Walking Dead: Unlock the Umbrella Corporation Hive Begins with Hunting Chapter 112 112: 112

The air in Savannah carried the salty scent of the sea mixed with an indescribable stench of decay.

Lee Everett stood on an overpass at the edge of the city, one hand shielding his eyes as he squinted at the old Southern city once famous for its oak trees and historic squares.

The clock tower still stood in the distance, but its bells no longer rang.

Abandoned vehicles clogged the streets. Scattered luggage lay forgotten on sidewalks while gusts of wind sent yellowed newspapers tumbling across the asphalt.

There weren't many walkers. Most had followed the fleeing crowds toward the coast, where boats, hope, and perhaps another city untouched by disaster awaited.

Clentine stood beside Lee, clutching the hem of his shirt.

"Lee, are we really going into the city?"

Lee looked down at her and tried to smile, but the expression never fully ford.

"We'll take a look. Maybe we'll find a boat."

He adjusted the straps of his backpack and nodded to the others behind him.

Kenny led the group with his shotgun in hand. Omid and Christa followed close behind. Ben carried an overstuffed backpack, while Chuck brought up the rear with a cigarette hanging from his lips.

Seven people. Seven shadows stretched long by the afternoon sun.

They passed through neighborhood after neighborhood.

So areas were relatively clear, with only a few walkers that Kenny easily put down using the butt of his shotgun.

Others were blocked by overturned trucks, burned-out buses, and makeshift barricades of sandbags. It was impossible to tell whether the military or survivors had built them.

Besides the sll of salt and rotting fish, another scent lingered in the air.

Gunpowder.

Fresh gunpowder.

Kenny sniffed the air and frowned.

"There was fighting here."

Before anyone could respond, the distant roar of engines echoed from the woods.

It wasn't just one vehicle.

It was many.

A deep, powerful sound that seed to make the ground tremble beneath their feet.

Ten Osprey helicopters erged above the treetops.

Their rotors glead silver beneath the sunlight, while missile pods mounted beneath their fuselages stood out sharply against the gray sky.

Flying in a wedge formation, they thundered overhead at low altitude.

The downdraft from their rotors whipped dead leaves into the air, scattering them across the road and striking Clentine's face.

"It's the military!"

Omid shouted first, his voice filled with excitent.

"It's the military! We're saved!"

Christa smiled and wrapped an arm around him.

Kenny slung his shotgun over his shoulder and hurried forward, as if afraid the helicopters might disappear at any mont.

Ben quickly followed.

Even Clentine smiled.

"Lee, the military is here. We're safe now."

She squeezed his hand tightly.

Lee said nothing.

His eyes remained fixed on the direction where the helicopters had vanished.

The military had arrived.

Everything should be safe now.

But what about him?

He looked down at his hands.

These were the hands of a man who had been arrested, handcuffed, and transported in the back of a police car.

He wasn't a civilian waiting to be rescued.

He was a prisoner.

If order returned, so would the law.

And if the law returned...

He would be sent back behind bars.

His grip tightened around his backpack strap until his knuckles turned white.

Feeling the tension in his hand, Clentine looked up.

"Lee, what's wrong?"

Lee lowered his head and t her innocent eyes.

After a mont, he shook his head.

"It's nothing. Let's keep moving."

The group continued toward the city center.

The clock tower drew closer with every step, and glimpses of the central square appeared between the buildings.

But the first thing they found wasn't the square.

It was a wall of corpses.

Hundreds of walker bodies had been stacked on both sides of the street, forming a grotesque barricade that blocked every entrance.

Barbed wire wrapped around the corpse wall.

Wooden fencing had been erected outside it.

Painted across the boards in red letters were the words:

CRAWFORD COMMUNITY — LAND OF THE LIVING

Kenny stopped and read the sign aloud.

"Crawford? Never heard of it."

A voice suddenly ca from behind the fence.

"New arrivals?"

Everyone turned.

A man in camouflage stood behind the barrier holding an M16.

The muzzle pointed downward, but his finger rested close to the trigger.

He looked them over carefully, his gaze lingering briefly on Clentine before moving away.

"You know the rules?"

The group exchanged confused looks.

The man sighed and pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket.

He passed it through the fence.

"Read it yourself."

Kenny scanned the page.

Children under fourteen, the elderly, pregnant won, and anyone suffering from serious illnesses or disabilities were prohibited from entering.

Violators would be expelled or executed.

Pregnancy was forbidden. Abortion was mandatory.

Concealing illness was punishable by death.

Leaving the community ant permanent exile.

Theft was punishable by execution.

Food, dicine, and fuel were strictly rationed.

Waste of any kind was forbidden.

After finishing, Kenny looked as though he'd swallowed sothing rotten.

"What kind of place is this? A concentration camp?"

The guard took the paper back without expression.

"The Crawford Community was founded by Mr. Oberson. If you want in, follow the rules. If not, leave."

Kenny tightened his grip on the shotgun, but Christa pulled him back.

Omid stepped closer.

"We're looking for the military. We saw helicopters flying overhead. Were they yours?"

The guard shook his head and gestured toward the square.

"Go take a look yourself. The kid can't enter, but she can watch from the side."

The seven of them passed through a narrow gate beside the corpse wall.

The square beyond was enormous.

Gray stone tiles covered the ground, and a large fountain stood at its center.

Its water had long since dried up.

Dead leaves filled the basin.

Slogans were painted across nearby buildings.

LABOR IS GLORIOUS. WASTE IS SHAFUL.

ONE COMMUNITY. ONE HEART.

Several hundred people occupied the square.

Their clothing varied widely, but there were very few elderly residents and even fewer children.

Every face wore the sa empty expression.

They looked less like survivors and more like livestock.

Workers pushed carts through the crowd, distributing portions of dark, unidentifiable food.

Long lines stretched across the square.

Yet the place was eerily silent.

No conversations.

No argunts.

No coughing.

Nothing.

A pathway had been cleared through the center.

Ard guards stood on both sides, rifles held upright and posture rigid.

Then a man appeared.

A middle-aged man wearing a military uniform walked slowly across the square, several aides following behind him.

His uniform was immaculate.

His boots shone brightly.

Though he wore no rank insignia, the way he carried himself resembled a general reviewing his troops.

Crawford Oberson.

He advanced at a asured pace, each step landing precisely in the center of a stone tile.

His gaze swept across the crowd of bowed heads as though he were inspecting an army that belonged entirely to him.