TWD - Chapter 531: Does Killing Count? (Patreon)

The three-day drive from Virginia to Tennessee was long enough for a person to think about a lot of things.

Benson barely spoke during those three days. It was not that he did not want to. He simply did not know what to say.

The convoy headed west through the Shenandoah Valley and across the Blue Ridge Mountains, passing towns and cities that had once been bustling but now lay in ruins. They encountered scattered walkers along the way, but Carver and Turner, who took turns driving the lead vehicle, did not even slow down. They simply plowed right through them.

They encountered two small groups of raiders, who retreated into cover the moment they spotted the convoy from a distance, not even daring to stick their heads out.

No recruiting. No stopping. They just kept moving.

Benson sat in the back seat, watching the scenery outside the window shift from mountains to hills, from hills to plains, and then slowly from the plains to the Appalachian Mountains.

By the time the convoy crossed the Tennessee state line, Thompson had already flown back to base in a Black Hawk with Bossie and Jenson.

Leah followed Benson’s gaze out the window and said with a smile, “Another two hours, and we’ll see our industrial park.”

Benson remembered something and sat up straight. “By the way, with your points system, how do you handle new recruits?”

Leah looked at him. “How many skills do you have?”

Benson thought for a moment. “Does killing people count?”

Leah’s lips twitched. “It counts, but we have better uses for it.”

Benson raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Like reconnaissance, patrols, guard duty, search operations, and teaching others how not to get killed.”

Benson paused for a moment, then leaned back in his seat with a relaxed smile. “Alright, I can do that.”

The convoy continued westward as the sun climbed higher in the sky. Two hours later, they entered the Knoxville Industrial Park.

The first thing Benson saw was the industrial park’s wall. It was much taller than he had imagined, with a patrol walkway along the top.

Their windows were open, so he could hear faint sounds from behind the wall: the hum of machinery, the sharp clang of metal, and the occasional distant echo of someone shouting.

He suddenly realized that these were the sounds of industry, sounds he had not heard in a very long time.

“Fuck!” Theodore, who was driving in the front seat, suddenly blurted out. Benson paused for a moment, then laughed.

“Fuck it!” he repeated.

The convoy stopped in front of a massive iron gate, flanked by guardhouses on either side. Two heavily armed guards emerged and checked the license plates of each vehicle and the ID badges of the occupants.

Benson and his group did not have badges. Leah handed the guard something. He glanced at it, nodded, and said something into his walkie-talkie.

The iron gate slowly opened, just wide enough for a single vehicle to pass through.

The car drove through the gate, and the world beyond it took the breath away from Benson and his eight companions for a moment.

It was not ruins, nor was it a survivor camp barely hanging on. It was an industrial zone, functioning, orderly, and organized.

To the left was an open lot where dozens of vehicles were parked, including pickup trucks, SUVs, vans, and even two military Humvees. People were working on the vehicles.

To the right stood a long row of factory buildings. Through the half-open doors, they could see people operating lathes, others moving materials, and still others discussing something while standing around a pile of parts.

Farther away stood even more factory buildings. Smoke rose from some chimneys, while neatly stacked cargo covered with tarps sat outside other entrances.

Benson’s fingers tapped lightly against the window frame. He had no idea what expression was on his face.

The convoy continued deeper along a main road and passed a dormitory complex that looked newly built. The windows were intact, and people were chatting downstairs or walking their dogs.

A black Labrador, led by a child, watched the passing convoy with curiosity.

They passed a large warehouse where forklifts were unloading goods at the entrance. Benson couldn’t make out what was being unloaded, but the crates were stacked neatly, each labeled with tags and serial numbers.

The convoy finally stopped in front of an open field where ten tents of various styles had been set up. Some were white with Red Cross emblems, while others were plain earth-colored tents.

People moved back and forth between the tents. Some waited in line, some registered, and others carried supplies.

A large sign hung above the tents: New Immigrant Reception Area. Disinfection, Medical Examination, Registration, Housing Assignment. Please Line Up in Order.

Benson opened the car door. Elijah, Josephine, Theodore, Ulysses, Joel, Jeremiah, Bruce, and Nigma got out one by one and stood behind him.

They looked at the row of tents, at the people in line, and at the staff moving back and forth.

No one spoke, because no one knew what to say.

“Let’s go,” Leah said, looking at everyone. “This is the first step.”

The first stop in the reception process was the tent.

A woman in her forties stood at the entrance of an empty tent, wearing a name tag that read “Chen, Nurse.”

She held an old-fashioned clipboard with a stack of forms clipped to it. She glanced up at Benson and the others, her gaze lingering briefly on the faces bearing burn scars before looking away. “New arrivals? Nine of you?”

“Yes,” said Leah.

Nurse Chen greeted the Commander-in-Chief of the Defense Force, then tore nine forms from the clipboard and handed them to Benson. “Basic information. One form per person.

“Name, age, previous occupation, any special skills, any chronic conditions, any recent injuries. Fill these out, then go inside to get disinfected.”

Benson looked down at the form. It was printed on plain A4 paper, with a hand-drawn layout that had been photocopied many times. The whole thing suddenly felt absurd.

In this day and age, even the forms had to be drawn by hand. More absurd still, Rock Fortress was actually using them to keep records just like before the apocalypse.

Nine people squatted on the open ground outside the tent and began filling out the forms. After finishing his own, Benson stood up and walked into the disinfection tent.

The interior of the tent was simple: a few plastic sheets partitioned it into several compartments. Each compartment contained a chair, a spray bottle, and a young man in protective gear and a mask, holding the spray bottle.

“Take off your jacket,” he said. “Raise your arms and turn around.”

Benson did as he was told. The sprayer released a fine mist with a faint smell of bleach, covering him from head to toe and front to back. Not even the soles of his shoes were spared.

“All done,” the young man said. “Next.”

Benson stepped out of the tent and waited outside.

Three minutes later, Elijah emerged, soaking wet. “Is that it?”

“I guess so,” Benson said.

Elijah didn’t say anything, but he ran his hand over his spray-soaked clothes, feeling conflicted.

The second tent was larger, with six cots lined up side by side inside, each attended by a doctor or nurse.

Some were taking the blood pressure of a young man who had just arrived, others were listening to heartbeats, and still others were crouched on the ground examining someone’s knee.

Benson and the others were divided into three groups to go inside.

Benson, Elijah, and Josephine were in the first group.

The doctor who greeted them had graying hair and wore reading glasses. He looked like the kind of man who had spent his whole life working at a community clinic.

“Sit down,” the doctor said, pointing to the space beside a bed. He then picked up his stethoscope, placed it against Benson’s chest, listened for a few seconds, and said, “Take a deep breath.”

Benson did as he was told.

“Breathe in again.”

He listened for a few more seconds.

“Okay,” the doctor said, setting the stethoscope aside and picking up a flashlight from nearby to shine it into Benson’s pupils. “How’s your vision?”

“It’s okay.”

“Can you see clearly up close?”

“Yes.”

“Hold out your left hand.”

Benson held out his hand.

The old doctor examined the burn scars on the back of his hand, pressed them gently with his fingers, and had him make a fist, unclench it, make a fist, and unclench it again. “When did you get those?”

“Around the time the walker virus broke out.”

“How did you treat it back then?”

“I bandaged it myself. There were no doctors.”

The doctor was silent for a few seconds, then nodded and wrote something on the form. “Your range of motion is decent, but it’s a little limited. You’ll need physical therapy later, or it’ll get stiffer and stiffer. Any other injuries?”

“My leg. A piece of shrapnel grazed it, but it’s already healed.”

“Let me take a look.”

Benson rolled up his pant leg, revealing a healed scar on his calf.

The doctor examined it, pressed the surrounding area with his fingers, then straightened up. “It healed well. You were lucky it didn’t get infected. All right, next!”