Chapter 132: The Latin Kingdom
The town was eerily quiet.
As Daryl rode his motorcycle down the main street, his tires crushed several skeletal corpses. The brittle bones crumbled into powder beneath the wheels, as fine as flour.
More remains lay scattered across the roadside grass. Some wore pajamas, others work clothes, and a few had only scraps of fabric hanging from their frames.
The Walkers were gone.
Whether they had wandered away or simply rotted into nothingness was impossible to tell.
Yet faint noises still echoed from the school gymnasium.
Daryl parked his motorcycle beside the playground, shut off the engine, slung his crossbow over his shoulder, and headed toward the gray-white building.
The main entrance was locked.
Several chains were wrapped tightly around the doors, secured by a brand-new silver padlock—the same kind he had broken open before.
The doors trembled slightly as dull thuds came from inside.
Something was still moving in there.
Without touching the lock, Daryl circled around to the side of the building.
There, beneath a broken window, sat a rusted green dumpster overflowing with black garbage bags, dead leaves, and scraps of paper.
The dumpster was positioned directly against the outer wall.
Above it was a shattered window, roughly a person's height above the dumpster's edge.
Daryl slung his crossbow onto his back and climbed up.
First, he stepped onto the dumpster's wheel axle, then grabbed the rim and pulled himself onto the pile of trash.
Dead leaves crackled beneath his boots, kicking up dust that made him squint.
The window glass had long since shattered, leaving only an empty frame.
Beyond it was complete darkness.
He reached up and tested the height of the sill.
Still too high.
Fortunately, a rusted air-conditioning unit hung nearby. Its support bracket was bent and corroded, but somehow it remained attached to the wall.
Daryl carefully stepped onto it.
The unit creaked and swayed beneath his weight but held.
Bracing both hands against the windowsill, he leaned forward and peered inside.
Nothing.
Just darkness.
As he prepared to climb through the window—
Thwack!
A sharp blow struck the back of his head.
It wasn't a powerful swing like a baseball bat.
It was a precise strike delivered from above with a wooden stick, targeting the most vulnerable spot.
Daryl's vision instantly went black.
A ringing filled his ears.
His body lost all strength.
He slipped from the windowsill and crashed face-first onto the gym floor, his lower body still hanging awkwardly out the window.
Beside the window stood Lee, gripping a wooden mop handle with both hands.
His breathing was ragged.
Behind him, Clementine crouched with her hands over her ears, staring wide-eyed.
Earlier, she had heard the motorcycle outside.
Then the sounds of someone climbing onto the dumpster.
Stepping onto the air-conditioning unit.
Reaching for the window.
Lee had immediately told her to hide while he waited beside the window with the makeshift club.
The moment a head appeared—
He swung.
"Is he dead?" Clementine whispered, her voice barely audible.
Lee shook his head.
He grabbed Daryl's belt, rolled him over, and examined him carefully.
Dust covered Daryl's face.
His hair was a mess.
A black leather vest hung from his shoulders, and a crossbow rested at his side.
He didn't look like one of them.
Those men usually wore flashy clothes, gold chains, tattoos, and cheap sandals.
This man was different.
Lee knelt down and checked his pulse.
Still alive.
"He's breathing," Lee said quietly.
"Let's get out of here."
Without wasting another second, he climbed through the window, dropped onto the air-conditioning unit, and jumped into the dumpster.
Clementine followed.
Lee caught her safely before helping her climb out.
The two of them cast one final glance at the unconscious stranger.
Then they turned and ran.