They made camp far from the road.
No fire.
No unnecessary light.
The Morales' pickup stood under the trees, slightly off to the side. Nearby was the Dixon brothers' car, parked nose-out, ready to leave at a moment's notice.
Harry's mobile home was farther back, kept at a distance—as always.
Luis was already asleep in the pickup, curled in on himself, exhausted by the day.
Harry sat with his back against a tree, wearing his armor.
It fit him naturally, as if it had always been his—no creaking, no shine, no restriction of movement. Dark leather, reinforced sections, perfectly aligned straps.
Beside him, laid carefully on a folded coat, rested a sheathed sword and a bow without its string.
The muted light of a covered lantern slid across the gear, revealing fine engraving.
Lines ran along the chestpiece, the edges of the pauldrons, the sword's guard, and the bow's wood.
Not decoration.
More like a signature.
"You know what really pisses me off?" Merle's voice cut through the quiet. "All those damn bulletproof vests."
"Better than nothing," Carlos replied.
"Against bullets, sure," Merle snapped. "But those things don't shoot."
He clenched his fingers, mimicking a grabbing motion.
"They grab.
They pull.
They bite."
"And once teeth reach skin, that's it," Daryl added calmly.
Merle pointed at Harry.
"And then there's him.
Sittin' there like some damn knight."
Carlos studied him more closely.
"Looks solid."
"Solid?" Merle scoffed. "He probably thinks that thing's better than army gear."
Harry ran a hand over the chest strap.
"It is," he said evenly.
Silence followed.
Merle laughed—loud and sharp.
"Of course it is!
Guess that makes me a duke.
Or a count. Whatever you fancy folk call yourselves."
Carlos smiled faintly.
"He doesn't sound like he's joking."
"I am," Merle shot back. "Because otherwise I'd have to believe this kid comes from a family that made armor before guns were a thing."
Daryl watched Harry, more than the armor.
"It's not military," he said. "And it's not homemade either."
"Heirloom," Harry replied simply.
"Ohhh," Merle drawled.
"Heirloom."
He dipped his head theatrically.
"My apologies, Your Lordship.
Didn't realize we had nobility."
Ana spoke calmly.
"It fits well.
And the craftsmanship is precise."
Merle grimaced.
"You buying into fairy tales now too?"
"I believe in quality," Ana said. "And this is quality."
"Jokes aside," Merle continued, tone shifting, "we need protection from bites."
He leaned forward.
"Motorcycle gear.
Jackets, pants, guards.
Leather, Kevlar, reinforced seams."
Daryl nodded.
"Made for high-speed crashes.
Teeth won't do much."
"Where do we find it?" Carlos asked.
"South of Atlanta," Merle said. "A shop.
And—" he grinned, "—some machines."
Harry nodded.
"We leave in the morning."
Before they moved out, Harry stood.
"Gear up," he said. "But first—something important."
He opened the rear compartment of the pickup and pulled out a case from his personal reserves.
"This isn't my primary kit," he said. "Backup."
He turned to Merle.
"For you."
He handed him a Glock 17 in a tactical holster and an Ontario 18-inch machete—simple, heavy, functional.
"Pistol's a last resort.
Machete's for close work. Quiet."
Merle weighed them in his hands.
"Well damn," he muttered. "Now I feel welcome."
"Don't get used to it," Harry replied.
He turned to Daryl.
"For you."
A Glock 19,
a Ka-Bar combat knife,
and two dozen crossbow bolts.
Daryl checked the knife's balance and nodded.
"Understood."
"Don't waste the bolts," Harry added.
Carlos glanced at Harry.
"And you?"
"I keep all my own gear," Harry said. "This is surplus."
No one argued.
They all knew—rifle, pistol, sword, bow—Harry hadn't disarmed himself.
Next, Harry handed out police radios.
"From the station.
Fixed channel.
Short, clear communication."
Merle turned his over.
"Well damn," he muttered. "We're a real operation now."
"Just organized," Harry replied.
The motorcycle shop was quiet. Almost untouched.
They worked fast:
dark jackets,
reinforced pants,
arm guards,
gloves.
Merle stopped at the far end.
"Well now…"
A chopper.
Low. Long.
Black as oil.
Chrome everywhere—forks, handlebars, exhaust, mirrors—catching even the faintest light.
"Old," Merle said, running a hand along the tank. "But well kept."
"You serious?" Daryl asked.
"Dead serious," Merle grinned. "If the world's going to hell, I'm riding there in style."
"Stock exhaust?" Harry asked.
"Yeah. Quieter than it looks."
"Take it," Harry said.
They were back on the road.
The Morales' pickup led.
Harry's mobile home followed.
Between them rode Merle's black chopper, steady and controlled.
The radio clicked.
"Comms check," Harry said.
"Loud and clear," Merle replied. "And for the record—I look damn good."
"Don't get cocky," Daryl cut in. "We need you alive."
"Relax. I'm being careful… mostly."
After a pause, Merle spoke again.
"Hey, knight.
If that armor of yours really is as tough as you say…"
"I didn't say it was," Harry interrupted. "You decided that."
"Fine," Merle snorted. "If it is—can you make more?"
Silence.
"In theory," Harry said. "Yes."
"I'll believe it when I see it," Carlos said.
"Same," Daryl added.
Ana spoke quietly.
"But if you're not joking…
That changes everything."
"We'll think about it," Harry said. "When the time comes."
The radio fell silent.
The road stretched ahead.
And though no one said it out loud,
everyone felt it:
If he wasn't lying—
the world had just changed.
End of Chapter 13