Chapter 76: The Curtain Falls
The prison was very quiet at 3:00 AM.
Rick held Lori in his arms, sleeping soundly.
The walkie-talkie was on the nightstand, its green light blinking on and off like an eye that would never close.
A harsh crackle of static woke both of them up instantly.
Lori huddled into the blankets, while Rick reached for the walkie-talkie, his movements faster than his thoughts.
"Rick."
Wu Fan's voice came through the walkie-talkie, accompanied by the rustle of static: "Write down a set of coordinates. At daybreak tomorrow, take some people to Woodbury."
Rick felt for a pen on the bedside table and jotted down a string of numbers on his palm.
"What for?"
"To take over Woodbury's residents."
The walkie-talkie clicked off.
Rick sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the scrawled numbers on his palm, lost in thought for a long while.
Lori poked her head out from under the blankets, her hair messy and her eyes not yet fully open.
"What is it?"
"Woodbury. The BOSS wants me to go and take it over tomorrow."
Lori paused for a moment, then sat up.
"Take over? How are you going to take it over? I heard it's being run by someone called The Governor—"
"I don't know."
Rick put the walkie-talkie back on the nightstand: "The BOSS didn't say."
Lori looked at him, her lips moving, but she swallowed the rest of her words.
She lay back down, turning her back to Rick, and stared at the cracks on the wall.
After a long time, she spoke.
"Rick, don't go. Let them go. You're fine here, why do you have to run errands for others?"
Rick didn't speak.
Lori turned over and looked at him.
"This is our place. We have walls, people, and guns. Why do we have to listen to others? What has he given you? A lousy title of manager? Isn't it better to be the boss here? You don't have to answer to anyone—"
"Enough."
Rick's voice was low but firm.
Lori's mouth hung open, her words stuck in her throat.
Rick didn't look at her, staring instead at the grayish-white wall opposite them.
"I don't want to hear this kind of talk again."
Lori pulled the blanket up and covered her head.
Rick sat for a long time, then picked up the walkie-talkie and switched to Glenn's channel.
"Tomorrow, take a few people and come out with me."
Glenn's groggy voice came back.
"Where to?"
"Woodbury."
Rick said: "To take over the people."
The night in Woodbury was torn apart.
Gunshots, screams, the loud crash of iron gates being smashed open, and the indistinguishable shouting echoed over the empty town, like a pot of boiling porridge.
The Governor stood in front of the second-floor bedroom window, looking down at the square below.
The searchlight had fallen, its beam of light casting skewed shadows on the ground, revealing the figure that was walking.
A black military overcoat, a shaved head, two and a half meters tall; every step was the same size and just as steady.
Several people lay behind him, it was unclear if they were dead or alive.
The people in front were still firing, bullets striking him and sparking, but he merely raised his arm to shield his eyes and continued walking forward.
Like a bulldozer crushing through a bush, branches snapped, leaves were shredded, but the bulldozer didn't stop.
The Governor turned and went downstairs.
The stairs were narrow, and he walked quickly, his leather shoes clacking against the wood—thump, thump, thump—like a heartbeat.
He pushed open the basement door, took a key from the wall, and opened the weapon cabinet.
Pistols, rifles, shotguns, and that RPG launcher.
He hoisted the launcher onto his shoulder and went out through the back door.
The Tyrant stood in the center of the square, its gray eyes scanning the surrounding buildings.
The order was to find The Governor and kill him.
It took a step in that direction.
Someone rushed out from the side, holding a rifle, and fired a burst at its face.
It turned its head and looked at the person.
The person was still firing, but the magazine emptied. He stepped back twice, fumbling to reload.
The Tyrant reached out and grabbed his head, closing its fingers; its knuckles crunched.
Tim's eyes bulged wide, his eyeballs nearly popping out of their sockets.
He saw The Governor—The Governor was standing at the intersection, carrying the RPG launcher, aiming right at them.
He reached out his hand, not knowing if he was asking for help or telling him to run.
Then he couldn't see anything.
That head was like a squashed tomato, red and white matter squeezing out from between the fingers.
The Tyrant let go, and the body slid down limply.
It turned around and saw the person at the alley entrance carrying the RPG.
The target.
The RPG's backblast exploded in the alley, the white light blinding.
The Tyrant was knocked to the ground by the shockwave, its military coat catching fire. The flames leaped from the hem up to its chest and shoulders.
It lay in the rubble and dust, motionless.
The square was silent for a few seconds.
Some people started cheering, some collapsed to the ground, and some knelt to make the sign of the cross.
The Governor threw the RPG launcher to the ground.
His ears were ringing, and he couldn't hear what the people beside him were saying.
He looked at the burning corpse. The flames had already engulfed most of the body; the military coat burned to ash, revealing the black muscle underneath.
Less than a minute later.
The "corpse" moved.
The Tyrant stood up from the ground, the charred military coat splitting apart on its body and fragments flying everywhere, like a snake shedding its skin.
Its physique was larger than before, muscles bulging, skin turning a deep gray, and veins coiled on its surface like tree roots.
It looked down at the remaining fabric on its body, reached out, ripped it off, and threw it on the ground.
Then it looked up, its gray eyes locking onto The Governor.
It charged over.
Not walking, but charging. Its speed was so fast that the floor tiles cracked, and every step smashed a hole into the ground.
It grabbed the nearest person, picked him up, and tossed him like a ragdoll.
The person traced an arc in the air, smashed into the iron spikes on the wall, and after a dull thud, went silent.
Another person was grabbed.
This time, the Tyrant didn't throw him, just gripped the person's leg, holding him like a chicken.
The man screamed, his gun dropped, and he clawed wildly with both hands, but couldn't grab anything.
The Tyrant swung him out, smashed him against the wall, and he slid down, motionless.
The people who had thrown away their weapons were fleeing, but the Tyrant bypassed them and continued walking forward.
Its target was only one person: The Governor.
The Governor stood where he was, watching the figure charge toward him.
His hands were shaking, and his legs were shaking too.
He remembered how he had carried the RPG just now, remembered the rocket hitting the target, and remembered the corpse standing up from the flames.
His lips trembled; he wanted to say something, but couldn't.
The Governor saw those gray eyes, and his blood ran cold.
He turned and ran.
His leather shoes hit the gravel road, and he twisted his ankle, but he didn't care about the pain, limping forward as he ran.
Footsteps came from behind—heavy, powerful, and getting closer.
He ran past his house, past that row of fish tanks, where the heads inside swayed in the water, mouths opening and closing.
He ran into the bedroom, shut the door behind him, and locked it twice.
The door was smashed open.
The lock cylinder flew off, the door panel split into pieces, and the hinges hung crookedly.
The Tyrant stood at the doorway, blocking all the light from the corridor.
The Governor leaned against the wall, his hand feeling something cold—the desk lamp on the nightstand.
He raised it and threw it.
The Tyrant tilted its head slightly, and the lamp flew past its ear, smashed against the door frame, and shattered.
He felt for a cup and threw it.
The Tyrant took a step forward.
He couldn't feel anything else. With his back against the wall, he clawed wildly at it, his fingernails scraping the wallpaper with a screeching sound.
"Don't kill me."
His voice changed, sounding unlike his own: "I'll give you whatever you want. Weapons, food, people—I'll give you whatever you want. I can help you, I can—"
The Tyrant's hand reached over.
Its five fingers spread open like iron pliers.
The Governor's head was gripped, his whole body lifted, his feet leaving the ground.
He kicked his legs, his hands clawing at that iron-like wrist, his fingernails sinking into the gray skin, but he couldn't grab anything.
"Spare me..."
His voice squeezed out from between the fingers like a mosquito's buzz: "I can... offer many benefits... whatever you want..."
The gray eyes looked at him, devoid of emotion, pity, anger, or anything at all.
The five fingers closed.
That head made a final sound in the palm, like crushing a ripe fruit.
The hand let go, and the body dropped to the floor, curling up like a crushed insect.
The Tyrant looked down once, then turned and left.
There was no one left in the square.
Several corpses lay on the gravel road, their blood black in the moonlight. The dead stood up, swaying and making gurgling, rattling sounds.
The living had all fled, hiding in the houses, peeking through the gaps in the curtains.
The Tyrant stood in the center of the square, its wounds slowly healing.
The gray eyes scanned the windows that still had lights on.
It lifted its foot and walked out of the town.
When Rick arrived, it was already dawn.
Glenn was driving the humvee, T-Dog was in the passenger seat, and a dozen people were squeezed in the back.
The convoy drove in from the north, and they could see the walls of Woodbury from afar.
The iron gate was crooked on the ground, the hinges snapped, and the door panel was full of bullet holes.
The town was very quiet; no one was walking around, no sentries, no patrols.
Only the wind blew through the empty streets, kicking up a few scraps of newspaper.
Rick jumped out of the car, his gun held in his hands.
Glenn followed behind, his eyes scanning everywhere.
"Where are the people?"
"Inside."
Rick tilted his chin toward the tightly closed doors and windows.
He walked to the center of the square, saw the corpses with their heads crushed, and saw a few Walkers walking toward them.
A few silenced gunshots took care of them.
A door opened a crack, and someone was peeking from inside.
Rick turned around and slung his gun over his shoulder.
"Come out, it's okay now."
The door opened wider.
A woman poked her head out, tear stains on her face, her eyes red and swollen.
"Who are you?"
"Umbrella Corporation."
Rick said: "We're here to pick you up."
The door opened completely.
More people walked out of the houses; some had their hands raised, some were holding children, and some were helping each other.
They looked at Rick, at the people in black uniforms, and at the humvee with the red and white umbrella logo printed on it.
Some people squatted on the ground and cried, some knelt down, and some were shivering.
"That monster... is it gone?"
Someone asked.
Monster?
Last night the BOSS only told him to come pick people up in the morning, and didn't say anything specific. Could the monster be related to the BOSS?
Rick didn't answer this question.
"Is anyone injured?"
He shouted to Glenn: "Go check. Prioritize those who need medical treatment."
Glenn took a few people and ran over to check.
The people lying on the ground were dead in a miserable way—the kind that even Jesus couldn't save.
What was there to save? They were already starting life over.
Rick stood in the center of the square, watching the people walking out of the houses.
They were scared, not of him, but of that thing from last night.
That monster that bullets couldn't kill, that thing that stood up from the flames.
He remembered Wu Fan's words on the walkie-talkie—"Take over Woodbury."
He knew why now.
"Everyone, gather at the square."
His voice echoed in the empty town: "Roll call, registration, then we arrange for evacuation."
Everyone was afraid to stay here, fearing that the monster might return and slaughter everyone.
The crowd started moving, very slowly, but very obediently.
No one asked where they were going, no one asked why, and no one asked who sent that thing last night.
They just lowered their heads, lined up, and waited to be arranged.
Rick looked at those numb faces and suddenly remembered a sentence Wu Fan had said—
"Let others do the dirty work; we just need to be the saviors."
He stood in the center of Woodbury's square, the sun just peeking over the eastern rooftops, gilding the broken windows, crooked door panels, and scattered shell casings with a layer of gold.
He lit a cigarette, the smoke slowly dissipating in the morning light.
Behind him, Glenn was calling for people to line up.
In the distance, someone was crying.
....
A/N: Thanks for reading!