The afternoon in Woodbury was stifling, like a steamer.
The Governor stood by the window of his office, back to Martinez, his fingers tapping lightly on the windowsill.
The town outside looked peaceful; people were walking in the streets, children chasing a ball in the square, sunlight shining on the roofs of those colorful houses. Everything looked like an ordinary afternoon before the apocalypse.
But he knew how fragile it all was.
"You mean..." His voice was very soft, so soft it made Martinez's back go cold: "That CDC has armored vehicles, helicopters, and heavily armed Soldiers?"
Martinez stood three steps behind him, sweat running down his forehead, not daring to wipe it away.
"Yes... yes, Governor. They wear uniform black uniforms, their equipment is very sophisticated; it's not something ordinary survivors could get their hands on."
"Government officials?" The Governor turned around, his face unreadable.
"Possibly..." Martinez swallowed hard: "Or it could be a private force. There's a logo on their vehicles, red and white, like an umbrella."
The Governor was silent for a long time. He walked to the row of fish tanks in the corner—six tanks, six Walker heads.
They floated in the murky water, mouths opening and closing, making faint clicking sounds.
This was his favorite collection; whenever he was thinking, he liked to watch them.
They didn't lie, didn't betray, and didn't haggle with him.
"Do they know who you are?" the Governor asked.
Martinez's voice dropped even lower: "They know... they know Woodbury, they know the Governor..."
Bang.
The gunshot exploded in the enclosed office, causing ripples in the fish tank water.
Martinez lowered his head, looking at the bleeding hole in his chest, his eyes wide, his lips moving a few times, but no words came out.
He slowly knelt down, then collapsed onto the floor, blood spreading from beneath him, drawing a dark red pattern on the wooden floor.
The Governor placed the pistol on the table, looking at Martinez's corpse, his expression as calm as if he were looking at a piece of worn-out furniture.
"I will avenge you..." he said: "I will make those people go down and keep you company."
The door was kicked open, and two guards rushed in with guns raised.
They saw the corpse on the floor, saw the gun in the Governor's hand, and froze at the doorway.
"Martinez did something wrong." The Governor put the gun away, his tone flat: "He provoked a force he shouldn't have. Now, they want us to hand him over and provide compensation."
The two guards looked at each other, saying nothing.
"But Woodbury does not sell out its own people." The Governor stood up and walked to the window, back to them: "I will explain the situation to the townspeople. We will suffer a temporary grievance, compensate them with some things, and when we are stronger in the future—"
He turned around, something flickering in his eyes: "We will pay them back a hundredfold."
The guards were silent for a few seconds, then nodded and dragged Martinez's corpse out.
A muffled sound came from the hallway—the final shot to the head.
An hour later, the square in Woodbury was packed with people.
The Governor stood on the steps, the sunlight outlining a halo behind him.
His voice was loud and powerful, echoing over the square: "My dear friends, today we have been bullied. A powerful force has used military threats to demand we hand over our fellow citizen and our supplies."
Whispers broke out in the crowd.
"But Woodbury will not yield." The Governor's voice rose: "We will endure for now, accumulate strength, and when that day comes—"
He raised his hand, pointing north: "We will make them pay it back a hundredfold!"
The square was silent for two seconds, then someone began to clap.
The applause grew denser and louder, finally merging into one.
Some were shouting the Governor's name, some were waving their fists.
The children didn't understand what the adults were so excited about, but they were infected by the atmosphere and started shouting too.
The Governor stood on the steps, smiling, waving at the crowd.
The sunlight shone on his face; the smile was warm and sincere, like a good leader who truly cared for the townspeople.
Only he knew how much calculation was pressed beneath that smile.
Privately, he had his right-hand man cut off Martinez's head and pack it to be sent to the CDC.
CDC, third-floor office.
Wu Fan stood before the map of Georgia on the wall, his fingers moving back and forth between several locations.
Atlanta was the center, the CDC was the base point. Within a fifty-mile radius, he needed a few nails.
He connected the points on the map, forming a loose network.
The prison, south of Atlanta, less than twenty miles from Woodbury.
That location was too good; it was so good that he felt it would be a loss not to occupy it.
High ground, easy to defend and hard to attack, chain-link fences, watchtowers, concrete buildings—it could be used with just a little renovation.
More importantly, it was close to the Governor.
Close enough to keep an eye on his every move.
He drew a red circle on the prison's location on the map.
Northwest, Hershel's farm.
The original plot had changed; the Atlanta Walker horde had come out. He didn't know if that stubborn Hershel had encountered the horde and if he could hold out.
But he had to go and take a look.
What if they were still there? Grain, livestock, land, plus that old veterinarian's connections and experience—all were things the base urgently needed.
He drew a blue circle on the farm's location.
The door was knocked on.
"Come in."
Rick and Glenn walked in.
Rick's spirit was much better than a few days ago; the dark circles under his eyes were still there, but he didn't look as tense overall.
Glenn followed behind, holding a printed route map.
"Sit."
Wu Fan pointed to the map: "Northwest, within twenty-five miles, search every farm, ranch, and plantation one by one. Focus on finding those that are still operating—those with people looking after them, with livestock, with seeds."
Rick stood up, looking at the blue circle on the map.
"Do you think there are still people there?"
"Possibly." Wu Fan said: "That area is far from the city. The first wave of the Walker horde passed through from the east, so the impact wasn't big. If someone prepared in advance, it's not impossible for them to have held out until now."
Glenn pointed to a country road on the map: "Take this road, passing seven or eight farms along the way. Can finish in two days."
Wu Fan nodded and looked at Rick: "You lead the team, Glenn drives. After finding a farm, observe first. Don't rush in; confirm it's safe before making contact."
Rick stood up: "Understood."
After they left, Wu Fan stood by the map for a while longer.
Then he picked up the phone: "Have Merle come over."
When Merle came in, he had a cigarette in his mouth, his face still showing the excitement of returning from Woodbury.
"Boss, time to make a move?"
"Make a move?" Wu Fan glanced at him: "What's the rush? I have a job for you."
Merle leaned toward the map.
Wu Fan's finger landed on the red circle south of Atlanta.
"The prison. You go scout it. See how many Walkers are inside, what the building structure is like, if the walls are intact, and if it can be retrofitted into a forward base."
Merle's eyes lit up.
He stared at the red circle on the map, then looked at the location of Woodbury further south, his mouth slowly curling up.
"Boss, you're looking to drive a nail right on his doorstep."
Wu Fan didn't take the bait.
"Take a squad. Reconnaissance is the priority. Don't alert the enemy."
Merle stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and stood straight: "Understood. When do we leave?"
"Tomorrow morning."
Merle turned to walk out, then looked back at the door: "Boss, if that Governor sends the stuff within three days, do we still hit him?"
Wu Fan looked at Woodbury's location on the map, silent for a few seconds.
"Whether he sends it or not, we're hitting him. Not now, though. Get the nail driven in first."
Merle grinned and pushed the door out.
The office quieted down.
Wu Fan stood before the map, looking at the red and blue circles, and lit a cigarette.
Prison, farm, forward base, logistics, supplies—one step at a time.
He flicked the ash into the tray. The sunset outside the window was setting, plating the entire base in a dark red layer.
~~~~~~
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