Just as Calista thought the danger had passed and let her guard down for a split second, another walker suddenly lunged out from the shadow of an abandoned bus by the roadside.
It was extremely close. Its rotting arm almost reached the rear of her motorcycle.
Calista caught it from the corner of her eye, her heart jolting.
Slowing down or swerving now could mean losing control.
In that instant, instinct took over.
She did not look back. Her left hand held the handlebars steady, keeping the bike on course, while her right hand shot to her waist with astonishing speed.
Draw. Aim. Fire.
All in one smooth motion, while the motorcycle was still racing forward.
"Bang!"
The Glock 17 cracked sharply.
The bullet went straight in through the walker's open mouth and out the back of its skull, bursting into a spray of blood and bone.
Its lunge stopped dead. The body slammed to the ground and was left behind as the motorcycle sped past.
One hand on the bike. One hand on the gun. A perfect headshot.
It all happened in an instant.
Clean, decisive, and striking in a way that carried its own kind of brutal elegance.
Even Leah, usually so composed, was visibly surprised watching from the pickup's passenger seat.
She knew Calista had potential, but she had not expected her to apply it this quickly under real pressure.
Daryl saw everything clearly.
Just half an hour ago, Calista still needed help just to keep her balance. Now she was handling sudden danger calmly and pulling off a shot like that on the move.
Her talent and composure made him reassess her all over again.
Maybe that bastard Merle had not been exaggerating after all.
Calista herself was a little surprised.
Only after pulling the trigger did she feel her heart pounding hard in her chest, her hand tingling slightly from the recoil.
But stronger than that was the surge of excitement and confidence.
She had done it.
On the move. In a critical moment.
She had protected herself.
The feeling was incredible.
She slipped the pistol back into her holster, returned both hands to the handlebars, and let herself feel the engine's vibration and the rush of the wind. A small smile crept onto her lips.
With the danger gone, the group pressed on.
Daryl rode closer to her and, for once, spoke first. His voice was blurred by the wind, but carried clear approval.
"Nice shooting."
Calista glanced at him, her smile widening beneath the helmet. "Thanks. You're a good teacher."
Daryl said nothing more, only gave a slight nod.
In the pickup behind them, Merle shouted over the engine as he drove, "You see that, Leah? Calista picks things up fast. I knew she had it in her!"
Leah did not even bother looking at him. "You need to say that? She's my sister. Of course I know."
Following the direction Calista had mentioned earlier, they soon found the country-style bar at the edge of town, its sign hanging crooked.
From the outside, it looked no different from the other abandoned buildings. Broken windows. Dust covering the porch. But if you listened closely, you could hear faint voices from inside.
Daryl signaled for everyone to stop. He got off his motorcycle first, crossbow in hand, and moved quietly toward the entrance. After listening for a moment, he gestured that it was safe.
Calista brought the Harley to a stop, much steadier than before.
She took off her helmet, brushed her light blonde hair back into place, and walked toward the bar with Leah and Merle.
Pushing open the half-closed wooden door, a mix of stale alcohol, dust, and faint tobacco hit her.
In the dim light, three figures sat at the bar.
Rick. Glenn. And Hershel.
Several empty bottles sat in front of Hershel. He held a glass in his hand, amber liquid swaying inside.
He looked worse than when he left the farm. Unshaven. Eyes clouded.
But the rigid stubbornness he once carried seemed to have faded, replaced by a heavy, almost numb calm.
Or maybe acceptance.
Rick and Glenn sat beside him, having had a little to drink themselves.
When they saw Calista and the others walk in, relief crossed Rick's face. Glenn quickly stood up.
"You're here. We found Hershel."
Hershel slowly turned his head, his cloudy gaze sweeping over the four of them. It lingered briefly on Calista and Daryl, perhaps noticing the motorcycles, but he said nothing and simply took another drink.
"Hershel," Calista stepped forward, her tone steady. "I'm glad you're alright. Beth's been worried about you."
Hershel's hand trembled slightly. He set the glass down and let out a long, heavy breath, as if trying to empty everything weighing on him.
"I know. I'm a coward. A failure as a father... and a foolish old man stuck in the past."
His voice was rough and thick with alcohol, but the self-blame in it was painfully clear.
Rick placed a hand on his shoulder. "Hershel, nobody's perfect. We've all lost too much. What matters is that the ones still alive stick together and keep going."
Glenn added, "Yeah, Hershel. Maggie needs you too. The farm is everything you built. It's also the only home we've got left."
Hershel fell silent, staring at the shattered mirror behind the bar. It reflected his aged, haggard face.
"I watched them fall, one after another... I watched Shane. I watched all of you..." He shook his head.
"I kept lying. To myself. To Maggie. To Beth. I thought if I kept them locked up, I could hold on to something. But all I kept was danger... and more pain."
He looked up at Rick, eyes filled with both apology and exhaustion.
"Rick... I'm sorry. For everything before."
Those words meant he had finally stepped out of that illusion where walkers were still "patients" and faced reality.
Rick nodded firmly. "We understand. Let's leave the past behind. It's time to go home. Beth needs you. The farm needs you."
"Home..." Hershel murmured, his eyes glistening. He blinked hard and forced the tears back.
The old man steadied himself against the bar and rose, swaying slightly.
"Alright. Let's go home."