The lights in the small town bar were dim; the color temperature of several LED bulbs had been turned down to deliberately imitate the candlelight of the old era.
On the shelves behind the bar sat several rows of bottles, most of them empty. Only the bottom shelf still had stock—locally brewed whiskey that felt as sharp as a knife going down.
Shane sat in a booth in the corner, with a glass of barely touched liquor spread out before him.
Jim and Morgan were sitting opposite him, already on their third round.
Shane stared at the amber liquid in his glass, his finger slowly tracing circles around the rim.
Lori had left.
She had gone to the prison with Rick.
He knew that on the day the notice was posted, he had stood in front of the bulletin board for a long time, hesitating over whether to sign up.
It wasn't that he wanted to fight for that position; it was that he felt he ought to go.
But before he could even open his mouth, Rick had already been confirmed.
Lori was going too, and Carl was going too.
The family of three, all together.
Shane gulped down a mouthful of liquor, the burn tightening his throat.
He should have felt relieved.
Those things that caused him guilt, those stones pressing down at the bottom of his heart, those cold sweats that woke him in the middle of the night—they had all been carried away with that armored train as it drove into the tunnel.
No one knew.
No one would ever know.
"Hey! Shane!"
A hand waved in front of him: "Shane?"
Jim gave him a shove. Shane snapped out of it and discovered that the liquor in his glass had been finished at some point.
He shook the empty glass and gave a self-deprecating smile: "Sorry, I was lost in thought."
"What are you thinking about?"
Jim leaned in, raising his glass: "Thinking while drinking with us? You're penalized a glass."
Shane didn't decline. He poured himself a full glass, clinked it against Jim's, and tilted his head back to down it.
Morgan laughed from the side, a meaningful laugh: "He's got things on his mind; you wouldn't understand."
"What things?"
Jim blinked: "What could there be?"
Morgan didn't answer, just watched Shane with a smile.
Shane placed the empty glass on the table, his finger still tracing the rim.
"Small things," he said.
The walkie-talkie on the table suddenly crackled. After the static, Amy's voice came through: "Shane, the Boss wants you to come to the third floor of the CDC."
Jim paused for a moment, then laughed: "Oh, look at our busy man. You've been here so long, the Boss has finally remembered you."
Morgan also laughed: "Rick's brilliance was just too dazzling, overshadowing our Shane."
He raised his glass and shook it at Jim: "Now that Rick is gone, he won't be able to enjoy any leisure time even if he wants to."
The two clinked glasses and drank them down.
Shane stood up and pushed his chair back into place.
He glanced out the window.
The small town streets were bustling, much livelier than before.
Those new survivors were bringing their families, lining up in long queues at the registration desk. Some carried woven bags, some held children, and others pushed supermarket carts filled with all their worldly possessions.
Kyle sat behind the registration desk, his pen never stopping. The expression on his face had shifted from initial enthusiasm to numbness, and from numbness to utter despair.
The town's police station had been turned into a quarantine zone.
Detention cells, offices, conference rooms—every place that could accommodate people was packed full.
After the three-day quarantine, they were released and assigned jobs.
Those who wanted to talk about human rights, appeal for freedom, or push for a universal suffrage system were all kicked out.
There were plenty of empty houses outside; they could go wherever they wanted, just don't waste food here.
Shane squeezed through the crowd. Someone recognized him and shouted "Officer," but he just nodded and didn't stop.
The third floor of the CDC.
The lights in the corridor were bright. Guillermo stood at the office door like a statue.
He wore a black suit, an earpiece in his ear, a walkie-talkie and pistol at his waist, standing straight and looking ahead without distraction.
"The Boss is busy. Please wait a moment." Guillermo's voice was very low.
Shane leaned against the wall, fished a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, and pulled one out to offer Guillermo. Guillermo glanced at it but didn't take it.
"During work hours, I cannot accept anything from anyone."
Shane put the cigarette in his own mouth, lit it, and took a drag.
The smoke slowly dissipated in the corridor.
"What about after work? Grab a drink?" Guillermo's mouth twitched.
"Sure."
The door opened, and Amy poked her head out. Seeing Shane, she smiled: "Come in, the Boss is finished."
Shane shoved the remaining half of the cigarette into Guillermo's mouth and turned to walk into the office.
Guillermo looked left and right; the corridor was empty.
Before taking the cigarette out of his mouth, he took a deep drag, burning half the cigarette between his fingers.
He narrowed his eyes and slowly exhaled the smoke.
Satisfying.
Inside the office, Wu Fan was looking at a map on the wall.
Hearing the door, he turned around. Shane stood at the doorway, not walking in.
"What did you want to see me about?"
"Sit." Wu Fan pointed to a chair.
Shane sat down and waited for him to speak. Wu Fan took a document out of the drawer and pushed it toward him.
"Atlanta. Your squad is to lead the cleanup of Walkers. There are many newcomers; they need practice."
Shane opened the file. Inside were several aerial photographs—streets, ruins, and dense, grayish-white dots. He looked at them for a few seconds and closed the file.
"When do we set off?"
"Tomorrow."
Wu Fan looked at him: "Don't be too aggressive. Those newcomers are timid. Take it slow."
Shane stood up and nodded.
"Understood."
He turned to walk out, his hand resting on the doorknob, and paused.
"Boss," he said, not turning back, "thanks."
Wu Fan didn't speak. Shane pushed the door open and left.
After the door closed, Amy slipped out from the nearby pantry, carrying a cup of untouched coffee.
"He just left like that? Didn't ask why you sent him?"
"He knows in his heart." Wu Fan took the coffee and took a sip.
Amy walked around behind him, rested her chin on his shoulder, and wrapped her arms around his waist from behind.
"Since he came to the base, he's been very low-key, doing the bare minimum. You're still assigning this kind of work to him; can he do it well?"
Wu Fan didn't turn back.
"You have to trust someone once. Give people a chance!"
Amy was silent for a moment, burying her face in the crook of his shoulder.
"Then will you give me a chance?"
"What chance?"
"I want a child."
Wu Fan's hand holding the coffee paused. Amy hugged him tighter, her voice muffled, as if squeezed from deep in her throat.
"Now the base is stable, there are more people, the walls are built, and even the prison side is being managed. Don't you feel like something is missing?"
She looked up at his profile: "Don't you want to have a child of your own?"
Wu Fan placed the coffee on the table and turned around. Amy's eyes were very bright, like two grapes soaked in water, a smile on the corners of her mouth, but beneath that smile was a hint of nervousness.
"Are you serious?"
"When have I ever not been serious?"
Wu Fan looked at her and was silent for a moment. Then he reached out and carried her into the inner lounge.
"Okay."
...
In the corridor outside the door, Guillermo finished that cigarette.
The elevator door opened, and a few people walked out, stating that their father was a governor and demanding that the person in charge here arrange a cushy job for them—one with high points and no work.
Guillermo opened his mouth and shouted one word: "Get lost!"
...
At the entrance to the small town streets, Kyle finally sent away the last wave of people registering, and the gate closed.
He slumped in his chair, looking at the thick stack of forms in his hand, and sighed.
Someone patted his shoulder. He looked up and saw Marcus walking over with two cups of coffee.
"Hard work. Want a drink?" Kyle took the coffee and gulped down a large mouthful.
"How many people came today?"
"Forty-seven." Marcus sat down beside him.
"I heard from the people out scavenging that another group is on the way."
"Spare me!"
Kyle leaned back against the chair, looking at the gray, hazy sky overhead. In the distance, the construction site of the wall was still active; the sparks of electric welding flickered in the twilight.
He closed his eyes and listened to those sounds—the sound of electric drills, the sound of hammers, the sound of people talking.
This world was still messed up.
But at least, this place was looking more and more like something decent.