About thirty miles from the prison, a small town near what had once been a busy interstate interchange had now become a ghost town.
Storefront windows were shattered, and abandoned vehicles clogged the streets.
The wind swept dust across the road with a dull, monotonous whine.
A Dodge Ram pickup, its cargo bed reinforced with steel plates and fitted with gun ports, rolled quietly into the edge of town.
The driver was a lean, short white man with a headband tied around his forehead. He looked like he couldn't sit still, his fingers constantly tapping the steering wheel.
The man in the passenger seat was around forty, solidly built, with neatly cropped hair and stubble. He wore an olive-green tactical vest, and his steady eyes made him look like a veteran.
In the back sat a young Asian man whose eyes kept darting around.
"Crowley, turn left. Check the back lot of that motel," the man in the passenger seat said hoarsely to the smaller man.
"I passed through last month. There was a warehouse back there with a door that wasn't fully locked. Might still be something good inside."
"Got it, Martinez." Crowley turned the wheel while winking at Martinez, motioning for him to look back at the restless young man.
"Tim, first time out with us, huh? You're not gonna piss yourself when you see walkers, are you?"
Tim gave a couple of awkward, dry laughs.
The truck rolled over cracked asphalt and weeds, then turned into the motel parking lot.
The lot was large, and sure enough, there was a half-open metal warehouse in the corner.
A few walkers, drawn by the sound of the engine, staggered out from the ruined guestroom walkway.
"Same as always," Martinez ordered. "Crowley, Tim, clear the entrance. I'll cover you."
Crowley grinned, got out with an MP5 submachine gun in hand, and quickly moved toward the nearest walkers.
A few soft pfft sounds later, the walkers collapsed to the ground.
Tim followed just behind and to the side with a shotgun, nervously looking left and right as the muzzle wavered.
Martinez stood behind the pickup door with his gun ready, relaxed in posture but alert as he swept his gaze over every dark window on the motel's second floor, then the street entrance farther away.
He had long since gone numb to jobs like this. They were as routine as eating and drinking.
The Governor needed supplies, medicine, and anything else that could keep Woodbury going, or at least make it look "good" on the surface.
And they were the Governor's hands, reaching out into the rotten apocalypse beyond.
Sometimes they brought back cans and bandages from searches. More often, they brought back... other things.
There was indeed something to be found in the small warehouse.
A few boxes of damp but barely usable toilet paper, a pile of tools that weren't too badly rusted, and in the corner, even two small unopened buckets of antifreeze. They were expired, but they would still be useful for something.
Crowley grumbled as he rummaged around, while Tim loaded the supplies into the back of the pickup.
"This is it?" Crowley kicked an empty box, sending dust flying. "All this junk? What a waste of a trip."
"Still a hell of a lot better than going back empty-handed. There are fewer and fewer survivor camps around here, and anything worth taking has pretty much already been taken. We're lucky to bring even this much back."
Martinez inspected the tools, picking out a few pliers and wrenches that were still in decent shape. "Let's go. Next spot."
The pickup set off again, moving slowly along the interstate service road as they searched for any place that might be hiding supplies.
The afternoon sun began to slant west, stretching the shadows of the ruins.
Just as they were about to turn onto a small road leading to an abandoned factory, Crowley, who was driving, suddenly went, "Huh?" and stepped on the brake to slow down.
"What is it?" Martinez asked.
"Look at the ground." Crowley pointed at the road ahead.
It was a fork leading onto an old county road beside the interstate. The road had fallen into disrepair, but it was still relatively flat.
Two clear tire tracks were printed in the dry dirt.
They were fresh, crushing small branches that had only recently been blown onto the road. The edges were sharp, with hardly any dust covering them.
"Not ours." Martinez had already gotten out and was crouching beside the tracks, examining them closely.
He touched the dirt at the edge of the ruts, then rubbed it between his fingers. "Less than twenty-four hours. Maybe less. Judging from the depth, the vehicle was carrying a heavy load."
Crowley crouched down too, frowning as he leaned closer. "Came from the north and turned onto that little road."
He pointed toward the road that led into hills and woodland. "What's over there?"
Martinez stood and narrowed his eyes, looking down the road.
The trees there were fairly dense, with faint rolling hills visible in the distance.
"Don't know. The map doesn't show any major settlements in this area. Might've been a few scattered farms before." He thought for a moment.
"But these tracks... they don't look like they were left by people wandering aimlessly. They turned in cleanly, and they were carrying weight."
A hidden excitement rose in all three of them.
In the apocalypse, unfamiliar tire tracks could mean a lot of things.
They might belong to competitors also searching for supplies, a dangerous band of raiders, or an unknown survivor community with vehicles.
And vehicles and supplies were always scarce.
"Should we follow?" Tim asked nervously, instinctively tightening his grip on the hunting rifle.
Crowley's eyes gleamed with excitement. "Of course we follow! What if they're an easy score? If we go back empty-handed, the Governor might not say it out loud, but he'll definitely be pissed. But if we bring back some 'big news,' like finding a new sheep pen..."
He licked his lips.
Martinez took a little longer to think it over.
He was more cautious, and he understood better than most the Governor's desire for control hidden beneath that mild-looking mask.
An unknown group of survivors nearby, whether as a potential threat, a source of slaves, or a target to plunder, would be extremely valuable to the Governor.
"We follow," Martinez finally decided. "But carefully. Keep our distance and use the binoculars.
If they have too many people or heavy firepower, we pull back. Bringing back the information is enough to count as a win.
Crowley, keep the speed down and shut off anything that makes too much noise."
The pickup slowly turned onto the small road. Crowley lowered the window a crack and listened closely to the sounds in the woods.
The road had been neglected for years, uneven and full of potholes. Tree branches stretched out from both sides, sometimes almost scraping the body of the truck.
The tire tracks on the ground remained clearly visible, showing them the way.
The pursuit continued for about forty minutes, taking them deeper and deeper into the hills.
The scenery around them grew more desolate, and signs of human activity nearly vanished.
Just as Crowley was starting to wonder whether the vehicle had already left this road, or whether this was simply a trap, a gentle slope appeared ahead.
Crowley stopped the truck.
He grabbed the binoculars, then quietly got out with Martinez. Using the trees for cover, they crawled to the top of the slope and cautiously lifted their heads.
In the binoculars' field of view stood a prison.
Tall, heavy, unbroken concrete walls tightly enclosed a large area.
Layer after layer of barbed wire ran along the top of the walls, and in some places, sharp spikes and shards of glass were clearly visible.
At several key corners of the wall stood watchtowers built from steel and wooden planks, rising above the walltop. Faint human figures could be seen on them.
...
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