The shop was quiet.
Not dead—cut off. No display windows, no sign, no advertisement. Gray walls, metal shelves, dry air. There was no smell of rot here, and that alone felt like a luxury.
Harry entered last and stopped near the door. His armor fit close, didn't creak, didn't shine. After what had happened at the camp, people looked at it differently now—without jokes, without doubt.
No one had forgotten the shot.
No one had forgotten how Shane fired at Daryl.
And how Daryl didn't fall.
Here, inside the shop, no one said it out loud. But everything they were doing now started there.
Daryl was already at the racks. His jacket—with reinforced "wings"—moved with him, never restricting his motion. He took a regular motorcycle jacket off the wall and bent the leather, checking the seams.
"Good enough," he said.
"Not for me. For the camp."
T-Dog silently began laying out sets on the floor: jacket, elbow pads, knee guards. He worked calmly, without rush.
"We take extra," he said.
"Not everyone's gonna get it right away."
Andrea sorted through protection for arms and neck, setting aside only what didn't limit movement.
"If we're doing armor," she said,
"we protect what gets grabbed first."
Amy helped stack another set. She wasn't joking, wasn't hesitating—just focused.
"For everyone," she said quietly.
"Even the ones who think they don't need it."
Glenn watched the growing pile of gear.
"You know," he said with a half-smile,
"this is the first time it looks like we're planning to live—
not just stall."
Merle stood a little aside, holding his own jacket. It was solid, but unmodified. He glanced at Daryl's back—at the wings.
"Well damn," he drawled.
"One of us already got the upgrade."
He tapped the leather with a finger.
"So tell me, Harry," he added with a crooked grin,
"do the wings come standard, or is that a premium package?"
"For people who use them," Harry replied calmly.
Merle snorted.
"Guess I'm next, then."
"When we're back," Harry said.
"If you don't wreck it first."
"I'll break it responsibly," Merle muttered.
Buckles clicked. Leather rustled. The work moved fast.
Then a gunshot echoed outside.
One.
Then another.
Everyone froze.
Daryl lifted his head first.
"That's not us."
Glenn listened.
"Street."
"Hell," Merle muttered.
"Someone's having a real bad morning."
Glenn was already shrugging on his pack.
"I'll check it out," he said.
"Quiet."
"Radio," Daryl reminded him.
"Always," Glenn said, and slipped out the back door.
Glenn moved between cars, sticking to shadows. The shots were close—single, controlled.
Then he saw it.
A tank.
"…You've gotta be kidding me," he breathed.
The radio crackled.
Rick sat in the darkness of the tank when it suddenly came alive.
"Knock-knock," a voice said.
"Please tell me you're not one of the things chewing on the armor right now."
Rick flinched and brought the radio closer.
"I—I'm alive," he answered. "Who is this?"
A short pause.
"Oh, thank God.
I was just imagining having polite conversation with a walker in a tank.
That would've been extremely awkward."
Rick frowned.
"Who are you?"
"Glenn," the voice replied.
"And if you don't mind, I'll be the voice in your head saying,
'Don't do that. That's stupid.'"
Rick swallowed.
"I'm in a tank. There are… a lot of them."
"Yeah, I see that," Glenn said.
"News: Atlanta's full.
Bad news: you're right in the middle of it.
Good news: you're not dead.
Yet."
Rick couldn't help himself.
"That's supposed to calm me down?"
"Absolutely," Glenn replied dryly.
"You could've woken up and been eaten immediately.
Instead—you've got a tank. Stylish."
Rick exhaled.
"What do I do?"
"First—don't panic.
Second—don't shoot randomly. Noise draws attention.
Third…" Glenn paused.
"You good at listening?"
"Yes," Rick said shortly.
"Great. Because if you don't listen, you're dead.
And I don't want to be the guy who gave bad instructions."
Rick looked up at the hatch above him.
"Okay. I'm listening."
"Good boy, cowboy," Glenn said.
"Now let's get you out of there alive."
They moved fast. No heroics.
The back door of the shop closed behind them almost silently.
Inside, Daryl had his crossbow ready. Merle stood to the side, hand near his weapon. Harry didn't move—just watched.
"Friendly," Glenn said.
"Found him in the tank."
"I'm Rick Grimes," the man said. "Sheriff."
A moment of silence.
"Well," Merle muttered,
"welcome to the wrong end of the world."
Harry stepped forward.
"We're not staying long," he said.
"And noise is no longer an option."
Rick nodded.
"I figured."
Leather rustled again. Someone tightened a strap.
And now there was one more living person among them.
Rick leaned against a shelf, still catching his breath, looking at the gear spread across the floor.
Andrea spoke first.
"You should change," she said.
"At least the top layer."
Rick looked down at his uniform—dirty, torn.
"Why?" he asked honestly.
"It's… durable."
"It looks durable," Glenn corrected.
"Different thing."
Daryl slid a leather jacket toward him.
"Try it," he said.
"Can't hurt."
Rick took it but hesitated, still looking at his badge.
Merle smirked.
"Buddy," he said,
"that badge is shiny and all,
but it doesn't stop teeth."
Rick frowned.
"This is a police uniform."
"Exactly," Merle nodded.
"Police.
Not bite-proof."
A few quiet chuckles.
Harry stepped closer.
"It doesn't matter who you were," he said calmly.
"It matters what you're wearing when something reaches for your throat."
Rick looked at the jacket. Then at Daryl. At Andrea. At Glenn.
Slowly, he took off his sheriff's jacket.
"Alright," he said.
"Guess the rules changed."
Merle grinned.
"Welcome," he said.
"You're officially dressed wrong."
Rick pulled on the leather.
And for the first time since waking up,
he truly understood the world was different.
END OF CHAPTER