Chapter 85 Fort Benning Armory
A Cougar helicopter hovered over Fort Benning.
Looking down from the porthole, this once-elite armored training base of the U.S. Army now resembled the corpse of a giant beast with its internal organs ripped out.
The barracks stood in neat rows, and the flagpoles on the parade ground were still there, but the flags were gone.
The targets at the shooting range were crooked and looked like a row of broken tombstones.
The obstacles on the training field were still there, but they were now covered with vines.
Wells gripped the joystick, his eyes fixed on the familiar buildings below, and the corners of his lips twitched slightly.
"Franklin…"
He spoke into the headset. "Do you miss this place?"
In the rear cabin, Franklin pressed his face against the porthole, looking at the place where he had sweated, been kicked, and been cursed at, and remained silent for a long time.
"This is the last place I want to miss."
His voice was muffled. "That son of a bitch William always liked kicking people's asses. In a five-kilometer cross-country race, whoever came in last, he'd kick so hard you'd fly two meters away."
Wells smiled.
"So next time you see William, are you going to shoot him in the head?"
"I'll fucking kick his ass first."
Franklin smiled, but the smile quickly faded.
The grayish-white figures below were moving densely, like a nest of ants that had been disturbed.
He looked away and stopped staring.
The helicopter flew over the base.
The Walkers below raised their heads, their ashen faces gazing at the sky, mouths agape as they emitted low growls.
The sounds merged together like waves, surging one after another.
Merle leaned against the porthole, the cigarette in his mouth almost falling out.
He counted for a while and then gave up.
"Tens of thousands?"
"At least thirty thousand," Sean said grimly. "Maybe more."
The Cougar flew to an open area on the outskirts of the base and slowly descended.
Merle, Sean, and Daryl jumped down, crouched in the grass, and raised their binoculars.
The walls around Fort Benning were very high, and the iron gate was half-open, with the other half crooked, likely from being rammed by escaping vehicles.
Walkers were everywhere—in front of the barracks, on the parade ground, at the canteen entrance, and across the training field.
They wandered aimlessly. Some bumped into walls, some spun in circles, and some stood motionless, as if waiting for something.
"We can only outsmart them."
Sean lowered his binoculars. "Our bullets aren't even enough to fill their teeth."
Merle flicked away the cigarette butt.
"What are you afraid of? Just send a helicopter in and bomb them all. Problem solved."
"And after frying everything?"
Sean looked at him. "Blow up the armory too? Blow up the ammunition depot too? Then what are we even here for?"
Merle opened his mouth, then swallowed the rest of his words.
"Then what do you suggest?"
"Lure them out. Draw them into an open area and wipe them out all at once."
Sean pointed toward the open field east of the base.
"There's no cover there. The helicopters can bomb freely."
Merle scoffed and stuffed the binoculars back into his bag.
"You're still using my method in the end."
Daryl got the hard job. Without saying a word, he hopped onto his motorcycle, started the engine, and drove toward the base gate.
The roar of the motorcycle echoed harshly across the empty fields.
The Walkers near the gate reacted first. Their ashen faces turned toward the sound as they surged forward.
Daryl slowed down, waited for them to catch up, and then gradually accelerated.
One, ten, one hundred, one thousand.
More and more Walkers poured out from every corner of the base, forming a gray-white torrent that followed the motorcycle like ants drawn to honey.
Daryl glanced into the rearview mirror and adjusted his speed to keep them chasing him.
Merle crouched in the grass, watching the torrent pass by, and cursed.
"That kid's got guts."
Sean said nothing, his eyes fixed on the Walker horde.
Tens of thousands of them—a dark mass pouring out of the base gate, crossing the road and the grassland toward the open field.
Daryl accelerated.
The motorcycle roared away, leaving the Walker horde behind.
He circled around and returned using another road.
The Walkers lost their target and wandered through the open field like boiling porridge.
As the Cougar flew overhead, the missile racks beneath it opened.
Eight anti-tank missiles streaked down from the sky trailing white flames.
Explosions erupted continuously. Flames shot skyward as dirt and severed limbs blasted into the air before raining back down.
A massive crater appeared in the center of the horde, surrounded by piles of charred corpses.
The Walkers scattered briefly before surging again toward the explosions.
Then the machine gun opened fire.
Thirty-millimeter shells poured from the nose cannon, carving trenches into the earth.
The shells ripped through the horde like sickles cutting wheat.
Heads exploded, bodies tore apart, and severed limbs flew everywhere.
Tens of thousands of Walkers staggered amid the explosions and gunfire, unable to determine where to go.
Some turned east, some west, some spun in place, while others were trampled into the mud.
The final shell fired.
The gun barrel spun a few more times before producing a clicking sound.
The Cougar gained altitude, circled once, and flew back toward the CDC.
More than two thousand Walkers remained scattered across the open field among the craters. Some crawled, some staggered forward, and some stood motionless.
Merle stood up, tossed the cigarette butt to the ground, and crushed it beneath his boot.
"Our turn."
More than a hundred men rose from the grassy slope with G36 rifles in hand and advanced toward the open field in a skirmish line.
The gunfire wasn't rapid but controlled bursts—thud, thud, thud.
Each burst struck a Walker's head. If the first shot missed, a second followed immediately.
The M2 heavy machine gun mounted on the Humvee roof roared even louder—boom, boom, boom—like someone beating a giant drum.
The bullets tore through the horde, carving bloody paths.
Two hundred. One hundred. Fifty.
The last Walker collapsed fifty meters away with its skull blown apart.
Sean waved his hand.
"Finish off every single one."
The team members spread out, daggers gleaming in the sunlight.
Crouch down. Pierce the skull. Pull the blade out. Move to the next one.
Their movements were mechanical, their expressions blank.
Merle had already rushed through the base gate like a child entering a candy store.
He kicked open the armory door, then froze with his mouth hanging open. Even the cigarette slipped from his lips.
Crates upon crates of rocket launchers, M4A1s, mortars, and ammunition.
They were stacked neatly from floor to ceiling, stretching as far as the eye could see.
He opened a long wooden crate. Inside lay eight brand-new AT4 rocket launchers, their oil seals still intact.
He opened another crate. Inside was an M249 squad automatic weapon, its barrel coated with anti-rust oil and gleaming under the light.
Another crate contained mortars, their barrels gleaming while firmly secured in wooden frames.
"Wooooah—!"
Merle's voice echoed throughout the warehouse.
"So many big toys!"
Daryl crouched beside a crate of grenades, counting them silently.
Sean stood at the entrance of the ammunition depot, staring at the mountain of green metal crates inside.
Another warehouse contained field howitzers, interceptor rocket launchers, and other heavy weapons.
These weapons were enough to arm an entire division.
Fort Benning had fallen too quickly. When the army retreated, there hadn't been enough time to take everything.
Later, tens of thousands of Walkers occupied the base, and no one dared approach it.
Now it all belonged to them.
Sean picked up a crate of M4 rifles and pried open the lid.
Inside, yellow oil paper lined the crate. Beneath it were rows of brand-new rifles coated in thick anti-rust oil.
Merle emerged carrying a rocket launcher, grinning ear to ear.
"Sean, look at this! An AT4, brand new! This thing can even take out tanks!"
Sean glanced at him.
"Take everything back to the armory. Don't touch anything."
Merle paused.
"It shouldn't matter if I secretly keep one, right?"
"Try it."
Merle thought about it for a second before reluctantly putting it back.
He dusted off his hands and turned to look at the tanks.
As night fell, the convoy began its return trip.
Humvees and transport trucks drove one after another, packed full of weapon crates and ammunition boxes. Even the roofs were stacked with supplies.
Ten M1 Abrams main battle tanks rolled behind them.
Merle sat in the passenger seat with a cigarette hanging from his lips, his eyes narrowed.
"Sean…"
His walkie-talkie crackled.
"What does the boss need so many weapons for?"
Sean, sitting in another vehicle, remained silent for a moment.
"Planning to conquer Atlanta?" Merle joked.
"Maybe."
Sean pressed the walkie-talkie button and replied calmly,
"Maybe someone else."
Merle asked no more questions.
He flicked the cigarette butt out the window and watched the lights in the rearview mirror grow farther away.
In the twilight, the walls of Fort Benning became silhouettes once more, and the barracks, parade ground, and training fields sank back into darkness.
Another convoy would arrive tomorrow.
Box after box of weapons and ammunition would be transported back to the CDC and stored in the Hive warehouse, waiting for the day they would be used.
On the third floor of the CDC, Wu Fan stared silently at the weapons inventory list.
The list was extremely long—more than ten printed pages.
He flipped to the final page and wrote in the notes column:
"Enough to equip an infantry division."
He set the papers down, stood up, and walked to the window.
Weapons and ammunition could be purchased from the Hive Mall, but points shouldn't be wasted like that.
Whenever possible, weapons and equipment should be scavenged from the surrounding areas. Even a little was still valuable.
So many armories and military bases had been abandoned, their weapons left to rust or be seized by other factions.
Watching others take them was more painful than losing them.
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