Chapter 21 – The Convoy
Hanks burst out through the pharmacy's back door.
The night wind slammed into him like a wall—cold, fetid, carrying the stench of rot and dried blood.
The rage boiling in his chest burned colder than that wind, sharper than any blade, wilder than any storm.
A dozen walkers were already converging on the alley, drawn by the chaos inside.
Their pale hands clawed at the air, blocking the way forward.
"Out of my way," Hanks growled.
Then he charged.
He didn't dodge. He didn't hesitate.
He moved like a streak of black lightning, crashing headlong into the dead.
The fire axe swung.
SPLAT!
The first walker's skull split open like overripe fruit, its body collapsing before it even realized it was dead.
Hanks didn't break stride.
He pivoted on his heel and let the axe sweep sideways in a brutal arc—
CRUNCH! another head severed cleanly at the neck, spraying the air with a fine mist of gore.
He was past thinking.
It was pure instinct now—rage and survival fused into one relentless rhythm.
Behind him, Glenn trailed with wide, terrified eyes, caught somewhere between awe and horror.
By the time they reached the corner, the street was littered with bodies.
"There!" Glenn pointed to a half-intact sedan parked by the curb.
He scrambled into the driver's seat while Hanks yanked open the passenger door and tossed the bloody axe into the back.
"Go, go, go!"
Glenn twisted the key—
The engine coughed, sputtered, then roared to life.
"Yes!" He slammed it into gear, and the car lurched forward, tearing down the empty street toward the pharmacy.
Headlights sliced through the dark like twin blades.
But just as they were about to cross an intersection—
Something snapped inside Hanks's gut.
A cop's sixth sense. That inexplicable prickle of danger.
"Down!"
He shouted the word as his whole body tensed.
He ducked hard, rolling off the seat and pressing himself flat under the dashboard.
And then—
RATATAT! BANG! BANG!
Gunfire erupted from a second-story window in a dilapidated building to their left!
THUNK—THUNK—CRASH!
The car's hood and side door exploded with holes; the windshield shattered into glittering shards.
"Ahhh!" Glenn screamed, wrenching the wheel.
The sedan fishtailed, slammed into a curb, and nearly flipped before grinding to a smoking halt against a lamp post.
White steam hissed from under the hood.
"Turn off the lights. Stay down," Hanks hissed through his teeth.
He drew his P226, racking the slide in one smooth motion.
The shooting had stopped.
Their attackers were either checking their aim, reloading—or just sloppy enough to lose sight of their target.
"Wh–who the hell are they?" Glenn whispered, trembling as he reached up to flick off the headlights.
Hanks didn't answer. His eyes tracked the angles, his ears parsing the echoes of the last gunshots.
Two types of weapons:
—One handgun.
—One pump-action shotgun.
Random bursts. Inconsistent rhythm.
A disorganized group, not trained soldiers.
And the direction—left side, second-floor window.
He needed line of sight.
"Glenn," he murmured, voice low, surgical. "When I count to three, hit the horn. Once. Then keep your head down."
"What? Why?"
"Just do it."
"O–okay…"
Hanks adjusted his position, took aim toward the second-story window.
"One… two… three."
HOOOOONK!
The car's horn blared like a scream through the night.
Instantly, two silhouettes leaned out the window, trying to get a look at their target.
That was all Hanks needed.
His pistol barked four times—
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
Each shot measured, deliberate, perfect.
The muzzle flashes lit his face like a strobe, his eyes cold and steady.
One bandit jerked as the bullet punched clean through his forehead, a fine red mist blooming behind him.
He toppled backward, dead before he hit the floor.
The other screamed as his arm exploded in blood. His gun tumbled from his hand and clattered out the window to the street below.
Hanks's third and fourth shots struck the edge of the second-floor window in rapid succession, shattering brick and glass.
The sharp impact forced the gunmen to duck out of sight—no one dared peek again.
Clean. Controlled. Swift counterfire.
"Move! Out of the car—stay low!" Hanks barked, kicking open the passenger door.
He rolled out, using the wrecked vehicle and the nearby wall for cover, and fired a short suppressive burst toward the window.
Muffled shouts echoed from inside the building, followed by frantic footsteps. Whoever they were, they knew now they'd picked the wrong fight.
"Wait—there's stuff in the trunk!" Glenn whispered hoarsely, already reaching for the latch.
Hanks spun to cover him, eyes cutting between the shadows and the broken windows above.
They popped open the trunk—inside, a small jackpot: canned food, bottled water, and two full jerrycans of fuel.
"Grab it," Hanks said curtly.
He slung a backpack of supplies over his shoulder and covered Glenn as the younger man hefted the fuel.
"Go! Stay on my right!"
The two darted from one ruined car to the next, using every scrap of debris and wall as cover. Their footsteps barely made a sound over the distant moans of the dead.
Glenn's breath came fast and ragged, the twin fuel cans sloshing in his grip.
He didn't dare stop. Not even to breathe.
Hanks, however, never broke his rhythm. His pistol stayed angled down but ready, his sharp gaze constantly scanning the darkness ahead.
The short firefight was already spreading ripples across the dead city.
Gunfire was a dinner bell—and the walkers were answering.
He could already hear their howls in the distance, echoing like sirens through the hollow streets.
The raiders they'd hit weren't all dead either.
If they were organized at all, more were on the way.
"Almost there!" Glenn panted, spotting the faint outline of the pharmacy down the block.
But Hanks suddenly stopped—his instincts screaming no.
He reached out, grabbed Glenn by the shoulder, and yanked him behind the support pillar of a toppled billboard.
"Wh–what is it?" Glenn whispered, voice trembling.
Hanks didn't answer.
He narrowed his eyes toward the far end of the street.
Beyond the pharmacy, maybe a hundred meters out, three—no, four—vehicles were crawling into view.
Headlights flicked off. Shadows spilled out of the trucks—silhouettes of armed men taking up positions along both sides of the street.
A heavily modified pickup.
A box van.
Two smaller cars.
A full convoy.
Hanks's expression hardened. "Glenn. The radio. Now."
Glenn fumbled for the walkie-talkie and handed it over.
"Clem, you there?" Hanks whispered, eyes still locked on the advancing silhouettes.
A burst of static, then a small, bright voice—
"Hanks! You're back! I'm here!"
"Good. Put Lee or Kenny on the line."
A shuffle, then Lee's deep voice came through, tight and urgent:
"Officer, what's your status?"
"We're fine," Hanks replied quickly, voice clipped. "Took out two ambushers, but the noise drew a crowd. We've got a convoy rolling up on your street—three, maybe four vehicles."
Kenny cut in, swearing under his breath:
"Damn it, we see them too! They're spreading out—looks like they're hunting someone!"
"They're the same bastards from the gas station," Hanks said, watching through the moonlight as the men fanned out, sweeping their flashlights across the road.
A few hacked down stray walkers with machetes, while others covered them with shotguns and rifles.
Their movements were tighter, more disciplined than the ragtag group earlier.
Not amateurs this time.
"They haven't spotted us yet," Hanks murmured into the radio. "That gives us a window."
He paused, planning fast.
"Glenn and I got the fuel. We're holed up behind a building near the alley behind you."
"Listen carefully—Lee, Kenny, no lights, no noise. Barricade both entrances and stay invisible. We can't afford a single mistake."
"We'll regroup and move out before they close the trap. Once I give the word, we load up, refuel, grab the meds, and get the hell out."
"Understood," Lee answered, his tone grim. "We'll stay dark. And… I found the storage key. It should open the pharmacy's back room."
He hesitated, his voice lowering with guilt. "Don't ask how."
"I won't," Hanks said simply. "Keep it safe until I get there."
He released the transmit button, took one last look at the approaching convoy, then slipped the radio back into his vest.
"Glenn," he whispered. "Keep those cans steady. Stay low. We move along the shadows—don't make a sound."
Glenn swallowed hard, nodded.
"R–right. Got it, officer."
He tightened his grip on the fuel cans, trying to steady his shaking hands.
The moonlight glinted off the metal handles as the two men began to creep forward again, their bodies pressed to the walls, shadows blending into deeper shadow.
Far ahead, engines growled softly.
Men murmured.
Flashlights swept the street like searching eyes.
The convoy had come hunting.
And this time, the city itself seemed to be holding its breath.