Chapter 65 – The Governor's Apology
Two pickup trucks drove up from the southern highway, their bodies coated in grayish-yellow mud, long cracks stretching across their windshields.
The vehicles moved slowly, almost hesitantly.
Inside the lead truck, Champert gripped the steering wheel tightly, his eyes fixed on the steel fortress looming closer ahead.
The container walls gleamed dark reddish-brown beneath the sunlight, rust staining their surfaces. Every few dozen meters stood a watchtower assembled from scaffolding, with black-uniformed guards stationed above, rifles lowered but ready to rise at a moment's notice.
Broken glass lined the tops of the concrete walls, glittering sharply under the sun.
Where concrete barriers were incomplete, stacked shipping containers filled with gravel and sand sealed the gaps, making the defenses appear even sturdier than solid cement.
A helicopter suddenly rose from behind the walls, its rotors thundering through the air.
The fuselage was painted gray, with a cannon mounted beneath the nose and missiles attached to pylons on both sides.
It hovered briefly before flying north.
Champert tightened his grip on the wheel.
The Governor had sent him here to deliver gifts—and, more importantly, to assess the enemy.
Now he had seen enough.
Far more than he wanted to.
The convoy was stopped at the entrance checkpoint.
Two guards in black uniforms approached with weapons ready. One inspected the supplies in the truck bed while the other walked to the driver's side and knocked on the window.
"What are you here for?"
Champert rolled down the window and forced out a smile.
"We're from Woodbury. The Governor sent us to deliver something."
The guard glanced at him, then at the cargo behind him. After confirming there were no issues, he waved the convoy through without another question.
The pickup trucks rolled deeper into the compound.
The road had once been part of the highway, but drainage ditches had been dug along both sides. Beyond them stretched cleared open ground where every weed had been removed, leaving only barren yellow earth.
The area was so exposed that even a rabbit would struggle to hide.
Champert instinctively slowed the truck and scanned both sides of the road.
To the left was a training field.
Dozens of men wearing black T-shirts stood in formation, practicing tactical maneuvers.
At the front, an instructor in camouflage barked commands loud enough to resemble a military parade.
The rifles they carried weren't cheap civilian knockoffs.
Every single one was a G36, matte-black metal glinting coldly beneath the sunlight.
On the right side of the road sat three tanks.
Their camouflage paint clearly revealed military origins. The mud on their tracks was still wet, as if they had just returned from maneuvers.
A Black man stood beside one of the tanks, gesturing toward a group of trainees.
Some climbed onto the vehicle. Others crawled beneath the chassis. A few gathered near the turret while listening intently.
It was a live instructional exercise.
Champert swallowed hard.
Tanks.
Not only did these people possess tanks—they were actively training new crews.
The convoy continued forward and entered the residential district.
The houses resembled those of a typical American small town: single-story homes, two-story gabled houses, lawns trimmed neatly behind white fences.
People were even hanging laundry out to dry.
Several children chased a ball along the roadside while their mother sat on the front steps, picking vegetables as she watched them play.
Three men in police uniforms emerged from a street corner, pistols holstered at their waists and radios clipped to their shoulders as they casually patrolled the sidewalks.
Champert watched the policemen disappear down the street before glancing back at the children.
Only then did he realize he had made a mistake by coming here.
Woodbury also had order.
It had patrols. Rules. Smiling citizens. Children playing in the streets.
But Woodbury's peace was built on the Governor's lies—maintained through looted supplies, fabricated stories, and the silent elimination of anyone who opposed him.
The order here felt different.
Champert couldn't fully explain why.
But he could feel it.
The trucks eventually arrived outside the CDC's inner perimeter fence.
Security here was even tighter.
Twice as many guards stood watch. Machine guns were mounted behind sandbag bunkers, while anti-vehicle trenches had been dug beyond the barbed-wire fences.
A man in a black uniform stepped out from behind one of the bunkers holding a registration clipboard.
He jerked his chin toward Champert.
"Leave the supplies. Then you can go."
Champert's expression stiffened.
He had driven dozens of miles carrying supplies—and a severed head—only to be denied entry at the gate.
His lips tightened as if he wanted to argue, but in the end, he swallowed the words back down.
Silently, he picked up the cloth bag from the passenger seat and handed it over.
"This is the head of the man who acted on his own."
His voice remained steady.
"He's already been dealt with."
Kyle accepted the bag, opening it slightly to glance inside.
A pale, lifeless face stared back at him.
He didn't recognize the man, but he had heard about someone foolish enough to track and provoke one of their convoys.
Kyle frowned before tying the bag shut again.
"Understood."
Champert stood still, waiting.
"We've received the supplies," Kyle said flatly.
Champert's fists tightened briefly at his sides before relaxing again.
"As for the rest…" Kyle continued, "our boss said you have three days to gather compensation."
His tone remained casual, as though discussing the weather.
"If you can't pay, we'll come collect it ourselves."
Champert's face turned pale.
He stared at Kyle for several long seconds before finally turning away and climbing back into the truck.
"Let's go."
The convoy turned around and drove back the way it had come.
Through the rearview mirror, Champert saw Kyle still standing there, holding the cloth bag while silently watching them leave.
He slammed his foot on the accelerator.
He never wanted to see this place again.
Yet deep down, he knew he would return.
Not to deliver gifts.
But for war.
And when that day came, those walls, those tanks, those helicopters—
They would all burn.
He tightened his grip on the wheel, suppressing the dangerous thoughts in his mind like forcing down a bomb that had yet to explode.
Kyle watched the two pickup trucks disappear down the highway before handing the cloth bag to a nearby guard.
"Dispose of it."
The guard frowned but nodded before carrying it away.
Kyle then picked up the radio and dialed the internal line.
"Amy, the people from Woodbury came. They returned the supplies and handed over the person responsible. They said they'll gather the remaining compensation within three days."
Silence lingered briefly on the other end.
Then Amy replied:
"The boss said to let them gather it. If they can't, we'll take it ourselves."
Kyle hung up and lit a cigarette outside the bunker.
As smoke drifted into the air, he stared toward the southern highway.
Woodbury.
He silently memorized the name.
By the time Champert returned to the Governor's Palace, night had already fallen.
He remained seated in the driver's seat for several moments, hands gripping the steering wheel.
In the rearview mirror, his face looked pale and exhausted, dark shadows hanging beneath his eyes.
Taking a deep breath, he finally pushed open the door and stepped out.
Inside the office, the Governor sat silently on the sofa.
A glass of untouched whiskey rested before him.
The walker heads floating in the fish tanks slowly drifted through the dim light, mouths opening and closing as though whispering silent accusations.
Standing near the doorway, Champert recounted everything he had seen.
The training grounds.
The tanks.
The helicopters.
The walls.
The police patrols.
The children playing safely in the streets.
With every sentence, the Governor's expression darkened further.
"Their leader never even appeared?" the Governor asked calmly.
"No," Champert answered.
"Not even the clerk handling registration gave his name."
The Governor slowly rose and walked toward the fish tanks.
Inside one floated the head of a man who had once exposed his lies.
Its empty eyes stared blankly upward while its mouth opened and closed soundlessly.
"Three days…"
The Governor's voice was low.
"They'll come collect the remaining supplies in three days."
Champert remained silent.
The Governor finally turned around, a smile spreading across his face.
But the smile never reached his eyes.
"Then let them come."
A chill ran down Champert's spine at the sight of that expression.
He nodded silently and turned to leave.