Chapter 140: The Demise of the Latino Gang
Atlanta's wall was already beginning to take shape.
Shipping containers had been stacked in two rows, with gravel and concrete poured between them. From a distance, it resembled a gray-white city wall.
Eugene sat in the back of the Humvee with his face pressed against the window, watching the containers pass by.
Some still bore their original markings—shipping company logos, port codes, and faded warning signs.
Now, they had all become part of the wall, part of a city being rebuilt, waiting either to be forgotten by time or remembered by future generations.
The Humvee stopped at the gate.
A guard approached, glanced at the passengers, checked the documents Eugene handed over, and waved them through.
The iron gate slid open, and the vehicle drove inside.
The scene beyond was worse than Eugene had imagined.
Broken glass littered the streets, glittering beneath the sunlight.
The graffiti remained on the walls—not artistic murals, but desperate messages such as Help and We're Still Alive. The handwriting was crooked and uneven, as though written in blood. Time had faded the color to black.
Abandoned vehicles lined the roadsides. Some had flat tires. Others sat with their doors hanging open. A few had been burned down to skeletal frames.
Tow trucks worked continuously, hauling wreckage out of the city and piling it into massive scrapyards beyond the walls.
Once the roads were cleared, they could begin repairing houses, restoring power lines, and fixing water systems.
One step at a time.
Eugene watched soldiers in black uniforms carrying Walker corpses onto a conveyor belt.
The conveyor system was improvised from iron frames and rubber belts. The motor groaned loudly, as though it were crying in protest.
The bodies were loaded into truck beds and piled into grisly mountains.
Whenever one truck became full, it drove away and another backed into position.
Eugene finally asked,
"Where are they taking the bodies?"
The driver never looked back.
"That's not something you need to worry about."
The radio station occupied an old building in downtown Atlanta.
Its gray exterior walls and narrow windows made it resemble a military bunker.
The guard at the entrance checked Eugene's identification, compared his face to the photograph, and allowed him inside.
The lobby was dimly lit. Emergency lights still hummed overhead.
Documents and shattered glass covered the floor.
A wall clock hung motionless, forever frozen at 10:10.
Eugene climbed the stairs and entered the broadcasting room.
The transmitter had already been dismantled.
Its control panel hung open, exposing the circuit boards. Capacitors and resistors had been repositioned but were still waiting to be soldered into place.
An oscilloscope rested against the wall, its screen flickering with dancing signals.
Eugene set his backpack on the table and removed the supplies he had scavenged from the warehouse the previous day—a roll of solder wire, replacement capacitors, several fuses, and a new screwdriver.
He sat down, plugged in the soldering iron, and waited.
The heated tip touched the rosin, releasing a thin curl of white smoke.
Then he began working.
Each solder joint formed a perfect silver bead, round and shining beneath the light.
---
Meanwhile, on the Georgia–Florida border, the afternoon sun blazed across the highway.
Ten pickup trucks sat crookedly across an intersection.
Their engines continued to idle.
Inside the second truck, Santiago Herrera sat in the back seat between two young blonde women whose makeup had long since been ruined.
A bald man occupied the passenger seat, pointing at a location on a map.
"Boss, there's a sign ahead. It says, 'Survivor Base — Accepting Survivors.'"
Santiago took the map, glanced at it, and tossed it back.
"Let's have a look."
The convoy immediately moved out.
Less than half a mile later, a voice crackled through the radio.
"Boss, there's a motorcycle ahead. One rider."
Santiago leaned out the window and narrowed his eyes.
A black motorcycle emerged around the bend.
The rider wore a leather vest. His hair was unkempt, and his face was covered in dust.
Santiago stared at him.
Slowly, his fingers tapped against his knee.
A leather vest.
A crossbow.
A motorcycle.
Quiet.
Cold eyes.
The description matched perfectly.
It was him.
"Stop him."
His voice remained calm.
The lead pickup accelerated.
The moment Daryl saw the convoy speeding up, his heart sank.
He recognized those vehicles immediately.
The Florida Latin Kingdom.
Without hesitation, he twisted the throttle.
The motorcycle surged forward and veered into the woods beside the highway.
Branches lashed against his face.
Leaves and gravel flew beneath the tires.
The bike bounced violently but remained under control.
Behind him, the pickup trucks charged into the forest as well.
Gunshots erupted.
Bullets tore through tree trunks, spraying bark everywhere.
Daryl lowered his body over the handlebars and pushed the motorcycle even harder.
The chase had begun.