Chapter 64 – The Horseman
The intercontinental highway stretched straight toward the northwest, with waist-high wild grass growing through the cracks in the pavement.
Five Humvees drove in formation, their matte-black bodies gleaming beneath the midday sun. The red-and-white umbrella logos on the doors looked like moving flags.
Rick gripped the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
Glenn sat in the passenger seat with his feet propped on the dashboard until Rick slapped them down.
"You have no manners."
Glenn lowered his feet and rubbed his knees. "Rick, don't you think Lori's being a little too nervous? Every time you go on a mission, she practically fills the trunk with compressed biscuits."
Rick said nothing.
Glenn continued, "Last time, you said she didn't want you going on missions anymore. She wanted you to stay at the base like Sean. Now Sean guards the gate every day, looking like a full-time gatekeeper."
"The base is short-handed."
Rick finally spoke. "Who here doesn't have a wife and kids? If I hide inside the base because of a few words from Lori, what will people think? If everyone follows my example, what's the point of this base?"
Glenn scratched his head.
He didn't have a wife or children, but hearing Rick say that made marriage sound like a hassle.
The road split ahead. The main highway continued west, while a narrow two-lane asphalt road branched off to the northwest.
Rick turned on his signal—a habit he still hadn't broken—and the convoy followed him onto the side road.
The road narrowed, and the trees on both sides grew denser.
Sunlight filtered through the leaves, scattering dappled shadows across the windshield.
"This kind of place…" Glenn rolled down the window and peered outside. "There should be a farm nearby."
Rick didn't answer.
He kept his eyes on the road and slowed slightly.
Suddenly, the sharp sound of hoofbeats came from the woods to the right.
A rider burst from between the trees.
The chestnut horse's mane shimmered in the sunlight. Its rider wore a wide-brimmed hat, long hair spilling beneath it, along with a plaid shirt, cowboy jeans, and mud-stained riding boots.
She crossed the road in front of them, ponytail whipping behind her, then turned onto a dirt road to the left and vanished into the trees.
The entire encounter lasted only a few seconds.
Glenn leaned halfway out the window. "Did you see that, Rick? A woman on horseback just passed us!"
Rick slammed on the brakes, and the four Humvees behind him stopped in succession.
"I saw her. Hold on tight."
The Humvee roared as Rick turned sharply onto the dirt road.
The path was narrower than before, riddled with potholes, and tree branches scraped noisily against the vehicle's sides.
Glenn bounced violently in his seat, gripping the armrests as though riding a mechanical bull.
"Slow down! Slow down, Rick—"
"Hold on tight!"
The Humvee burst out of the woods, and suddenly the landscape opened before them.
A broad valley stretched ahead, forests rolling across the distant hills and neatly arranged farmland spread below.
The cornfields had long been abandoned. The stalks stood yellow and withered, crooked in the dry soil.
Farther ahead stood several buildings: a white two-story farmhouse, a large red barn, a few livestock sheds, and several empty enclosures.
The woman on horseback had just dismounted in front of the house.
When she saw the five black Humvees tearing out of the woods, she froze for a moment before sprinting toward the farmhouse.
"Dad!"
Her voice rang sharply across the valley.
"Someone's coming!"
The front door burst open, and an old man stepped outside carrying a hunting rifle.
He wore overalls, his gray hair neatly combed, but his expression was tense and wary.
He held the shotgun low, muzzle pointed at the ground, though his finger rested near the trigger.
"Maggie! Get back here!"
The young woman—Maggie—hurried back to his side, crossing her arms as she watched the approaching convoy.
Her face remained calm, but her fingers tapped nervously against her sleeve.
Two more people emerged from behind the livestock shed.
One was a heavyset man clutching a double-barreled shotgun, panting as he ran. The other was a tall, skinny young man with glasses holding a baseball bat, his legs visibly shaking.
The five Humvees rolled to a stop in front of the farmhouse.
Engines shut off.
Doors opened.
A group dressed in black combat uniforms jumped out in perfect synchronization, moving with the precision of soldiers who had trained together countless times.
They carried G36 rifles with sleek black magazines—far more advanced than the battered M4s once used by the National Guard.
Helmets. Face masks. Bulletproof vests. Tactical gloves. Knee and elbow pads.
Not an inch of exposed skin.
Hershel's finger tightened slightly near the trigger.
But he didn't raise the gun.
At this distance, against people equipped like this, his old hunting rifle might as well have been a fireplace poker.
Rick removed his helmet and pulled down his face mask.
Then he walked toward Hershel at an unhurried pace, hands empty at his sides.
"This is private property," Hershel said firmly, though a faint tremor lingered beneath his voice. "Outsiders aren't welcome."
Rick stopped about ten steps away.
"I'm Rick Grimes, with Umbrella Corporation."
He gestured toward the convoy behind him. "We're not here to rob you."
Hershel remained silent, the shotgun still lowered but ready.
Rick took a slow breath and repeated the speech Wu Fan had drilled into them countless times.
"Humanity is facing an extinction crisis. Those walkers—you know what they are—keep spreading and multiplying. None of us can survive alone anymore. We need unity. We need cooperation. We need everyone who's still alive to work together."
Hershel lowered the barrel slightly.
"We have a base at the CDC. Walls, armed security, and a laboratory researching vaccines. We came here to see whether anyone in this area is still farming, raising livestock, and trying to survive."
Rick's voice softened.
"We need food. You need protection. We can trade."
Hershel stared at him for a long moment.
Beside him, Maggie watched silently as well, though her attention shifted from Rick to the soldiers behind him.
The group had spread into a defensive formation around the Humvees. Their rifles pointed downward, but their eyes constantly scanned the surroundings.
Disciplined.
Professional.
Definitely not ordinary survivors.
Former National Guard, Maggie guessed.
Then she noticed someone climbing awkwardly out of the passenger seat.
He nearly tripped over the door.
His hair looked like a bird's nest, and red seatbelt marks stretched across his face.
He stared at her with wide eyes and a slightly open mouth, like a fish pulled from water.
Glenn froze completely.
Sunlight illuminated Maggie's profile as she stood by the farmhouse entrance. Dark brown hair spilled beneath her hat, her eyes bright and alert. Her lips pressed together, chin tilted slightly upward like a skittish horse ready to bolt at any moment.
Glenn felt his heart skip a beat before pounding wildly in his chest.
Maggie noticed him staring.
The boy stood beside the Humvee clutching his helmet under one arm, grinning stupidly—or perhaps simply stunned.
Her lips twitched upward before she quickly suppressed the smile.
Now wasn't the time to laugh.
Finally, Hershel lowered his shotgun completely.
He remained cautious, but he understood one thing clearly: if these people truly meant harm, they wouldn't be standing here talking.
"The trade is possible," he said. "But your people don't enter my house, touch my livestock, or wander through my fields."
Rick nodded. "Understood. I'll report back to the boss and send someone later to discuss the details."
He turned and headed back toward the Humvee.
After several steps, he realized someone was missing.
Glenn still stood beside the vehicle, staring toward the farmhouse like a statue.
His mouth had finally closed, but his eyes remained glued to Maggie.
"Glenn!"
Rick shouted.
No response.
"Glenn!"
Rick raised his voice.
Glenn jolted as if electrocuted, spun around in panic, and nearly tripped over his own feet.
He waved awkwardly at Maggie—the gesture resembling a toddler learning coordination—before scrambling into the Humvee and smacking his head against the doorframe with a loud thunk.
Maggie covered her mouth, shoulders trembling slightly.
Hershel glanced sideways at her, and she quickly lowered her hand, suppressing her smile again.
The convoy started up.
The five Humvees turned around and drove back toward the dirt road.
Glenn pressed his face against the window, watching Maggie's figure grow smaller and smaller until she disappeared into the distant cornfields.
Rick glanced at him, lips twitching faintly, but said nothing.
Glenn slumped into his seat, hugging his helmet to his chest while tracing circles on the visor with one finger.
After a while, he quietly asked, "Rick… do you know that girl's name?"
Rick ignored him.
But a few moments later, Glenn spoke again.
"We're coming back here to trade again, right?"
Rick sighed.
The convoy turned back onto the asphalt road and continued toward the next farm.
Glenn kept staring through the rear window until the dirt road vanished beneath the horizon.
Back at the farmhouse, Maggie still stood in the same spot near the entrance.
Hershel leaned his shotgun against the doorframe and glanced at his daughter.
"Why are you smiling?"
"I'm not smiling," Maggie replied.
She turned and walked inside, her steps noticeably lighter than usual.
Hershel watched her go and slowly shook his head.
Otis and Jimmy had already returned to the barn. Workers were repairing loose roof tiles, while others weeded along the distant field ridges.
Everything looked normal.
But Hershel knew something had changed.
He stared at the deep tire tracks in silence for a long time.
Then he picked up his shotgun, stepped inside, and closed the door.