If everyone followed my lead, what would be the point of this base?"
Glenn scratched his head.
He had no wife or kids, and hearing this, he just felt that marriage seemed like a lot of trouble.
The highway forked ahead; the main road continued west, while a two-lane asphalt road turned northwest.
Rick turned on his signal—a habit he still hadn't broken—and the convoy turned into the side road.
The road narrowed, and the trees on both sides grew denser.
Sunlight leaked through the gaps in the leaves, casting dappled light and shadows on the windshield.
"A place like this..."
Glenn rolled down the window and leaned out to look: "There should be a farm."
Rick didn't respond.
He stared ahead and slowed the vehicle down a bit.
Suddenly, a crisp sound of hooves came from the woods on the right.
A horse-riding figure emerged from a gap in the woods, riding a chestnut horse with a mane that glistened in the sunlight.
The rider wore a wide-brimmed hat, with long hair cascading from beneath it, dressed in a plaid shirt and jeans, with mud-stained riding boots on her feet.
She crossed the road, her ponytail sweeping an arc behind her, then turned into the intersection on the left and disappeared into the shadows of the trees. The whole process took only a few seconds.
Glenn leaned out the window, his neck stretched out long: "Did you see that, Rick? A woman—riding a horse—just crossed in front of us!"
Rick hit the brakes, and the four humvees behind followed suit, coming to a stop.
"I saw it. Hold on."
The humvee roared as it turned into the dirt road on the left.
This road was narrower than the previous one, full of bumps and potholes, with branches on both sides scraping against the car body.
Glenn was bounced out of his seat, grabbing the handle, bobbing up and down like a spring doll.
"Slow, slow down—Rick—"
"Hold on!"
The humvee rushed out of the dirt road, and the view suddenly opened up.
It was an open valley with rolling woods in the distance and neat farmland nearby.
The cornfield had gone to waste, with withered, yellow stalks standing crookedly in the soil.
Further ahead were a few buildings—a two-story white house, a large red barn, and several livestock sheds, with empty pens.
The horse-riding woman had just stopped at the door of the house and was jumping off the horse.
She saw the five black humvees rushing out of the dirt road, froze for a second, and then ran quickly toward the house.
"Dad!"
Her voice was sharp and crisp, echoing in the valley: "Someone's here!"
The door of the house was pushed open, and an old man walked out holding a shotgun.
He was wearing overalls, his graying hair combed neatly, but the expression on his face was anything but neat—it was full of vigilance and tension.
He held the shotgun at his waist, muzzle down, but his finger rested on the trigger guard.
"Maggie! Come back!"
He shouted.
The horse-riding woman—Maggie—ran back to the old man's side, arms crossed over her chest, staring at the black humvees that were getting closer.
Her expression was calm, but her fingers were tapping lightly on her arm.
Two more people emerged from the livestock shed behind the house.
One was as fat as a barrel, clutching a double-barreled shotgun, his flesh trembling as he ran.
The other was a tall, thin young man wearing glasses, holding a baseball bat, standing behind the old man with his legs trembling.
The five humvees stopped in front of the house, engines cut, and the doors opened.
A group of people in black tactical gear jumped out, their movements uniform, as if they had trained countless times.
Their rifles were G36s, with black bodies and streamlined magazines, completely different from the old M4s used by the National Guard.
Helmets, masks, bulletproof vests, tactical gloves, knee pads, and elbow pads—not an inch of skin was exposed.
Hershel's finger hooked onto the trigger.
But he didn't raise it.
He knew that at this distance, with that kind of equipment, his old shotgun was no different from a fire poker.
Rick took off his helmet and pulled down his mask.
He walked toward Hershel, his pace steady, hands empty and hanging at his sides.
"This is private property..."
Hershel's voice was hard, but there was a hint of imperceptible trembling: "We don't welcome outsiders."
Rick stopped ten paces away.
"I am Rick Grimes, Umbrella Corporation."
He pointed to the convoy behind him: "We aren't here to rob you."
Hershel didn't respond, his shotgun still held at his waist.
Rick took a deep breath and began to recite the lines he had heard Wu Fan say countless times.
"Humanity is facing the crisis of extinction. Those Walkers—you know—they are spreading, multiplying. We cannot survive alone; we need unity, we need cooperation, we need to bring the strength of all who are still alive together."
Hershel's muzzle lowered a bit.
"We have a base at the CDC, with walls, weapons, and a laboratory researching vaccines. We came here to see if there is anyone in this area still farming, raising livestock, and persisting in living."
Rick's voice lowered a bit: "We need food, you need protection. We can trade."
Hershel stared at him for a long time.
Maggie, standing nearby, was also staring at him, but her gaze lingered on Rick's face for a moment before shifting to the group behind him.
The group had already spread out, standing in a fan formation next to the humvees, muzzles down, but their eyes constantly scanning the surroundings.
Well-trained.
Not ordinary survivors.
These were all former National Guard members.
Then she saw a man climb out of the passenger seat, moving clumsily, almost tripping over the car door.
His hair was as messy as a bird's nest, and there was a red mark on his face from the seatbelt.
His eyes were fixed straight on her, his mouth slightly open, like a fish pulled onto the shore.
Glenn looked at Maggie, his whole body seemingly frozen in place.
She stood in the doorway, the sunlight hitting her profile, her hair beneath the hat dark brown, her eyes bright, lips pursed, and chin slightly lifted, like a horse ready to bolt at any moment.
He felt his heart skip a beat, then start to accelerate, so fast that he couldn't quite catch his breath.
Maggie noticed the gaze of that silly guy.
He stood by the car door, helmet tucked under his arm, mouth agape, eyes staring straight at her, with an expression on his face that was hard to tell if it was a silly grin or just blank stupidity.
She couldn't help but twitch the corner of her mouth, but she immediately held it back.
Now was not the time for smiling.
Hershel lowered his shotgun.
He didn't let down his guard, but he could see that if these people wanted to attack, they would have done so already, without standing there and wasting time talking to him.
"Trade is possible."
He said: "But your people are not allowed to enter my house, not allowed to touch my livestock, and not allowed to walk around my fields."
Rick nodded: "Agreed. I will report to the BOSS and send people back later to discuss the details."
He turned and walked toward the humvee.
After walking a few steps, he realized someone was missing.
Glenn was still standing by the car door, facing the house, like a statue.
His mouth finally closed, but his eyes were still glued to Maggie.
"Glenn!"
Rick shouted.
No response.
"Glenn!"
Rick raised his voice.
Glenn jolted as if electrocuted, turned around in a panic, and nearly tripped over his own feet.
He waved at Maggie—the gesture as clumsy as a child who had just learned to walk—and then dove into the car, his head hitting the door frame with a dull thud.
Maggie covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking.
Hershel looked back at her, and she quickly put her hand down, wiping all traces of a smile from her face.
The convoy started up, the five humvees turned around and drove out along the dirt road they had come in on.
Glenn leaned against the car window, watching the figure standing at the doorway in the rearview mirror as it got smaller and smaller, finally becoming a dot that disappeared at the edge of the cornfield.
Rick glanced at him, the corner of his mouth twitching, but he didn't speak.
Glenn retreated into his seat, clutching his helmet, his fingers drawing circles on the visor.
After a while, he suddenly asked: "Rick, do you know what that girl's name is?"
Rick ignored him.
But after a while, he spoke again: "We will come back here to trade again, right?"
Rick sighed.
The convoy turned onto the asphalt road and headed toward the next farm.
Glenn was still watching that dirt road in the rearview mirror until it completely disappeared below the horizon.
At the doorway of the house, Maggie was still standing in the same spot.
Hershel leaned his shotgun against the door frame and looked at his daughter.
"What are you smiling at?"
"Nothing."
Maggie said.
She turned and walked into the house, her steps a little lighter than usual.
Hershel watched her back and shook his head.
Otis and Jimmy had already returned to the livestock shed, someone was replacing tiles on the roof of the barn, and a few people were weeding on the ridge in the distance.
Everything was as usual.
But Hershel knew that something was different.
He glanced at the deep tire tracks and remained silent for a long time.
Then he picked up his shotgun, walked into the house, and closed the door.