A cold anger grows in the pit of Daryl's stomach. What kind of sicko watches movies about that for fun? He thinks of the dead he knew and the dead he didn't, crawling over each other on the pavement, rotting flesh and broken, jutting bones, exposed teeth and cracked skulls...

These were people, once, she'd said, killing them shouldn't be fun.

"Nah," Daryl says, "ain't no movies."