In The End | Daryl Dixon

Chapter 62: Prisoner

Static cracked through the walkie before a familiar voice bled into the silence.

"For anyone out there who loved the obese bastard just as much as I did," Negan's voice drawled, slow and sarcastic, "I just want to say a few words."

I leaned back in my seat, already bracing myself. It didn't take long to recognize his voice—or his twisted sense of tribute.

"Fat Joey wasn't exactly the most badass son of a bitch," Negan continued, "but he was loyal. And damn, did the guy have a killer sense of humor. We were just joking about oral sex with Lucille the other day—classic Fat Joey."

I rolled my eyes and looked out the window, trying to ignore the rising tension that curled in my stomach.

"Things won't be the same without him. Without Fat Joey, Skinny Joey is just... Joey. And that, my friends, is a goddamn tragedy."

Negan let the last word hang in the air before lowering his voice, unusually solemn.

"So let's have a moment of silence... for the big guy."

The walkie went dead.

Rick pulled the car to a stop as a blockade of abandoned vehicles stretched out across the highway like a wall.

"Someone's trying to block the way," Jesus said, leaning out the window. His voice was tight. "Must be the Saviors."

"Look," Carl said, pointing to our right. "I think that's their base over there."

I followed his gaze. Just above the tree line, a massive building loomed in the distance. Industrial, gray, and foreboding—it wasn't hard to spot.

"Yeah, that's it," Jesus confirmed with a nod. "Must be trying to make it hard to get to them."

"We gotta keep goin'," Rick muttered, eyes scanning the blockade. "We'll move 'em... and then move 'em back. They don't need to know we were here."

With that, he shut off the engine, the rumble dying into silence. One by one, we stepped out of the car, boots hitting pavement with purpose.

"Rick."

Michonne's voice cut through the stillness. She was a few steps ahead, binoculars to her eyes. "You need to see this."

Rick didn't hesitate. He reached her side and took the binoculars, scanning the horizon.

I followed their line of sight, squinting. At first, it looked like scattered debris. But as we moved closer...

"Holy shit," I muttered.

A steel cable stretched across the highway, pulled tight between two wrecked cars. Strapped along it were sticks of dynamite—dozens of them—spaced evenly and wired to a crude, hand-built trigger system.

Carl stepped up beside us. "When I was hiding in the back of the truck... I heard a couple of them talking. This is for a herd. They were setting it up to take out a lot of walkers."

Rick's jaw tightened as he processed the setup.

"That's why it's steel," Rosita said, crouching beside the cable. "One walker wouldn't trip this. It's designed to catch a whole group. Decimate them."

"We need those explosives," I said, turning to Rick.

He nodded slowly. "Yeah. But we've got to disarm it first. One wrong move and we're all toast."

Rosita knelt beside the wreck, brushing aside debris. She pulled open a rusted grate.

I stepped beside her and peered inside—beneath the grate sat a jerry-rigged mechanism. Twisted wires. Old springs. A pressure plate wired to the dynamite line.