"Holy shit!" Crowley couldn't help muttering under his breath, holding it in.
Martinez's pupils tightened slightly too.
He adjusted the focus and looked more carefully.
The people on the watchtower seemed to be changing shifts, and from one area inside the walls, a steady column of cooking smoke was rising.
"It's a survivor community," Martinez said, his expression grave and his voice extremely low. "A big one.
There may be a lot of them. Judging from how well those watchtowers and walls are maintained, this wasn't thrown together in a day or two. They're organized."
"Damn it, where the hell did they come from?" Crowley said, shocked, suspicious, and jealous all at once. "How many supplies do they have in there? How many people..."
"Their numbers might be close to ours, maybe even higher," Martinez said, rubbing his stubble as he analyzed it calmly. "But their camp is a prison. The defensive advantage is too strong. We can't take it by force."
Just then, the prison's heavy gate slowly opened inward a crack.
A van drove out from inside, with four armed people in it.
After the van came out, the gate slowly closed again.
"Looks like another one of their search parties is heading out," Martinez said, motioning for Crowley to keep his head down. "Remember this location. We need to go."
The two of them retreated silently down the slope and returned to the truck.
The pickup turned around and carefully headed back the way it had come.
On the way back, Crowley kept talking nonstop, guessing how many women, weapons, and cans of food might be inside that prison.
Tim, still shaken, kept asking whether they had left any tracks behind.
Martinez stayed silent most of the time. When he wasn't watching the road, he was thinking about how to report this to the Governor, and how the Governor would react.
At dusk, the pickup drove into Woodbury, a small town that had been carefully arranged.
Crowley hit the brakes and stopped in front of Woodbury's tall wooden gatehouse.
The sentry on the gatehouse recognized them and waved.
With the grinding of pulleys and chains, the heavy wooden gate slowly opened inward, revealing a clean main street.
The sound of children laughing, the rasp of sawing wood, and the smell of cooking smoke from dinner preparations all drifted out together.
"Home," Tim said quietly.
Martinez only grunted, and Crowley slowly drove the truck inside.
As the vehicle moved down the main street, the scene on both sides looked like a community from before the apocalypse.
Several elderly people sat in rocking chairs on porches, mending clothes while chatting.
A young woman pushed a wheelbarrow piled with pumpkins and potatoes freshly harvested from the vegetable garden, smiling as she greeted a pregnant neighbor passing by.
Farther away, in the square, several children were playing hopscotch.
A seven- or eight-year-old girl giggled after jumping into the wrong square. Her friends did not blame her and simply laughed along.
This was the "civilized community" the Governor took such pride in.
Everything was orderly and full of life, as if the world outside, where walkers roamed and the strong preyed on the weak, was only some distant nightmare.
This place was a gentle refuge, an oasis in the desert.
At least on the surface.
Crowley parked the truck in the small lot beside City Hall, then got out with Martinez and Tim.
Several residents greeted them warmly.
"Captain Martinez! You're back? Did the patrol go all right?"
"Tim, first time going out today. What's it like out there?"
Martinez put on his usual reliable smile. "Everything's normal. Just a routine border patrol."
He was not lying, but he had hidden the whole truth.
That was how he survived in this town.
Crowley and Tim went to return the gear, while Martinez headed straight for the town hall, now called the "Community Center."
He did not go in right away. Instead, he paused for a few seconds, straightened his vest, took a deep breath, and pushed open the door.
Inside was a spacious hall that had been converted into a public lounge and command center.
Maps and hand-drawn defense diagrams hung on the walls.
A few people sat on the sofas, speaking in low voices. When they saw him come in, they nodded in greeting.
Behind a broad solid-wood desk sat a man.
His back was to the door, and he faced the largest regional map on the wall, as if deep in thought.
At the sound of the door opening, he slowly turned his chair around.
Philip, or rather, as people in Woodbury were more used to calling him, "the Governor."
The Governor looked to be around forty. His features were proper, even handsome.
His hair was combed perfectly, his beard neatly trimmed, and he wore a clean, crisp khaki shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing strong forearms.
His eyes were bright, and the corners of his mouth seemed to naturally carry a reassuring smile.
From appearances alone, the Governor looked like a respected small-town lawyer or a successful businessman.
But Martinez, Crowley, and even young Tim knew what was hidden beneath that gentle surface.
"Martinez," the Governor said in a steady, magnetic voice, "welcome back. How was the haul today?"
His gaze swept casually over Martinez.
"Governor," Martinez said, taking a step forward, "as far as supplies go, we found some tools and antifreeze today. Not much."
He paused, then lowered his voice. "But on the way back, we made an unexpected discovery."
"Oh?" The Governor leaned forward slightly. "Tell me."
Martinez began describing how they had found the tire tracks, followed them, and finally seen the prison.
He kept his report as objective and detailed as possible, including the height of the walls, the number of watchtowers, and even a rough estimate of how many people might be inside.
Crowley and Tim had finished putting away the equipment and supplies by then and came in as well.
Martinez was just reporting the situation at the prison, so Crowley occasionally added a comment from the side, emphasizing how "fat" the place looked and how "tricky" its defenses were.
The Governor listened quietly, the gentle expression on his face unchanged.
After Martinez finished, the hall was silent for a few seconds.
"A well-equipped community. Quite possibly a large population," the Governor finally said slowly. "Hidden in our 'backyard' for so long, and we had no idea."
He stood and walked a few steps away. He was tall, long-legged, and well-proportioned, like someone clothes were made to hang on.
The Governor walked to the large map on the wall, picked up a red pen, and carefully circled the prison area Martinez had described before adding a question mark.
"You did well." The Governor turned around, his gaze passing over the three of them, his gentle smile becoming a little more genuine. "Excellent reconnaissance. Tim."
He looked at the young man. "Go tell the kitchen to prepare a hot dinner for our three brave men, with an extra ration. Crowley, I remember you've always wanted that M4 modification kit in the warehouse. Go to the armory and tell them I approved it."
Crowley's face instantly lit up with undisguised joy. "Thank you, Governor!"
Tim, feeling flattered, thanked him again and again as well.
The Governor smiled and nodded, then looked at Martinez. "Martinez, stay. We need to plan this out in detail."
Crowley and Tim left in high spirits.
The other members, who had been as quiet as part of the background, also tactfully followed them out.