Chapter 99: Are You Moving House?
Smoke still rose from the scorched earth.
Hundreds of people moved among the craters, dragging Walker corpses toward the forklifts one by one.
The bodies were stacked like firewood.
The forklifts pushed piles of corpses toward the incineration zone, their tracks crushing shredded flesh and spent shell casings with faint crunching sounds.
The air was thick with the stench of burning flesh and rot, enough to make anyone's eyes sting.
A subordinate hurried over and whispered something into Merle's ear.
Merle turned his head and saw several young people standing by the roadside in the distance. They looked to be in their early twenties, dressed in filthy clothes, with several broken bicycles lying nearby.
They neither dared to approach nor leave.
Like frightened rabbits frozen in headlights.
Merle stuck a cigarette into his mouth and walked over.
The moment they saw him approaching, the youths instinctively stepped back.
"Are you military?"
The boy at the front spoke with a trembling voice.
Merle sized them up while the cigarette hung crookedly from the corner of his mouth.
"Military? The military already turned into man-eating monsters."
He flicked ash onto the ground.
"We're Umbrella Corporation. Private military."
He paused briefly.
"The world outside is completely screwed. You think there's still some organized army left out there?"
The young people exchanged nervous looks before quickly hopping onto their bicycles and riding away, chains rattling loudly.
Merle watched them leave before flicking away his cigarette butt.
Daryl walked over and stood beside him, watching the shrinking figures in the distance.
"You scared them off?"
Merle turned to him with an ugly expression.
"Do you even hear yourself talking?"
Daryl shrugged and walked away.
Merle remained standing there, cursing under his breath.
—
When the youths rode back into town, their bicycle tires skidded across gravel, nearly crashing into an old woman crossing the street.
They jumped off their bikes, panting heavily, and were immediately surrounded by a crowd.
Questions exploded all at once like boiling water.
"When is the military coming?"
"How many soldiers are there?"
"When will the world go back to normal?"
Little Cadi was shoved around from every direction, his ears ringing as he struggled to answer.
An old man finally stepped forward from the crowd.
"Quiet down. Let Little Cadi speak one at a time."
The crowd gradually fell silent.
Little Cadi took a deep breath.
"It's not the military. It's a private company's armed force."
He swallowed nervously.
"They said… America is finished. The whole world is finished. Nobody's coming to save us."
Silence.
Then someone started crying.
Someone collapsed onto the ground.
Some people grabbed their heads in despair, while others stood there blankly, as if their souls had been hollowed out.
Still, a few remained skeptical.
"Private military?"
Someone suddenly asked,
"Little Cadi, did you ask whether they accept survivors?"
Little Cadi's face immediately turned red.
He stammered for a long time without managing to answer.
The crowd looked at him and sighed.
At that moment, a middle-aged man wearing a mechanic's jumpsuit pushed his way out of the crowd. His hands were rough with calluses, black grease buried beneath his fingernails.
He grabbed a bicycle leaning nearby and jumped on.
"I'll go ask myself!"
The bicycle chain rattled loudly as he rode off into the distance.
—
The cremation fire was already burning fiercely.
Thick black smoke rolled upward into the sky, carrying the nauseating smell of burning fat.
Tosca rode his bicycle while staring at the mountains of Walker corpses piled in the distance.
The sheer scale shocked him.
He eventually got off his bike and pushed it forward.
A man in a black uniform stopped him.
"What do you want?"
Tosca snapped out of his daze and hurriedly replied,
"I'm from the nearby town. We still have over forty survivors left."
He pointed behind him.
"We heard the cannon fire, and the Walkers all left town, so we finally came out."
He hesitated before asking carefully,
"Does your group accept survivors?"
Daryl walked over and glanced at him.
"We do. This is Umbrella Corporation. Over five thousand survivors have already joined our base."
Tosca's eyes lit up before dimming again.
"Could you send a couple of vehicles to pick us up? Some elderly people can't walk anymore, and our cars haven't been started for eight months. The batteries are completely dead."
Daryl nodded.
"Fine. Two vehicles. They'll arrive within half an hour."
Tosca thanked him repeatedly before riding away on his bicycle.
Merle leaned against an ammunition crate while watching Daryl approach.
"Two vehicles? You're feeling pretty generous today."
Daryl ignored him.
Merle stood and brushed dust from his pants.
"One transport truck just finished firing its shells. Clear it out."
He pointed toward another vehicle.
"As for the second one, unload the artillery shells and redistribute them among the other trucks. Whatever doesn't fit goes into the Humvee."
He glanced at Daryl and paused.
"Nobody likes riding around on top of live shells. One lucky shot and we all become fireworks."
Daryl still didn't respond and simply turned to arrange it.
—
When Tosca returned to town, the crowd was still waiting exactly where he left them.
He jumped off his bike, sweating heavily but grinning from ear to ear.
"They agreed! They're sending trucks to pick us up!"
The crowd instantly erupted with excitement.
Everyone rushed home to pack.
Tosca hurried home as well.
He pulled a canvas backpack from the cabinet and stuffed in a few spare clothes along with every bit of food he could find.
Several packs of compressed biscuits.
Half a bag of flour.
One expired can of luncheon meat.
Then he opened the bedside drawer and carefully removed two photographs hidden underneath.
One showed his wife watering flowers in the yard, sunlight shining across her smiling face.
The other was a family portrait of him, his wife, and their son together.
He tucked the photos inside his clothes, zipped the backpack shut, and walked outside.
—
The streets were already packed with people.
Bags and luggage covered the ground everywhere.
Some dragged rolling suitcases.
Some carried pet dogs.
Others hauled small trailers loaded with luxury goods—LV luggage, unopened Hermès tableware, and expensive decorations.
Tosca stood at the edge of the crowd, staring at the piles of belongings with disbelief.
"I wonder if the house they give us will be decent," a woman nearby said.
"If it's bad, we'll protest together and demand a better one."
"Exactly. They can't just dump us into some shack."
"And they better not force us into heavy labor."
"Four hours of work maximum. We're not slaves."
Hearing those words, Tosca tightened his grip on his worn canvas backpack.
He looked down at his old shoes with nearly worn-out soles, then glanced at the Poodle locked inside a nearby cage.
For a moment, he didn't know what to say.
The sound of engines echoed from the distance.
Two trucks appeared around the corner.
Black cargo beds.
Black tires.
The red-and-white Umbrella logo painted across the roofs.
The crowd fell silent for a brief moment before erupting into chaos again.
People waved their arms, shouted excitedly, and rushed toward the vehicles.
"Line up!"
A man in a black uniform jumped from the driver's seat and shouted loudly.
"Anyone who refuses to line up can walk there themselves!"
The crowd reluctantly formed a crooked line.
Tosca stood near the very back, watching people climb aboard with bags and luggage.
Someone tripped over a suitcase.
Someone struggled to squeeze inside while carrying a dog.
Others argued endlessly with the loading personnel.
"This suitcase is expensive! Don't crush it!"
By the time Tosca reached the truck, it was already packed full of people and luggage.
Those left outside immediately exploded in anger.
"You brought way too much stuff! There's no room left for us!"
The people already inside shouted back indignantly.
"You brought luggage too! Why can't we bring ours?"
"Yeah! If you want to blame someone, blame yourselves for being too slow!"
"Why don't you ask the company to send another truck instead?"