Chapter 133: The King's Wrath
The parks of Tampa were no longer what they once were.
The palm trees still stood tall, but their trunks were wrapped with wires stretched into makeshift clotheslines.
The lawns had long since disappeared. The earth had been dug up and transformed into farmland. Rows of corn, beans, and sweet potatoes covered the ground, their vines spreading in every direction. The leaves were curled and dusty beneath the scorching sun, coated in a layer of gray dirt.
Thousands of survivors worked in the fields.
Some pulled weeds.
Some spread fertilizer.
Some harvested crops.
Their movements were mechanical and lifeless, like puppets whose strings were being pulled.
No one spoke.
No one smiled.
Most wore ragged clothing pieced together from scraps. Some were barefoot. Some wore burlap sacks as makeshift coats. Others were so thin that their ribs protruded clearly beneath their skin, looking more like walking skeletons than living people.
Along the edges of the fields stood armed overseers.
AK rifles hung from their shoulders as they watched the workers with cold eyes.
One man straightened his back to wipe away sweat.
Immediately, an overseer shouted at him.
The worker flinched and hurriedly bent back down.
No one dared disobey.
At the edge of the park stood a small grove of palm and oak trees.
A middle-aged woman was being led into the woods by one of the guards.
Her face was bruised.
One eye was swollen.
A cut split her lower lip.
Yet there was no fear left in her eyes.
Only emptiness.
Only resignation.
The guard held a cookie between his fingers and waved it in front of her.
The woman's eyes followed it instinctively.
When she reached out, the guard pulled it away with a grin and continued walking deeper into the grove.
The woman followed.
Slowly.
Like a puppet whose strings had already been cut.
Before long, muffled sounds echoed from the trees.
Then silence returned.
---
On the northern side of the park, shipping containers and sheets of corrugated steel sealed off an entire street.
Only a single entrance remained.
Behind it lay Tampa's red-light district.
Armed guards stood watch at the gate.
A long line of men waited outside.
In their hands were canned food, bread, chocolate bars, and other precious supplies.
Everything had a price.
The younger and prettier the woman, the higher the cost.
Some men had to save their rations for half a month just to afford a single visit.
As for the truly beautiful women...
They were not here.
They lived in the gang leader's villa.
They wore clean clothes.
They ate fresh fruit.
And they enjoyed luxuries that ordinary survivors could only dream about.
Nearby, several addicts lay sprawled across the dirt streets of the slums.
Some twitched violently.
Others lay motionless, white foam dripping from their mouths.
Nobody helped them.
Nobody even looked their way.
Because nobody cared.
And nobody dared.
---
This was Tampa now.
A city ruled by Latino gangs.
At the top sat Santiago Herrera.
Inside a bank building that had been converted into headquarters, Santiago sat by a second-floor window overlooking the park.
He wore a black leather jacket left partially unzipped, revealing a white undershirt beneath.
A polished holster rested at his waist.
A hunting knife hung on the opposite side, its handle decorated with a golden skull.
A horrific scar stretched across his face.
It began above his right eyebrow, crossed his nose, and ended at his left jaw.
Even his lips had been sliced apart and crudely stitched back together.
The scar twisted across his face like a giant centipede.
In his hand was a cup of coffee.
Cuban coffee.
A luxury from before the apocalypse.
Every cup he drank meant one less remained in existence.
That was why he drank it slowly.
Carefully savoring every sip.
Before him stood two men.
One thin.
One short.
Their clothes were stained with mud and blood.
Fresh scratches covered their faces.
They looked like men who had barely escaped with their lives.
The thin man's legs trembled.
The short man's hands shook uncontrollably.
Santiago set down his coffee.
The porcelain cup clicked softly against the marble table.
"Explain."
His voice was calm.
Low.
Heavy.
The thin man swallowed hard.
"Boss... Eduardo is dead."
The room fell silent.
Santiago's fingers paused on the coffee cup.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then:
"How did he die?"
The thin man's voice became even quieter.
"He was killed by an outsider near one of the border towns."
"He stole our Humvee."
"And killed several of our men."
He didn't dare mention how Eduardo's throat had been slit.
He didn't dare mention the crossbow bolts.
And he definitely didn't dare mention that they had abandoned the bodies and run for their lives.
Santiago leaned back in his chair.
Silence filled the room.
Slowly, he reached up and touched the scar on his face.
A scar he had earned in a Miami alley decades ago.
The man responsible had later been fed alive to crocodiles.
Santiago never forgot hatred.
And he never forgave.
"What did he look like?"
The thin man quickly described Daryl.
A leather vest.
A crossbow.
A motorcycle.
Cold eyes.
Few words.
Santiago listened quietly.
His fingers tapped lightly against the table.
He wasn't thinking about revenge.
He was deciding whether the man was worth hunting.