The Walking Dead, Rude Awakening

Amy practically sprinted toward her tent, her face still flushed from her time in Joe's tent.

A few heads turned at her hurried pace, most notably Rick and Lori, who exchanged a subtle glance.

Carl, sitting nearby with a stick in his hand, waved enthusiastically at her with a big grin.

He liked Amy. She always smiled at him, and her hair reminded him of sunshine.

Amy ducked into the tent and immediately let out a shaky breath, placing a hand over her heart as if that would calm the storm thundering in her chest.

But the moment of relief was short-lived.

"Well, nice of you to drop by," came Andrea's voice, thick with attitude and amusement.

Amy jumped. "Huh?"

Andrea raised an eyebrow, arms crossed. "You left last night."

Amy blinked, her mind scrambling. "No, I just… woke up early."

Andrea gave a slow, exaggerated nod. "Right... so, you get some?"

Amy froze. "What?"

Andrea grinned like a fox that had just cornered a rabbit. "You know?..."

Amy's face twisted in confusion, then realization hit her like a slap to the face.

"Nothing happened between me and Joe last night!" she blurted out. Too quickly, too defensively.

Andrea's grin widened, triumphant. "Joe? Who said anything about Joe?"

Amy's eyes widened in horror.

Andrea leaned in, mock innocence dripping from her voice. "So… how was it? Did it hurt? Was he big?"

"ANDREA!" Amy shouted, face so hot, it looked like she might catch fire.

Andrea burst into laughter, doubling over with glee as Amy scrambled out of the tent, mortified.

"Nothing happened!!" Amy cried again, running through camp like the word itself could erase what just happened.

A few people looked up from their morning routines at the outburst, following Amy's trajectory, only to catch sight of Joe stepping out of his tent. A white shirt and blue jeans.

The transformation was startling.

No beard. No grime. Just sharp, clean features with a faint shadow of stubble that made him look a decade younger.

He was almost unrecognizable. The same cold, battle-hardened presence, but now unmasked.

Murmurs passed through the camp.

"Is that the same guy?"

"He looks… normal."

"Damn…"

Joe ignored the stares, his face unreadable as always.

His eyes scanned the area but didn't linger on Amy, even as he registered her fleeing form.

He moved toward the fire where a small group had gathered, including Rick.

Rick stood and gave him a once-over, surprise flickering in his eyes before he smirked. "Damn, Joe... you clean up nice."

Joe gave a faint grunt of amusement. "Thanks."

Rick handed him a plate with a generous helping of fried squirrel and baked beans. "Best we've got today. Hope you're hungry."

Joe accepted it with a simple nod.

He sat down, eating slowly, calmly. Like he hadn't just shaken the entire camp by existing a little too handsomely this morning.

Across the way, Amy peeked out from behind a tent post. Watching him, face still pink, heart still racing in her chest.

And somewhere inside... something felt different."

Rick leaned slightly toward Joe, smirking. "Rest well?"

Joe nodded, swallowing the last of the baked beans. "Best sleep I've had in a while."

Rick chuckled. "Glad to hear it."

Beside Rick, Lori looked up from her plate, her eyes briefly meeting Joe's before drifting back to her husband.

She blushed faintly, her thoughts slipping to the previous night. Rick's warm arms, soft laughter, a rare moment of peace.

For a few seconds, she tuned out the noise around her, her expression distant and fond.

Meanwhile, Joe polished off the last bite of squirrel. Despite its stringy texture and metallic aftertaste, it filled his stomach and would help with recovery.

His leg, once wrapped tightly with gauze and dried blood, throbbed less than it had the day before. Another day or two, and he'd be at full strength.

He stood and quietly excused himself, brushing off the few crumbs that clung to his jeans. His eyes scanned the camp.

He wasn't the type to sit still, not when there was work to be done. He needed to move, to do something.

His gaze landed on a woman with salt-and-pepper hair near the camp's center, sorting through a small pile of washed clothes and containers.

She looked up as he approached, her body stiffening slightly at the sharpness of his expression.

A default look carved by conflict and habit. But then he spoke, and it softened her defenses.

"Need any help?" he asked, his voice lower and gentler than she expected.

She paused, thrown by the contrast between his face and tone. "No, I'm alright," she said after a beat, then pointed across the way. "The guys over there by the challenger might need a hand."

Joe nodded once. "Okay, thanks," he said.

She watched him walk away, still trying to square his face with his manners.

Joe headed toward the group of men standing around the red Dodge Challenger.

They were in the process of salvaging whatever they could from it, battery, hoses, belts, even seat cushions.

The car itself was beautiful, but impractical. It screamed fuel inefficiency and noise. Two things nobody needed at the moment.

Without a word, Joe hunched over the front end, assessing the engine bay.

Then he went to work, unfastening coolant hoses, pulling vacuum lines, stripping clamps and minor components like he was born with a wrench in his hand.

His movements were smooth, practiced, purposeful. A few of the guys exchanged glances, impressed.

"That guy knows what he's doin'," one muttered.

They watched in silence as Joe popped the alternator off its bracket with ease.

Behind them, a soft whimper floated into the air. "My car…"

Joe paused and turned his head, spotting Glenn standing just a few paces back, staring at the gutted Challenger with a look of utter heartbreak.

"My beautiful car…" Glenn murmured again, voice cracking.

Joe blinked once, expression blank, then turned back around and resumed work.

"Look at them…" Glenn muttered to someone behind him. "Vultures…"

Joe, unfazed, finished collecting a bundle of salvaged parts and straightened up.

Slinging the bundle under one arm, he made his way to the RV.

Up top, Dale was on lookout with his ever-present rifle. The older man squinted as Joe approached, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

There was something about the way he looked at Joe. Less like he was worried about a threat, and more like Joe had just crept out of his daughter's window.

Joe gave him a brief glance but said nothing.

He was used to those kinds of looks.

Entering the RV, he set the bundle of parts in a plastic bin labeled for "engine components and hardware." Around it were similar bins—some half-filled, some organized, others a chaotic mess.

Joe crouched and began sorting the ones around him. He worked in silence, the hum of camp life drifting around him. A quiet rhythm, calm… for now.

A high-pitched scream ripped through the air. "Ahh, mom!"

Joe didn't hesitate.

The parts in his hands hit the RV floor with a clatter as he bolted out the door, instincts overriding thought.

He was already sprinting before most even reacted, his legs driving him forward, weaving between tents and startled campers.

He overtook a few of the men running ahead, finding himself just behind Rick as they pushed into the treeline, their boots crunching leaves and twigs.

They burst into a small clearing, hearts pounding.

At first glance, the scene was confusing, a downed deer lay in the grass, multiple arrows jutting from its flank. It should have been the prize of a hard-won hunt.

But that wasn't what caused the scream.

A walker, snared in a makeshift trap just a few feet from the carcass, thrashed wildly. Its decaying limbs strained against the wire noose cutting into its leg, jaws snapping, gurgling hungrily at the fresh kill just out of reach.

The group skidded to a stop. Rick instinctively pulled Sophia and Carl behind him, shielding the children.

The others stood frozen, hands hovering over weapons but paralyzed with indecision, their hesitation palpable.

Joe didn't hesitate.

With silent, focused calm, he unsheathed his knife and stepped forward. The walker turned to him, snarling.

Joe didn't flinch.

One smooth motion.

Shhk!

The knife drove into the skull. The body went slack. Groaning ending.

Joe yanked the blade free, wiped it on the walkers shirt without ceremony, and turned. His expression unreadable as he scanned the others.

They were staring at him. Some in awe, others unsettled by his ease, his cold precision.

"What?" he asked, tone flat.

No one anwered..

Joe's attention shifted to the kids. He crouched in front of Sophia, his hardened expression softening as he studied her trembling form. "You alright?" he asked gently.

Sophia nodded slowly. Then suddenly lunged forward, wrapping her arms around him. Joe stiffened, stunned, caught off guard by the hug.

But after a moment, his arm came around her small back. He held her carefully, protectively.

Carl stared at him, wide-eyed and awestruck. Joe glanced at him.

The kid's gaze practically sparkled, looking at Joe like he'd just watched Superman descend from the sky.

The tension in the group immediately eased.

"Let's head back," Rick said, voice low. He gave Joe a respectful nod as the others started to move.

They didn't get far.

Rustling in the bushes made everyone halt and turn. A muttered curse followed. "Damn traps slowin' me down…"

Out from the brush stepped a man who looked like he'd walked straight out of a hunting catalog with a chip on his shoulder.

Vest, crossbow, scruffy beard, and the unmistakable gait of someone who knew how to survive.

Daryl Dixon.

He barely spared the group a glance before his eyes locked onto the walker... and then the deer beside it.

"No… no-no-no," he growled, storming forward. Rage twisted his face. Then he exploded. Thud! Thud! Whack!

He kicked the walker's corpse repeatedly. "Filthy disease-bearing, motherless poxy bastard!"

Dale called from behind, "Calm down, son."

Daryl turned on him, face red and eyes wild. "Why don't you mind your own damn business, old man? That's my deer... I tracked that thing for miles."

Dale lifted a hand, staying cool. "I get it. But look at the deer, it's untouched. No bites."

Daryl paused, panting. Then turned slowly, eyes scanning the body.

When he saw the clean flesh, unspoiled by rot or infection, his scowl slowly gave way to a grin.

"Venison for dinner," he muttered.

A few of the others clapped him on the back. "Damn good work, Dixon." "We owe you one." Spirits lifted immediately at the promise of real meat.

Joe stepped back as the group clustered around the deer. He turned at the sound of hurried footsteps behind him.

Amy, Andrea, Lori, and Carol had arrived, faces pale, eyes wide. Lori and Carol rushed past him, straight to their children, wrapping them in tight hugs.

Andrea stopped beside the walker's body, staring down at it with a frown.

Amy didn't stop at all. Her legs carried her instinctively to Joe's side.

She stood close, brushing against him. Seeking comfort she didn't fully realize she was chasing.

Joe noticed, glancing down at her, but said nothing.

Across the clearing, Andrea raised an eyebrow, catching the subtle closeness.

Then her lips curled into a knowing smirk.

She was going to love wash duty.