Chapter 66: Prison
West Georgia Correctional Institution stands in a desolate wilderness. The gray concrete walls gleamed coldly in the afternoon sun, and most of the glass on the watchtower was shattered, leaving only the bare steel frame. The barbed wire fence was leaning precariously, with some parts collapsed, resembling a mouth that had lost its teeth.
Merle jumped off the Humvee, her boots crunching on the gravel. She stood with her hands on her hips, looking up at the fortress, a slow smile spreading across her face.
"The boss has a damn sharp eye." She glanced back at Daryl. "This place is amazing."
Daryl ignored her, holding the crossbow and scanning the top of the wall. Several walkers roamed on the wall, their gray and white silhouettes standing out starkly in the sunlight. He didn't say anything but simply gestured with his chin in that direction.
Merle followed his gaze, clicked her tongue, and turned to wave to the convoy behind them.
"Work has begun; let's clean up the trash."
The doors of the three Humvees opened simultaneously, and fifteen people dressed in black combat uniforms jumped out in perfect unison. The butt of the G36 rifle rested on their shoulders, and the scope reflected the swaying figures on the wall. The muffled thuds of mufflers rose and fell, like someone hammering nails in the distance.
One by one, the Walkers on the wall fell, some tumbling over and crashing to the ground with a thud. Within ten minutes, the area was cleared.
The prison gate was wide open, its iron doors rusted, and the lubricant on the hinges long since dried, making a harsh creaking sound when pushed open. Inside, dozens of Walkers wandered aimlessly in the open space. They were dressed in prison uniforms, some with identification tags hanging on their chests.
Merle leaned against the doorframe, lit a cigarette, and gestured with her chin toward the entrance. Her men filed in, each carrying a G36 pistol, forming a fan shape in groups of three.
The gunshot was very soft, like the sound of tearing cloth. Walkers fell one after another, their heads bursting open, black blood splattering on the gray concrete floor. In ten minutes, the open space was clean.
Merle flicked the cigarette butt away and walked through the door. Prison has long corridors with rows of cells on either side. Most iron gates were closed, but some had been broken open, their dark openings resembling gaping mouths.
The corridor was pitch black at its deepest point, with only a sliver of light shining through at the very end. Merle stopped at the door and didn't go inside.
"You go inside, I'll wait here."
The men exchanged glances, but no one said anything. They raised their bulletproof shields, lined up in two rows, and turned on the headlamps on their helmets. The beam of light sliced through the darkness, illuminating the walls on both sides of the corridor and revealing mottled bloodstains and scratches.
The person at the front walked steadily, shield in front of him, only half of his head visible. At the corner of the corridor, the beam of a headlamp swept across a gray-white silhouette.
Seven or eight prisoners, Walkers, stood with their backs to them at the end of the corridor, staring blankly at the wall. The scent of living people wafted by, like a drop of water falling into a pan of oil.
All the Walkers turned around at once, their faces ashen, eyes hollow, mouths agape—and then surged toward them.
"Shield!"
The person at the front only had time to shout one word. The first Walker crashed into the shield, then the second, then the third. Those behind crowded those in front, pressing down on the shields, their strength extraordinary.
The man holding the shield was pushed backward, his boots scraping against the floor with a harsh sound.
"Withstand!"
"Fire! Fire!"
Gunshots rang out from behind. G36 bullets rained down over the shield, each piercing Walker's head with pinpoint accuracy. The first row fell, the second filled the gap, then they fell again, and so on.
Seven or eight Walkers, seven or eight shots—clean and efficient. As the last one fell, the shield bearer gasped for breath, sweat streaming down his face through his mask.
"This job is fucking tiring," someone cursed.
The shield bearers leaned against the wall and rested for a few minutes. Then they regrouped and continued moving forward.
They checked each cell, opening doors, peering inside, confirming no Walker was inside, closing the doors, and moving on. When they arrived at an iron gate, they found it blocked from inside.
"Are there any living people?" someone whispered.
"Who cares, just blow it up."
A small adhesive bomb was fixed in the gap between the two doors. When set, everyone retreated to the corner of the corridor, shields facing forward, and crouched down.
The sound of the explosion echoed in the enclosed corridor, making ears ring. The iron gate was blown open and hung crookedly on the hinges. Smoke and dust inside had yet to clear when the shield bearers rushed in.
It was a large, empty canteen, with tables and chairs piled at the entrance as roadblocks—long tables stacked on top of each other, chairs wedged between the table legs, blocking the way.
At the end of the canteen was the kitchen, pots and pans scattered across the floor, covered in thick dust. The headlamp beam swept across the doorway, and a series of red frames suddenly appeared on the left side of the helmet visor, with the auto-aim point locked behind the workbench.
"Come out," the team leader's voice was cold, but not loud.
Silence.
Then two heads slowly peeked out from behind the control panel. A dusty face, a messy beard, and terrified eyes. They saw the dark muzzles of guns, with infrared beams flashing across their chests. The gunmen stood behind the control panel with their hands raised.
"No, don't shoot! We're human beings! Living people!"
Five men, all wearing orange prison uniforms, wrinkled and so dirty their original color was unrecognizable. They filed out of the kitchen with hands raised, surrounded by fifteen dark gun barrels.
The one at the front had a menacing face, high cheekbones, narrow eyes, and downturned lips. He glanced at the guns, then at the red and white umbrella emblem on the shields, and forced a smile.
"Are you from the military? Are you here to rescue us?"
No one answered.
The team leader waved his hand, and two team members moved over, pinning the five to the ground and handcuffing them with plastic restraints.
"Take them away and leave it to Merle to handle."
The five were led away. The man with the menacing face looked back at the cafeteria, then at the guns, and said nothing.
The corridor was dark, with only the beams of headlamps flickering in front. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he saw bloodstains on the ground, bullet holes in the walls, and the Walker corpses lying in the corridor—each shot in the head, dead instantly.
He slowed his pace slightly as Soldier pushed him from behind.
Merle stood at the prison entrance, a cigarette dangling from her lips, admiring the view. She didn't turn when her men escorted the five prisoners out.
"Five?"
"Five of them, hiding in the cafeteria. The door was blocked from the inside."
Merle turned to look at the five prisoners. They wore prison clothes, as thin as sticks, their faces covered with a thick layer of ash, but their eyes still bright. She looked at each one, finally settling on the person at the front.
The other person looked back at her, their eyes unwavering.
**Have you ever killed anyone?** Merle asked.
The man narrowed his eyes slightly.
"I've killed them."
Merle nodded and shifted her gaze to the second person.
Prompted by the first person's glance, the second stepped forward as well.
"I've killed them."
The last three didn't stand or speak.
"Only two?"
Merle took the cigarette out of her mouth and flicked the ash. "Then what use are you to me? I don't raise sheep here."
The three men's expressions changed. "We—we can work! We can do any kind of work—"
Merle didn't finish listening.
Two gunshots rang out.
The two men who had "killed" lowered their heads, staring wide-eyed at the blood-soaked holes in their chests. They tried to say something, but only blood came out of their mouths, then they collapsed.
Soldier approached, pulled out his dagger, and stabbed each of them in the head. He then dragged himself out, leaving two dark red drag marks on the ground.
The remaining three collapsed on the ground, trembling.
Merle crouched down, looking at them.
"You three, do you even know how to dig a hole?"
The three nodded vigorously.
"Then go dig a hole and bury those two."
He stood up and put his gun away. "If you can't dig it well, then it's your pit."
The three scrambled out, led by Soldier to find shovels.
Daryl walked over from the Humvee, leaned against the doorframe, and watched their backs.
Do you think the boss will want them?
"Want."
Merle lit another cigarette. "Prison needs guards, land needs farmers, walls need repairers—capable people."
He took a drag, squinting at the walls surrounding the prison.
"The boss said that as long as they're not rotten to the core, they'll be given a chance. Those three are cowards, not bad seeds—they're usable."
Daryl said nothing and left.
Merle stayed at the prison door, finished his last cigarette, and took out a high-powered walkie-talkie.
"Boss, we've got the prison. It's clean. Five people, two dealt with, and the remaining three can be used as a base. It's even sturdier than our container town."
There was silence before Wu Fan's voice came through.
"Well done. You guys stay there for now. We'll arrange for someone to take over later."
---