The West Georgia Correctional Facility stood amidst a desolate wilderness.
The grey concrete walls gleamed with a cold, hard light under the afternoon sun, while most of the glass on the watchtowers had shattered, leaving only bare steel frames.
The chain-link fences were crooked and collapsed in places, resembling a row of toothless mouths.
Merle jumped down from the humvee, his boots crunching on the gravel.
He stood with his hands on his hips, looking up at the fortress, the corners of his mouth slowly curling upward.
"The Boss has a damn sharp eye."
He looked back at Daryl: "This place is perfect."
Daryl ignored him, raising his crossbow and scanning the top of the walls.
A few Walkers wandered along the wall, their greyish-white figures standing out sharply in the sunlight.
He didn't speak, merely gesturing with his chin in that direction.
Merle followed his gaze, clicked his tongue, and turned to wave at the convoy behind them.
"Time to work. Clean up the trash."
The doors of the three humvees opened simultaneously, and fifteen figures in black combat gear jumped out, moving in perfect unison.
Shouldering their G36 rifles, they peered through their scopes at the swaying figures on the wall.
The muffled reports of suppressors rose and fell, sounding like someone hammering nails in the distance.
The Walkers on the wall fell one by one; some tumbled over the edge, hitting the ground with a dull thud.
Within ten minutes, the perimeter was cleared.
The prison gate stood open, the iron rusted and the lubricant on the hinges long dried, emitting a harsh, creaking sound as it was pushed.
In the open space inside the gate, dozens of Walkers wandered aimlessly.
They wore prison uniforms, some still sporting ID tags dangling from their chests.
Merle leaned against the doorframe, lit a cigarette, and gestured inside with his chin.
His men filed in, G36s raised, moving in groups of three and fanning out.
The gunfire was light, like the sound of tearing fabric.
The Walkers fell one after another, their heads exploding, black blood splattering onto the grey concrete.
Ten minutes later, the open area was clean.
Merle flicked away his cigarette butt and walked through the gate.
Inside the prison lay long corridors lined with cells on both sides.
Most of the iron-barred doors were shut, but some had been smashed open, gaping like open mouths.
The depths of the corridor were pitch black, with only a sliver of light filtering in from the end.
Merle stopped at the entrance, not venturing inside.
"You guys go in. I'll wait here."
His men exchanged glances, saying nothing.
They raised their ballistic shields, formed two lines, and switched on their helmet-mounted lights.
The beams cut through the darkness, illuminating the walls on both sides and revealing mottled bloodstains and claw marks.
The men in the front walked steadily, shields held before them, exposing only half of their heads.
As they turned the corner of the corridor, the beams swept over a mass of greyish-white backs.
Seven or eight prisoner Walkers stood with their backs to them, huddled at the end of the corridor, staring blankly at the wall for reasons unknown.
The scent of living humans drifted over, like a drop of water hitting a hot pan.
The Walkers turned in unison, their greyish-white faces, hollow eye sockets, and gaping mouths exposed—then they surged forward.
"Shields!"
The man in front only had time to shout one word.
The first Walker slammed into the shield, followed by the second, then the third.
The ones behind pushed those in front, and those in front pressed against the shields with incredible force.
The shield-bearers were pushed backward, their boots scraping harshly against the floor.
"Hold the line!"
"Fire! Fire!"
The guns in the back fired.
G36 bullets poured over the tops of the shields, each one accurately drilling into a Walker's head.
The first row fell, the second row filled in, then fell, and were replaced again.
Seven or eight Walkers, seven or eight shots, quick and clean.
When the last one fell, the shield-bearers panted heavily, sweat streaming down their foreheads and under their masks.
"This job is a damn pain."
Someone cursed.
The shield-bearers leaned against the wall, resting for a few minutes.
Then they reformed their ranks and continued forward.
They cleared the cells one by one: open the door, peek inside, confirm no Walkers, close the door, and move on.
When they reached one iron door, they discovered that someone inside had blocked it.
"Living people?"
Someone whispered.
"Who cares? Blow it open."
A small sticky bomb was fixed into the gap between the two doors.
After setting the timer, everyone retreated to the corridor corner, shields facing forward, and crouched down.
The explosion echoed in the confined corridor, making their ears ring.
The iron door was blown open, hanging crookedly on its hinges.
Before the dust inside had even settled, the shield-bearers had already rushed in.
It was the cafeteria.
It was large and empty, with tables and chairs piled up at the entrance as a barricade.
Long tables were stacked upon one another, and chairs were wedged between the legs, blocking it tightly.
At the far end of the cafeteria was the kitchen, where pots and pans were scattered across the counters, covered in a thick layer of dust.
As the headlamp beam swept over the kitchen doorway, a string of red boxes suddenly popped up on the left side of the helmet visor, the auto-aim reticle locking onto something behind the counter.
"Come out."
The leader's voice wasn't loud, but it was cold.
Silence.
Then, two heads slowly emerged from behind the counter.
Dusty faces, messy beards, and terrified eyes.
Seeing the dark muzzles and the infrared laser dots dancing on their chests, they stood up from behind the counter with their hands raised.
"Don't, don't shoot! We're humans! Living people!"
Five of them.
All men, wearing orange prison uniforms, wrinkled and so dirty the original color was unrecognizable.
With their hands raised, they filed out of the kitchen and stood in the center of the cafeteria, surrounded by fifteen dark gun muzzles.
The one in front had an intimidating face, high cheekbones, narrow eyes, and a mouth turned down at the corners.
He looked at the guns, then at the red-and-white umbrella logo on the shields, and forced a smile.
"Are you with the military? Here to rescue us?"
No one answered him.
The leader waved his hand, and two team members walked over, forced the five men to the ground, and zip-tied their hands.
"Take them away. Leave them for Merle to handle."
The five were escorted out.
The man with the intimidating face glanced back at the cafeteria, then at the guns, but said nothing.
The corridor was dark, with only the beams of the headlamps swaying in front.
His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he saw the bloodstains on the floor, the bullet holes in the walls, and the Walker corpses lying in the corridor—every single one shot in the head, killed with a single shot.
His pace slowed for a moment, and he was shoved by the Soldier behind him.
Merle stood at the prison gate, cigarette in his mouth, looking at the scenery.
When his men escorted the five prisoners out, he didn't even turn his head.
"Five?"
"Five. Hiding in the cafeteria, door blocked from the inside."
Merle turned around and sized up the five men.
They wore prison uniforms, thin as firewood, their faces covered in a thick layer of grime, but their eyes were alive.
He looked at them one by one, his gaze finally resting on the one in front.
That man looked back at him, his gaze steady and unwavering.
"Ever killed anyone?"
Merle asked.
The man's eyes narrowed.
"Yes."
Merle nodded and shifted his gaze to the second man.
The second man, prompted by the first one's glance, also stepped forward: "Yes."
The three behind didn't step forward, nor did they speak.
"Just two?"
Merle took the cigarette out of his mouth and flicked the ash: "Then what use are you to me? I don't keep sheep here."
The faces of the three men changed.
"We—we can work! We can do any kind of work—"
Merle didn't let him finish.
Two gunshots rang out.
The two who had "killed people" looked down, staring at the bleeding holes in their chests, their eyes wide.
They wanted to say something, but only blood gushed from their mouths.
Then they fell.
A Soldier nearby walked over, drew a dagger, finished them both off with a stab to the head, and dragged them out by their ankles, leaving two dark red streaks on the ground.
The remaining three collapsed on the ground, trembling all over.
Merle squatted down and looked at them.
"You three, can you dig a hole?"
The three nodded desperately.
"Then go dig a hole and bury those two."
He stood up and holstered his gun: "If you don't dig it well, that'll be your own grave."
The three scrambled away, escorted by the Soldier to find shovels.
Daryl walked over from the humvee, leaned against the doorframe, and watched the three figures walk away.
"Do you think the Boss will keep them?"
"Yes."
Merle lit another cigarette: "The prison needs guards, the land needs farmers, the walls need repairs, and they can do that."
He took a drag of his cigarette, squinting at the prison walls: "The Boss said, as long as they aren't rotten to the core, give them a chance. Those three are cowards, not bad seeds; they're useful."
Daryl said nothing and turned to leave.
Merle stood at the prison gate, finished the last of his cigarette, and took out a high-power radio transceiver.
"Boss, the prison is ours. It's clean. Five living people; we dealt with two, and the remaining three are working. It can be converted into a base, even sturdier than our container town."
There was a silence on the radio for a moment, then Wu Fan's voice came through: "Good job. Stay there for now; I'll arrange for people to take over later."