Chapter 95: Air Force Base
The runway at Robins Air Force Base glistened grayish-white under the afternoon sun, with knee-high weeds growing out of the cracks.
Several C-130 transport planes sat crookedly on the tarmac, their tires flat, the fuselage skin eroded by wind and rain into patches of dark gray stains.
James crouched in the grass outside the base gate, looking through the scope at the two gray-white figures in military uniforms at the entrance.
They were spinning in place, their steps stiff, their military boots making dull thuds on the asphalt.
"Suppressors."
James's voice was very low.
Six people screwed on their suppressors simultaneously, their movements as synchronized as a single person.
Pfft.
The head of the one on the left exploded, its body swayed for a moment, and it fell straight down.
Pfft.
The one on the right hadn't even reacted before a hole appeared in its forehead, and fragments from the back of its skull sprayed onto the iron gate, splashing a fan-shaped pattern of black blood.
James stood up and waved his hand.
Fifty people rose from the grass and surged silently toward the gate.
When the iron gate was pushed open, the hinges let out a piercing creak.
James frowned as he walked in, his gaze sweeping across the empty tarmac, the distant hangars, the control tower, and the barracks.
A few Walkers were wandering on the runway; hearing the commotion, they turned around.
James raised his hand, and the gunfire behind him merged into a continuous sound, like tearing cloth.
Those few Walkers were riddled with holes before they could take a few steps.
"Music."
James said.
Kaplan pulled a palm-sized player from his backpack, pressed the play button, and cranked the volume to the max.
"I Hate Myself for Loving You."
The upbeat music blasted through the empty base like an invisible knife, slicing through the silence of the afternoon.
Echoes came from the distant hangars, one after another, layering over each other.
Then, those sounds surged in from all directions.
Kaplan played the music while holding the player, then placed it under the flagpole and stepped back several dozen meters.
The first Walker emerged from the corner of the hangar, followed by the second and third.
They climbed out of the barracks windows, surged out of the stairwells of the towers, and crawled out of the grass at the end of the runway.
The gray-white tide surged toward the flagpole, the sound of footsteps merging like muffled thunder.
James raised his hand, waited for them to get within fifty meters, and then dropped his palm.
The guns fired.
It was a dense, continuous sound, like a rainstorm hitting a tin roof.
Bullets from the G36s equipped by his men poured out from fifty barrels, plowing one bloody furrow after another through the horde.
The front row fell, the ones behind stepped over them, then fell, and were stepped over in turn.
Spent casings ejected, landing on the ground with a clatter, quickly forming a layer around their feet.
The last Walker fell twenty meters away, its head exploding.
James lowered his gun, glanced at the casings on the ground, and then at the pile of still-twitching corpses.
"Finish them off."
The fifty men dispersed, daggers gleaming in the sun.
Crouch, pierce the skull, pull out, walk to the next one.
Kaplan walked over, turned off the player, and the music stopped abruptly.
The base suddenly fell silent, with only the wailing wind blowing across the runway.
"Clear the buildings inside."
James's voice wasn't loud, but everyone in the empty base could hear him.
The fifty men split into ten groups and walked toward the dark, gaping doors and windows.
James led his men toward the control tower; the stairs were narrow, only wide enough for one person to pass.
He walked in the lead, muzzle pointed upward, stepping on the edge of each stair with every step—where it wouldn't make a sound.
Second floor.
The corridor was very dark, the emergency lights long extinguished, with only a little light filtering in from the stairwell.
James turned on the headlamp on his helmet, the beam sweeping across the walls, revealing mottled water stains and peeling paint.
He pushed open the first door; it was a lounge, with overturned sofas and moldy magazines scattered on the coffee table.
No one.
The second door: a bathroom.
He kicked the door open, poked his muzzle inside, and the beam swept over the sink, mirror, and toilet.
No one.
Third floor.
The door at the end of the corridor was half-open, and a stench of rot seeped through the crack.
James walked over, turned sideways, and slowly pushed the door open with his foot.
The room was very dark, the curtains drawn, with only a sliver of light coming through the door crack.
He walked in, the headlamp beam sweeping over a bed, a wardrobe, and a desk.
The quilt on the bed was bulging, as if someone were lying inside.
He walked over, aimed his muzzle at the quilt, and flipped it open with the barrel.
It was empty, with only a pool of blackish stains.
Just as he was about to turn around, the wardrobe door suddenly burst open from the inside.
A gray-white hand reached out.
James stepped back, his muzzle pressed against the forehead of that face.
Pfft.
The Walker's head exploded, its body hanging on the wardrobe door, twitching twice before sliding down and hitting the floor.
He looked down. It was one wearing a military uniform, the rank on its shoulder obscured by bloodstains, making it impossible to identify.
A shout came over the radio:
"Captain, there are living people in the cafeteria—six survivors."
James holstered his gun and turned to head downstairs.
The kitchen door was barricaded from the inside.
When several people pushed it open together, the smell inside almost knocked them over—sweat, mold, and that sour, rotten odor peculiar to people who hadn't bathed in a long time.
Six people were huddled in the corner, wearing wrinkled military uniforms, unshaven, with sunken eye sockets, looking like they had crawled out of a grave.
The one in front saw James, his lips trembling, his voice so hoarse it was almost unintelligible:
"You… who are you?"
"Umbrella Corporation private armed forces."
James crouched down to look him in the eye.
"The situation outside is over. You are safe."
Tears streamed down the man's face.
Behind him, some began to cry, some knelt on the ground, and some just sat slumped there, their eyes empty as if they hadn't yet processed it.
James had someone bring canned food and bottled water.
When the six people took them, their hands were shaking; some couldn't unscrew the bottle caps, so those beside them helped. One man took a huge gulp and immediately choked, coughing violently.
A young soldier held a can of meat, picking at the ring pull with his fingernails, struggling for a long time without opening it, so anxious that tears streamed down his face again.
Kaplan crouched down, helped him pull it open, and handed the can back.
He took it, grabbed the food with his hands, and stuffed it into his mouth, his cheeks bulging like a hamster's.
James stood to the side, waiting until they had eaten enough before he started asking questions.
"How many people were here originally?"
"Eleven."
The leader wiped his mouth.
"Later… a few couldn't take it anymore and rushed out. I don't know if they're dead or alive."
"Are there any pilots?"
Two people raised their hands.
One was older, in his early forties, with long graying hair and deep, knife-like wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.
The other was in his twenties, his stubble not yet fully grown, his hand still shaking as he raised it—an intern co-pilot.
"What about the others? Logistics support, ground crew, maintenance—anything works."
The remaining four nodded.
James wrote their names in his notebook, closed it, and stood up.
"There are vehicles outside to take you to the base. Take a shower, eat, get a haircut, change clothes, and start working tomorrow."
The six people stood up, supporting each other; their legs were weak, and those who couldn't stand steadily were supported by the others.
They walked out slowly, and when they passed the Walker corpses lying on the ground, some stopped, took a look, then averted their eyes and kept walking.
James stood on top of the control tower, holding a high-power radio and looking at the base beneath his feet.
The hangar's climate-controlled warehouse was still intact. The doors were closed, the lights inside were still on, and the solar panels were still running.
C-130s, C-17s, and F-15s were lined up neatly, covered with dust covers, tires inflated, fuselages shining.
The ones outside that had been parked too long were ruined; their tires were flat, their skin rusted, and birds had probably moved into the engine compartments.
But the ones in the warehouse could still fly.
"Boss, the base is cleared. Approximately 3,200 Walkers. Six survivors: two with flight experience and four in logistics."
There was a two-second silence on the radio, then Wu Fan's voice came through, as calm as if he were discussing the weather.
"Good work. Stay and guard the base for now, wait for the handover, and I will notify you of subsequent arrangements."
James turned off the radio and stood atop the tower, watching the sunset dye the entire base dark red.
Then he turned and walked down the stairs.
---
Atlanta, CDC, third floor.
Wu Fan leaned back in his chair and placed the radio on the table.
He lit a cigarette, the smoke slowly dissipating under the light.
The air force base was now in his hands; it would become his air force base.
Helicopter and fighter jet maintenance—finally, there was a place for storage and upkeep. The Hive tarmac could only hold five helicopters. Leaving them exposed to wind and sun on the ground meant it would be a miracle if they didn't malfunction and crash.
The air force base had an intact climate-controlled warehouse, functional aircraft, two pilots, and four logistics personnel.
Now there would finally be a place to store the equipment exchanged from the system store.
That bunch of wastrels in the Group of Sages, clamoring all day about exchanging equipment from the system store and talking about suppressing combat power—did they really think planes and tanks repaired themselves with one click?
I'd like to join their sect.
Without proper storage, long-term exposure to the sun caused the failure rate to skyrocket.
Maintenance personnel were more valuable than gold, like needles in a haystack.
Finding six today was already great luck.
He opened the system panel and pulled up the satellite map of Georgia.
Red Queen's markings were dense, with every stronghold, every flight path, and the movement of every Walker horde clearly marked.
His gaze fell to the southeast.
Fort Stewart, one of the largest U.S. Army bases, along with Hunter Army Airfield, covered hundreds of thousands of acres and once stationed tens of thousands of troops.
If the equipment there was still intact, if there were still survivors…
He zoomed in on that area, and the outline of the base unfolded on the screen: barracks, training grounds, tarmacs, hangars—row upon row, neat and orderly.
Red Queen's thermal scan showed that there were still a large number of Walkers inside, but the building structures were intact, and the warehouse doors remained closed.
Further east was Fort Eisenhower, about 220 kilometers east of Atlanta.
Smaller in scale, but still a complete military base with equipment, vehicles, and aircraft.
His gaze moved back and forth between the two locations.
He picked up the phone and dialed the Prison channel.
Rick was just teaching his son how to shoot when the radio at his waist rang.
"Rick, head to Fort Stewart with some men. Take it if you can; if you can't, report back. Once you secure it, bring back all the weapons, vehicles, and aircraft you can transport."
Rick was silent for a few seconds.
"That place is huge. There were at least tens of thousands of soldiers stationed there. If they all turned into Walkers, it's going to be troublesome."
"I'll have Shane take five hundred men, ten tanks, and twenty semi-automatic artillery pieces to assist you."
Wu Fan then switched to Shane's channel.
Shane answered quickly.
"Fort Eisenhower. Go assist Rick in taking it. Take it if you can; if you can't, come back. Clear out the supplies. I'm giving you five hundred men, ten tanks, and twenty artillery pieces."
Shane replied with one word:
"Fine."
Wu Fan put down the phone and leaned back in his chair.
Fort Stewart, Fort Eisenhower, Robins Air Force Base.
Three points. Three nails.
Taking these three locations would place all the military equipment in the southern half of Georgia into his hands.
Those planes, tanks, armored vehicles, and ammunition—letting them rust away in warehouses was a waste. Making them his was the proper path.
He stubbed out his cigarette and walked to the window.
Downstairs, the lights in the training ground were still on.
A new batch of security personnel was training for night combat, moving between obstacles with their guns raised; their movements were far sharper than last month.
Nowadays, survivors kept coming to join, but there was still a shortage of technical talent.
No wonder the Civic Republic of Philadelphia only captures technical specialists and doesn't bother with ordinary people.
People capable of repairing armored vehicles, tanks, and aircraft were simply too rare.