Two pickup trucks drove in from the southern highway, their bodies caked in a layer of grayish-yellow mud, a long crack running across the windshield.
They were moving slowly, as if hesitating about something.
In the lead vehicle, Shumpert gripped the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the steel fortress looming ever closer ahead.
The wall made of stacked shipping containers shimmered with a dark, rusted red in the sunlight. Every few dozen meters, a sentry tower built from scaffolding stood, manned by individuals in black uniforms, their gun barrels pointed downward but ready to be raised at any moment.
Shards of broken glass were embedded along the top of the concrete wall, glinting in the daylight.
Gaps where concrete hadn't yet been poured were blocked by shipping containers, stacked two high and filled with gravel and sand, looking even sturdier than the concrete walls.
A helicopter rose from behind the wall, the sound of its rotors audible from a great distance.
It had a gray fuselage, an autocannon mounted under the nose, and missiles on the pylons on both sides.
It hovered in the air for a few seconds before flying off to the north.
Shumpert's fingers tightened on the steering wheel.
The Governor had sent him to deliver a gift and, incidentally, to check out the details of this place.
Now he had seen it, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to see this much.
The pickup trucks were stopped at the entrance.
Two guards in black uniforms approached with their guns drawn. One checked the supplies in the truck bed, while the other walked around to the driver's side and knocked on the window.
"What are you here for?"
Shumpert rolled down the window, forcing a smile: "We're from Woodbury. The Governor sent us to deliver something."
The guard glanced at him, then at the cargo in the back. After checking that everything was in order, he waved them through without further questions.
The pickup trucks drove along the road into the interior.
The road was an existing highway, with drainage ditches dug along both sides.
Beyond that was a cleared open space where the weeds had been scraped away, leaving a bare expanse of yellow earth, the view so open that even a wild rabbit couldn't hide.
Shumpert slowed down, his eyes constantly scanning both sides.
On the left side of the road was a training ground.
Dozens of people in black T-shirts were lined up in rows, performing tactical maneuvers.
A person in camouflage was shouting commands at the front of the formation, their voice as resonant as if they were at a military parade.
The guns in those people's hands weren't some hodgepodge; they were all uniform G36s, gleaming with a matte black, cold light in the sun.
On the right side of the road, three tanks were parked.
With camouflage paint, it was clear they were from the old military. Their barrels pointed toward the sky, and the mud on their treads was still wet, as if they had just returned from a run outside.
A Black man stood next to the tanks, gesturing at a dozen or so people.
Some were climbing onto the roof, some were crawling under the chassis, and others were making hand signals next to the turret—it was training.
Shumpert swallowed hard.
Tanks.
These people had tanks, and they were training even more tankers.
The convoy passed through the training ground and entered a residential area.
The houses here were in that typical American small-town style: single-story bungalows, two-story houses with peaked roofs, lawns and fences in front, and people hanging laundry in their yards.
A few children were chasing a ball by the side of the road, while their mothers sat on the front steps, watching the children while picking vegetables.
Three people in police uniforms walked out from around a corner, handguns tucked at their waists, walkie-talkies in hand, patrolling the sidewalk at a leisurely pace.
Shumpert looked at the backs of the police officers, then at the children playing by the side of the road, and suddenly felt that he had made a mistake coming here.
Woodbury also had order, rules, patrols, and children playing.
But that order was maintained by the Governor through endless lies, pacifying people with looted supplies and fabricated stories. Anyone who opposed him was secretly dealt with, leaving behind only those deceived by his facade.
The order here was different.
He couldn't put his finger on what was different, but he could feel it.
The pickup trucks drove through the town and reached the perimeter of the CDC's barbed wire fence.
The guards here were twice as numerous as at the entrance, with machine guns mounted behind sandbag bunkers, and anti-vehicle trenches dug outside the barbed wire.
A person in a black uniform walked out from behind a bunker, holding a registration log, and gestured with their chin toward Shumpert.
"Leave the supplies, you can go."
Shumpert's expression changed.
He had driven dozens of miles, bringing a truckload of supplies and even a human head, only to be denied entry? He pressed his lips into a thin line, wanting to say something, but swallowed it back.
He picked up the cloth bag from the passenger seat and handed it to Kyle.
"This is the head of the guy who acted on his own."
His voice was stiff: "It's been dealt with."
Kyle took the cloth bag, opened a corner, and saw the grayish-white face inside.
He didn't recognize it, but he had heard that some bold fool had sent people to tail their convoy, trying to target them.
He frowned, closed the bag, and set it aside.
"Got it."
Shumpert stood there, waiting.
He waited for nothing.
He clenched his fists at his sides, then released them.
"Those supplies—"
He pointed to the crates of canned goods and bottled water in the truck bed: "Our town residents are short on living supplies, and we used some of yours. The Governor says we'll return this much for now, and the rest—"
"As for the rest, our BOSS says to have it gathered within three days."
Kyle's tone was as flat as if he were talking about the weather: "Otherwise, we'll come and take it ourselves."
Shumpert's face turned ashen.
He stared at Kyle for a few seconds, then turned and opened the car door.
"Let's go."
The pickup trucks turned around and drove back the way they came.
In the rearview mirror, the man was still standing there, holding the cloth bag, watching them leave.
Shumpert floored the gas pedal.
He didn't want to see this place again.
But he knew he would be back. Not to deliver gifts, but to wage war.
By then, these walls, these tanks, these helicopters—would all be razed to the ground.
He gripped the steering wheel, burying the thought deep in his heart, like holding down an unexploded mine.
Kyle watched the two pickup trucks disappear at the end of the road and handed the cloth bag to the guard beside him.
"Dispose of it."
The guard took the cloth bag, frowned, and turned to walk away.
Kyle picked up the phone and dialed an extension: "Amy, the people from Woodbury have been here. We accepted the supplies and the head. They said the rest will be gathered within three days."
There was a second of silence on the other end of the line.
"The BOSS knows. He said to let them gather it. If they can't, we'll take it ourselves."
Kyle hung up the phone and stood outside the bunker to light a cigarette.
He looked at the empty highway to the south and exhaled a puff of smoke.
Woodbury.
He had remembered the name.
Woodbury.
By the time Shumpert parked the car in front of the Governor's Mansion, it was already getting dark.
He sat in the driver's seat, gripping the steering wheel, and didn't get out immediately.
In the rearview mirror, his face was dusty, with two deep shadows beneath his eyes.
He took a deep breath and pushed the door open to get out.
The Governor was sitting on the sofa in his office, with an untouched glass of whiskey in front of him.
The few heads in the fish tank slowly rotated under the dim light, mouths opening and closing, as if saying something in silence.
Shumpert stood at the door and recounted everything he had seen today.
The training ground, the tanks, the helicopter, the walls, the patrolling police, the playing children.
With each thing he mentioned, the Governor's expression grew darker.
"Their person in charge didn't even show their face?"
The Governor's voice was very calm.
"No."
Shumpert said: "Just someone at the gate checking people in; they didn't even give a name."
The Governor stood up and walked to the fish tank.
He looked at the newest head inside—the guy who had spread rumors to expose his lies—slowly rotating in the water, empty eye sockets facing him, mouth agape, as if questioning him.
"Three days..."
The Governor said: "Three days from now, they are coming to take the rest of the supplies."
Shumpert didn't speak.
The Governor turned around, a smile appearing on his face.
That smile didn't reach his eyes.
"Then let them come."
Shumpert looked at that smile, a chill running down his back.
He nodded and turned to leave.