Next day came in a flash.
I got up a bit later than usual, which is enough to tell just how exhausted I was yesterday. Thankfully, it was only by a few hours.
It was already nine twenty-five. I did my basic hygiene first and got to make a quick breakfast before I head out.
I reached for my inventory and grabbed a kettle, a bottle of water, and a couple packets of instant coffee. I set them to the side, then reached out again—a non-stick pan, a plastic dish, and a portable two-burner butane stove.
I did a quick rinse on the pan, plate, and kettle. I filled the kettle with two mugs' worth of water and let it boil, then lit up the second burner and left the pan to heat up. Next, I grabbed a couple of eggs, a packet of bacon, and a plastic-wrapped half a loaf of bread.
Once the pan was at the correct temperature, I laid in eight slices of bacon and watched them as they sizzled away. The bacon's fatty enough so there was no need to add any more grease. I flipped them a couple times until they were crispy enough for my liking before I transferred them to the plate.
I then cracked the two eggs straight into the now-greased-up pan and added a little splash of salt and pepper. Seven minutes later, and they were done. I transferred them to the plate as well.
I then grabbed a couple slices of bread and sat them in the pan to crisp up a bit. Two minutes later, and my bread was done.
The water was now boiling. I turned off the two burners, poured the water into a mug, and poured in the first packet of instant coffee. I stirred it a bit with a random spoon I grabbed from my inventory, then began to eat.
Ten minutes later, I gulped down the last of my second mug of coffee. I got up, rinsed everything clean, and stored them back inside my inventory.
I then I grabbed my pack and weapons.
Time to find Negan.
With that, I stepped out of the house. Once I was out, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The morning air was cool and crisp; the fog had just started to clear up. I looked around the place now that it was morning. It was your average residential suburban street.
I leaned back against the door and adjusted my rifle strap. I let my eyes wander down the quiet road. Houses lined both sides of the road, their overgrown lawns spilling out into the gutters. Doors hung off their hinges, windows were shattered, and dead leaves covered the driveways.
Finding one specific guy in a town like this without calling him on a radio sounds like finding a needle in a haystack. But Negan wasn't just any survivor—he had a dying wife on his hands. That meant he was chained to a routine, whether he liked it or not.
I started moving down the sidewalk, keeping my footsteps light and my head on a swivel.
"Medical waste," I muttered to myself.
That was the first big clue. Lucille was sick with cancer, hooked up to IVs and taking whatever meds Negan could scavenge or barter for.
People who are taking care of a bedridden patient leave a recognizable trail: discarded pill bottles, dirty rags, empty IV bags, or empty water jugs tossed near a house. He wouldn't throw that stuff out in the front yard where everyone could see, but if I checked the alleys, trash bins, or back porches, something was bound to turn up.
Then there's security. Negan wouldn't just sit out in the open—not with Lucille unable to run if a herd rolled through or raiders showed up. The house he's using will likely have barricaded ground-floor windows, a hidden entrance, or simple booby traps to protect his wife.
Stuff like tripwires tied to tin cans or broken glass spread across the front porch and doorsteps. Little things to buy him a few extra seconds if someone tried to breach the place.
And finally: noise.
That was going to be the dead giveaway. Chemotherapy drugs and certain medications need to be kept cold or they go bad fast. To keep Lucille's stash fresh, Negan would need a refrigerator or a portable cooler running continuously. That meant a generator.
Negan is using a noisy generator to keep Lucille's medication fresh, and even a muffled small gas engine hums like a horn in a neighborhood this dead. All I had to do was get close enough to hear it.
With my plan on how to find my targets taking shape, I started to move. I cut through the backyards instead of staying out in the middle of the street. Overgrown hedges, wooden privacy fences, and overturned patio furniture made for good cover.
I kept my knife drawn, ducking under low branches and checking every back porch I passed.
The first few houses were duds—just empty, ransacked structures with open back doors and rotting trash scattered in the kitchens. Nothing that looked like a long-term medical setup.
I didn't lose hope, though. I continued going from house to house. They were almost the same: wide-open doors, ransacked insides, and scattered walkers that I swiftly took care of.
I pushed through a broken wooden gate into the yard of a house that was second to the last house at the end of the street. Right away, my eyes caught something sitting inside a rusted wheelbarrow near the back door.
I stepped over, keeping my posture low, and nudged the pile with my boot. Plastic tubing, a dozen or so of empty saline bags, and a couple dozen crushed amber pill bottles with the labels scraped off.
I crouched down, picking up one of the bottles. Some of the plastic was newer than the rest—clean, no dirt or algae buildup.
It hadn't been sitting out in the rain for months. It was tossed here recently. A week ago, maybe less.
I straightened up, my eyes narrowing as I looked up at the two-story brick house attached to the yard. The back windows were covered from the inside with heavy plywood screwed tightly into the frames. No light was getting out, and no one was peeking in.
I held my breath and listened closely, pressing my ear toward the basement storm doors near the foundation.
Thump... thump... thump...
It was faint, but it was there. Muffled under heavy blankets or wooden boards, the steady rhythmic idle of a small gas generator humming away in the dark.
I let out a quiet breath, a faint smirk tugging at my mouth. "Found you, Negan."
I stepped back from the basement doors, resting my hand on the grip of my pistol. The hard part wasn't finding him. The hard part was going to be walking up to his door without him blowing my head off the second I opened my mouth.
One can only hope for the best.
(To be continued...)