The freight yard was shrouded in morning mist, with shipping containers piled up like silent, grey hills.
Rick stood before a forty-foot shipping container, looking at the pried-open lock. The sheet metal had been bent by a crowbar, revealing a gap large enough for a person to crawl through.
He pulled the door open; it was completely empty inside, not even a scrap of packaging left.
He turned to look at the other two—also pried open, also emptied out.
The character "Food" he had spray-painted on the container was still there, bright red, like a mocking face.
"Don't let me find out who did this."
Rick's voice was low, but anyone could hear the anger behind it.
Glenn stood to the side, looking at the empty container, scratching his head, not daring to speak.
Rick took a deep breath and picked up his radio: "Prioritize moving the daily necessities. Canned goods, water, medicine; clothes and quilts can be sent later."
His men dispersed, and forklifts and trailers shuttled back and forth across the container yard.
Rick stood at a vantage point, watching the emptied containers, his fists clenched tight.
Five days ago, they had been here clearing out Walkers, marking supplies, and planning routes.
There had been thousands of Walkers, but thanks to the sound system trick Glenn had come up with, it took them two days to clear them all out.
And the result? Someone else reaped the benefits.
The radio crackled.
The man on perimeter watch spoke in a low voice: "Sir, vehicles are approaching. Eight of them—pickups and civilian humvees—heading this way."
Rick's expression shifted.
He picked up his binoculars and looked toward the road.
A convoy was emerging from the dust. Leading the way was a modified pickup with a machine gun mounted in the bed, followed by several civilian humvees, their bodies splattered with mud and long cracks running across their windshields.
"Everyone, drop what you're doing and take cover."
Rick's voice was calm, but his men could hear what lay beneath that calmness.
The forklifts cut their engines, and the trailers ground to a halt.
Over twenty men scattered behind the containers, their guns aimed in the direction of the convoy.
The eight vehicles stopped at the entrance of the freight yard, engines cutting out, kicking up a cloud of dust.
Windows rolled down, and someone poked their head out to peer over, then quickly pulled back.
A few of the vehicles stayed put, like a pack of wild dogs unsure whether to approach.
Caesar Martinez sat in the passenger seat of the second vehicle, his hand resting on the window frame, watching the people in the distance moving supplies.
He recognized the black uniforms and the red-and-white umbrella emblem.
"It's them again."
He whispered.
The subordinate next to him leaned over: "Boss, aren't we going in to grab the stuff? They haven't finished moving those two containers yet—"
"Wait until they're done."
Martinez cut him off, eyes fixed on Rick in the distance: "If we go over now, it might lead to a conflict. Look at them—dressed in uniform, well-equipped. They aren't to be trifled with."
The subordinate pulled back.
The car went quiet, save for the faint ticking of the cooling engine.
Martinez lit a cigarette, the smoke slowly dissipating inside the vehicle.
He remembered yesterday; that was when they had hauled away three containers of supplies from this very spot.
Canned goods, bottled water, and several crates of medicine.
Enough to keep Woodbury going for a few days.
Coming back today, he wanted to try his luck and see if there was any food left in the other containers.
He hadn't expected to run into this group again.
The sound of an engine came from the distance.
A black humvee drove out of the container yard and headed toward them.
Martinez sat up straight, his hand resting on the door handle.
"Don't shoot."
He told the people in the car: "No one is allowed to shoot."
The humvee stopped in front of them.
Martinez saw the vehicle clearly—a military humvee, reinforced armor, bulletproof glass, a machine gun mounted on the roof.
It was identical to the ones from yesterday.
The door opened, and a person stepped out.
Fully armed, wearing a black combat uniform, tactical vest, tactical helmet, and a pitch-black glass visor covering their face.
Those eyes swept coldly across the convoy, lingering on each person's face for a second.
Martinez pushed the door open and stepped out.
He tried his best to look calm, but he knew that compared to the other person's gear, his own wrinkled plaid shirt made him look like a beggar standing before a general.
Rick sized up Martinez, then looked at the vehicles behind him.
"This place is under our control."
His voice wasn't loud, but it was clear: "If you're in urgent need of food, I can share some with you."
Martinez's expression changed.
He hadn't expected the other party to speak first, and even less did he expect them to offer to share supplies.
This made all the arguments he had prepared useless.
He cleared his throat, trying to make his voice sound tougher: "The supplies here should be split among everyone. This place doesn't belong to anyone, so what right do you have to occupy it?"
Rick looked at him without speaking.
Martinez continued: "Besides, when we came yesterday afternoon, there was no one here. By rights, we arrived first, so the supplies here should belong to us."
Rick's gaze changed.
It wasn't anger; it was something colder.
"Yesterday?"
He said slowly: "You're the ones who stole those three containers of supplies yesterday."
Martinez opened his mouth but couldn't get any words out.
"This place was secured by us five days ago."
Rick's voice was like a blade, every word precise: "We cleared out those Walkers. We marked those containers. I can let go of what you stole yesterday, and I can even share some with you today, but tomorrow—"
He took a step forward.
"Tomorrow, this will be our territory. If you come back, it will be an invasion."
Silence.
The wind blew through the freight yard tracks, kicking up a swirl of dust.
Martinez stood there, the muscles in his face twitching.
He wanted to say something, wanted to say "What right do you have," wanted to say "This is public property," wanted to say so many things.
But looking into Rick's eyes, he couldn't say a thing.
He turned and walked back to his car.
The moment the door closed, the car erupted.
"Damn it, kill them!"
Someone shouted, slapping the seat.
"It's just a few of them, and we have so many people—"
"Shut up."
Martinez's voice wasn't loud, but everyone went quiet.
He pointed to the black humvee outside the window, then pointed to the shadowy figures in the container yard in the distance.
"Did you see clearly? Military humvee, bulletproof. What are those people wearing? Fully armed. What do we have to fight them with?"
No one spoke.
Martinez leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes.
After a while, he opened his eyes and said to the person in the back seat: "Crowley, wait until they leave, then follow them."
"Follow them?"
"Find out where their base is."
Martinez watched the fully armed figure outside the window: "Go back and report to the Governor so he can decide."
Crowley nodded and said nothing more.
The convoy started up, the eight vehicles turned around and drove back the way they came.
In the rearview mirror, the person in the black combat uniform was still standing there, watching them leave, getting smaller and smaller, until finally becoming a black dot that disappeared into the dust.
Rick stood there, watching the convoy leave until the last vehicle disappeared at the end of the road.
He picked up the radio: "Withdraw. Take all the supplies we can carry and leave immediately."
"We're being followed."
The voice of the perimeter guard came over the radio: "A pickup truck, parked around the bend in the road, engine still running."
Rick looked back but saw nothing. Yet he knew his man wouldn't be mistaken.
"Copy that. Ignore him, let him follow."
By the time the convoy drove out of the freight yard, the sun had already risen high.
Rick sat in the passenger seat, watching the faint outline of the pickup truck in the distance through the rearview mirror.
It was following carefully, about a mile back, maintaining a steady distance.
Glenn gripped the steering wheel and also glanced in the rearview mirror: "Lose them?"
"No need."
Rick said: "Let him follow."
"Let him follow us to the base?"
Rick didn't answer.
He looked at the wilderness passing by outside the window, remained silent for a moment, and then picked up the radio: "Headquarters, this is Rick. We are being followed by a pickup truck. The faction behind it is currently unknown. Yes, let him follow. We'll take him alive for interrogation. Copy."
He turned off the radio and leaned back against the seat.
Glenn glanced at him in the rearview mirror, wanting to ask something but deciding against it.
The convoy drove along the road, while the pickup truck behind trailed them from a distance like a hound that had caught a scent.
Passing an abandoned box truck, the lead vehicle turned aside and cut its engine, while the other vehicles continued on normally.
The pickup truck following Rick and his group didn't notice the humvee hidden beside the wrecked box truck.
Then, the hidden humvee started up and chased down the pickup. Rick and his group also stopped. When the pickup tried to turn and escape into the woods on the side, its tires were given a warm welcome.
Crowley stepped out in a panic, hands raised, looking disheveled.
Rick captured him and sent him back to the CDC for interrogation.
~~~~~~~~
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