Chapter 54: The Moser Gang
Early the next morning, light just breaking.
Hanks packed two stuffed backpacks and handed them to the surprised Dixon brothers.
Inside—various canned goods, compressed biscuits, bottled water, and basic medical supplies.
"Take these." Hanks's tone remained flat, but the meaning was clear. "Venison doesn't keep. This is more practical."
Daryl took the backpack, weighing it. Not light. He looked at Hanks with complex emotions.
His lips moved. Finally just a low reply. "Thanks."
Merle watched from the side, snorting softly.
He said nothing, but the hostility and wariness in his eyes had diminished considerably.
In this world, food meant life. This farewell gift was generous.
"And this."
Hanks returned the confiscated compound crossbow, hunting knives, and bolts. "Returning what's yours."
Daryl silently took his crossbow back, checked it carefully, and slung it over his shoulder.
Merle also reclaimed his knife, sliding it back into the sheath. Felt a lot more confident.
"If..." Hanks looked at the two preparing to leave and added one last thing.
"If you run into an Asian kid named Glenn on the road—he's a delivery guy."
"He went to Atlanta to find a friend. If you meet him, look out for him. Tell him I sent you."
Daryl paused, then nodded. "Glenn... Asian... delivery guy. Got it. If we meet him, we'll keep an eye out."
Merle touched his still-aching chest. Decided if he met Glenn, he'd definitely take good care of him.
No more small talk. The Dixon brothers shouldered their packs and weapons.
One last look at the temporary camp that had given them a full meal, a solid beating, and supplies.
They turned and disappeared into the mist-shrouded woods, heading toward Atlanta.
After seeing them off, the camp atmosphere seemed to ease slightly. But urgency followed.
Hanks turned his gaze toward Creekwood.
"Kenny," he called, "pack up. We need to check out that town."
He needed maps. Needed clearer routes. Also needed to assess whether this so-called Moser Gang would become a future threat.
Kenny nodded grimly, patting his shotgun. "Damn. Just out of the wolf's den, straight into the tiger's mouth... Let's go, Hanks."
Hanks's P226 sat holstered. Tactical knife strapped to his thigh.
Kenny carried his M590 shotgun, Glock stuffed in his waistband.
"Lee, Carley—camp's yours." Hanks ordered. "Stay alert. We'll be back."
He and Kenny exchanged glances. One ahead, one behind, they left the riverside camp.
Following Daryl's directions, using the morning mist and roadside withered brush for cover, they approached Creekwood.
The closer they got to town, the more they felt the air's deathly silence.
Abandoned vehicles scattered along the roadside—some doors hanging open, interiors empty except for dried, blackened bloodstains.
The wind no longer carried fresh vegetation scent, but faint rot and dust.
They didn't take the main road. Instead they crept along the town's edge through woodland and tall grass.
Hanks led. His Stealth skill and Awareness passive were at full use.
His tactical knife in reverse grip, blade catching cold light in the weak dawn.
Kenny followed close, shotgun ready, finger tight on the forend, palm sweating nervously.
He tried mimicking Hanks's movements but was clearly clumsier.
The soft crack of a broken twig occasionally startled him, making him tensely scan around.
Kenny's breathing was low. Fine sweat beaded his forehead. This stealth approach was safe but extremely taxing. Not work for ordinary people.
The town was like a silent tomb.
Occasional walkers passed through streets, making meaningless roars. But they weren't the biggest threat.
Hanks suddenly crouched, raising his fist.
Kenny crouched too, heart pounding.
Ahead at the intersection, two men in mismatched street clothes carried machetes, walking lazily.
They had cigarettes dangling, talking quietly. Patrol route very casual.
The Moser Gang patrols Daryl mentioned?
Hanks gestured for a detour.
They pressed against building walls, backing into a narrow alley, avoiding the patrol's line of sight.
They wove through the maze of dilapidated streets and buildings, avoiding main roads as much as possible.
Hanks's instinct and Awareness always predicted danger ahead, choosing the safest paths.
Kenny followed tightly. His judgment left him amazed and reassured.
Following him always meant snatching life from death's jaws.
But the town was bigger than expected, with many forks. Daryl had only said the post office was on the other side.
As for which side... well.
Your left hand is my right hand. Exact position was relative.
At an alley littered with garbage bins, Hanks stopped again, brow furrowed.
They'd been circling nearly half an hour without seeing the post office. Nearly ran into another patrol instead.
"Damn, this place is a maze..." Kenny kept his voice low, anxiously wiping sweat. "Where the hell is the post office?"
Hanks didn't answer, gaze scanning for any signs or landmark buildings.
Just as he hesitated between left or right—
Click.
A soft crisp sound from the right corner.
Hanks's pupils contracted. Instant reaction.
He lunged out, left hand lightning-fast covering the mouth of someone about to emerge from the corner.
His right hand's knife—cold blade already pressed against their throat.
The entire motion completed in under a second. Too fast to react.
"Mmph!" The captured person made a terrified whimper, body struggling violently.
A teenager who looked only fifteen or sixteen, wearing an oversized baggy jacket.
Face dirty. Eyes full of fear. Holding a civilian radio in his hands.
While subduing him, Hanks also disarmed him—a pistol loaded with rounds.
Kenny immediately rushed over.
He aimed his gun around the corner, confirming no other enemies before looking at the restrained teenager.
"Don't make a sound. Stay still if you want to live."
Hanks's voice was low and cold, right at the teen's ear, like death's whisper.
The blade pressed slightly harder. The teenager immediately froze, not daring to struggle. Only his body trembled slightly from fear.
Kenny quickly picked up the dropped pistol and radio, looking at the teenage kid.
His expression was somewhat complicated.
Hanks restrained the teenager, dragging him deeper into the alley's shadows.
"Where's the post office?" Hanks asked directly, tone brooking no argument.
The teenager shuddered, eyes unconsciously flicking toward a certain direction.
He stuttered quietly. "...East side, through two blocks, there's... there's a small square, next to it is..."
"How many in your gang? What's the equipment? How do patrols work?" Hanks kept pressing, questions rapid-fire, giving no time to think up lies.
The teenager was scared nearly to tears, spilling everything he knew in fragments.
The Moser Gang had about sixty-plus people, plenty of weapons, patrols usually in pairs, half-hour intervals...
After extracting the information he wanted, Hanks's eyes instantly turned extremely cold.
He pressed the teenager's neck, other hand tightening slightly on the knife.