The Walking Dead: Starting as a Cowboy

Chapter 228 Women

Kill them?

She asked.

Daryl nodded and gestured with his left hand.

3, 2, 1.

Several gunshots rang out, and the few remaining people in the living room fell down.

When the ceiling collapsed in the living room, a lot of dust rolled down, making the whole living room look gray and gloomy.

Daryl helped Michonne up, and the two of them, guns in hand, carefully walked out of the living room.

The exterior wall of the living room had already collapsed, so the two of them didn't need to use the door; they could simply walk out of the living room and into the outdoors.

Only one car remained outside; no one else was in sight.

"Are they all dead?" Daryl's mind was a little muddled; well, he'd hit his head.

Michonne braced herself on Daryl's shoulder with one hand and straightened up. "No, a few ran away."

"Never mind them, let's go," Daryl said, shaking his head.

Michonne knew this too.

"Take out the gun holster and crossbow first, then go find the car."

Daryl may have hit his head, but that didn't mean he wasn't smart. He frowned: "Me, do all of this?"

"What else should I do?" Michonne rolled her eyes and stretched out her swollen ankle.

Daryl opened his mouth as if to say something, but in the end, he turned away silently and went back to work.

Michonne, holding her gun, sat in a slightly concealed spot, keeping watch outside.

After Daryl finished packing up, the two gathered all the group's belongings.

There was plenty of food, clean water, and fuel, which was drawn from the two cars.

The most urgent task is to find a car.

As for why they didn't ride in the still-intact car that the group brought, it's fair to say that if you were in that car, you would be surrounded by that strong smell, making it difficult to stay awake.

Fortunately, there were still a few drivable cars on both sides of the street.

Daryl tore off the car's lower fender, lit it, and poured all the fuel into the vehicle.

As soon as she sat down, Michonne smelled a musty odor, probably a mixture of smoke and decay.

After rolling down the car window, I saw Daryl holding a basin of water and splashing it on the windshield.

This made the vehicle, which looked as if it had crawled out of the mud, look much cleaner, except that Michonne hadn't closed the windows in time and got quite a bit wet.

Daryl, fuck you.

Michonne raised two middle fingers.

Daryl chuckled, climbed into the driver's seat, glanced at Michonne's sour face, and asked, "Want to listen to some music?"

"No!" Michonne's response was firm.

But Daryl is not one to take advice.

The next second, melodious country music drifted out from the speakers, giving a rare feeling that civilization still exists.

Daryl smiled, extended his right fist, and asked, "Shall we go?"

Michonne extended her left fist and bumped it with his.

The dust-covered car sped off, its tires screeching against the asphalt.

Driven by hoarse singing and guitar melodies, they traveled further afield.

A small town near Yellowstone.

From a distance, the town looks like a desolate, abandoned farm, devoid of any human traces. Everything seems to have returned to nature, with peace and tranquility being its main theme.

The chaotic clatter of horses' hooves broke the tranquility of the town, the sound growing increasingly frequent.

Rip rode a horse, dressed in a sturdy and durable denim outfit, with a bulletproof vest underneath his jacket.

He rode swiftly to Caesar's side.

Several cowboys hurriedly followed behind him, their voices soothing the horses.

"Why are you running so fast? What happened?" Caesar asked, frowning.

This was the first time he had taken his cowboy team out, and he had chosen such a quiet town, simply to let the cowboys experience the atmosphere of the outside world.

Unexpectedly, Rip was wearing sunglasses, holding the reins in one hand and pointing to the end of the road with the other.

"That hospital was full of zombies."

As soon as the words were spoken, the half-open gate of the hospital slowly opened, revealing some zombies dressed in surgical gowns.

The zombies seemed to have been deprived of sunlight for a long time, moving very slowly. Their skin was deathly pale, and their bluish-black veins were clearly visible.

Caesar counted roughly and found only a dozen or so zombies.

Caesar turned to Rip in surprise. "What do you mean? There are only a few walkers. You're not going to take some men and kill them all?"

Rip patted the horse beneath him: "I could certainly kill them if I weren't riding a horse, but I'm worried the horse will get eaten."

"Don't worry about that now. Take your men and kill them all."

Caesar raised his voice and reprimanded.

He understood that Rip was distressed by the horse's situation, but whether fighting zombies or humans, the horse was very likely to get injured. He couldn't avoid the battle just because he was afraid of the horse getting hurt.

During regular training, Caesar made sure they weren't afraid of anything.

Rip glanced at his men and shouted, "Charge!"

As he spoke, Rip pulled a mace from his saddlebag. It was brand new, crafted in Yellowstone, and of much better quality than the machetes you could buy on the street.

"Charge!"

The group shouted in unison and spurred their horses forward.

Judging from the way the men were charging, Caesar thought they really did look like cavalry.

The horse's charging force was very strong; even after accelerating for only this short distance, it still possessed great kinetic energy.

Rip bent slightly, and just as the horse and the walker were about to pass each other, he immediately brandished his demon head knife.

The Ghost Head Knife was sharp and heavy. With the added force, it slashed directly at the zombie's face, smoothly slicing open half of the zombie's head.

Brain matter and dark blood shot into the sky, and the skull spun in the air.

The cowboys behind him felt a surge of heat, let out a couple of strange shouts to embolden themselves, and charged forward together.

Compared to Rip's rich combat experience, their experience was far lacking, and not one of them could cut off the head of a walking corpse.

It was good enough if they could cut the zombies' heads; most of the time, they would cut into their chests and shoulders, the ghost-headed blades embedding themselves firmly into their flesh, and the horses would drag them for a while longer.

Once they stopped, the cowboys dismounted in a panic and hacked the walkers to death with their knives.

Caesar arrived on horseback, shouting, "Disperse! Disperse!"

The cowboys then dispersed, and the zombies surrounding them were practically turned into minced meat.

"Rip, when you get back to town, give them a few scarecrows and make them practice constantly."

Caesar pondered for a moment and then spoke.

Rip nodded.

"understood."

The zombie crisis was over, and Caesar pulled on the reins, wanting to turn the horses around.

"Help! Help! Is there anyone who can help me?"

A woman's voice came through, filled with panic and shortness of breath, as if she were desperately thirsty in the desert, struggling to call for help.

"shelf!"

Rip looked back and saw Night Fury carrying Caesar flash past like a black shadow.

In the hospital courtyard, the woman lay on the concrete ground, her chest heaving, staring blankly at the staggering corpse.