[TWD x Resident Evil] — Chapter 622 - Vincent, Never Giving Up His Schemes

The radio was blaring frenzied heavy metal.

Vincent sat on a leather sofa, bourbon in hand.

Yesterday's spoils — extorted from a handful of survivors who'd been foolish enough to seek shelter under the Military's protection.

He crossed his legs and savored the burn sliding down his throat with complete ease.

In a wasteland where order had collapsed entirely, drinking genuine bourbon was a symbol of power.

But that ease didn't last.

A harsh burst of static crackled through the airwaves, and the man who called himself Citizen Z began broadcasting his wild proclamations across every frequency. Vincent listened. And then he sat there, utterly baffled.

Atlanta?

A super fortress?

An absolutely safe Eden?

And now they were recruiting?

His face twitched twice without his permission. Then he slammed the glass down hard onto the solid wood coffee table.

Amber liquid splashed across the entire surface.

He knew perfectly well what was out there on the outskirts of Atlanta.

Back then, he'd been nothing but a dog working for the Fort Benning soldiers, scrounging for supplies on the highways at the city's edge, rounding up decent-looking women on the side to keep the officers entertained.

Then came one perfectly unremarkable day. The most humiliating day of his life.

He'd been making smooth progress. Fresh batch of goods, solid haul of supplies, fully expecting to earn himself some reward.

Instead — rotten luck. He'd run straight into that Asian kid. Glenn Rhee.

That damned Korean had made a complete fool of him in front of everyone.

Vincent reached up without thinking and touched the scar on the left side of his neck. Grotesque. Ugly. A souvenir from the officer who'd had him whipped after he botched the mission.

On rainy days, it still throbbed.

And now.

These lawless bastards were openly and brazenly setting up some kind of human revival base right there. Calling on every living person across America to come join them.

Seizing territory under Fort Benning's nose. Grinding the Military's face into the dirt.

Vincent was absolutely certain, the only group in this area capable of reaching that scale had to be those people. He'd spent months searching for them, hunting a way to settle the score.

And the whole time, they'd been hiding right under his nose. Playing it dark beneath the lamp.

Vincent shot to his feet.

He crossed to the wardrobe and straightened his American military camouflage uniform, still reasonably crisp. He looked at himself for a moment.

He was long past being the street thug anyone could push around, the kind left to pick scraps out of the cracks. Ever since he'd fled back to Fort Benning with the remnants of a routed force, he'd worked his slick, silver tongue until he latched onto a powerful officer's coattails.

Now he had a posting in the Logistics Department. A staff officer. The man the higher-ups called on to scheme and handle the dirty work.

And Citizen Z's broadcast had just handed him a golden opportunity.

It was as if God had placed the blade of revenge directly in his hands.

He could settle the old score with interest, and use this as a pretext to goad Fort Benning's forces into wiping out that worthless bunch entirely. Find their base. Take it down. The supplies inside, the clean water equipment, the women they'd recruited, all of it would fall into the Military's hands.

And Vincent, as the man who'd provided the key intelligence, would walk away with two ranks on the spot. Maybe more, if he played it right.

In this cannibalistic wasteland, that was called a resource exchange.

He grabbed his sidearm off the table, slid it into the tactical holster with practiced ease, shoved the door open, and strode toward the underground command center.

The corridor was lined with fully armed soldiers at every turn, M4 Rifles in hand, expressions blank and cold. A few enlisted men he passed gave him a slight nod. Vincent enjoyed that immensely. The vanity of power. He'd earned it.

He walked briskly to the double oak doors at the far end of the hall.

General Carter's private conference room.

To show the urgency of the intelligence and his own loyalty, Vincent didn't knock. He pressed his hand to the handle and pushed through with force.

A dense wall of Cuban cigar smoke hit him immediately. He squinted against it.

When his eyes adjusted, he froze in the doorway.

Every seat around the long rectangular mahogany table was already filled.

General Carter sat at the head, broad shoulders stretching his field uniform drum-tight. On either side of the table sat 4 grim-faced heavyweights, every one of them a core figure who held real firepower at Fort Benning.

And right there in the open space at the center of the table sat a military high-powered field radio.

It was still broadcasting the recruitment transmission, loud and clear.

The arrogant echo of heavy metal was still bouncing off the walls.

So they'd heard it already. Long ago.

No wonder the corridors were empty. No patrols. Everyone packed into this room.

Carter pulled the half-smoked cigar from his mouth and raised his eyes, downward-slanting, deeply cold, fixing them on Vincent.

"You had better have an extremely good reason for barging into my room without knocking." His voice carried the unmistakable weight of a man who did not ask twice.

Vincent swallowed. The shock vanished from his face in an instant, replaced by an expression of practiced, eager deference. He moved quickly to the foot of the table and pressed both hands flat against the surface.

"Sir, I have a reason." He pointed to the radio. "I came here specifically to report this broadcast."

"We're not deaf. We've already heard it."

A Black officer on the left cut him off, voice flat with impatience.

"It's some lunatic hiding God knows where, pulling a radio stunt." He let out a cold snort. "Atlanta's been packed solid with a million-strong Walker Horde for months. There's no Eden. There's no impregnable fortress."

"No, sir." Vincent straightened. His expression locked into something certain. "This is not a stunt."

"I know who these people are."

The room went dead silent.

Every head turned. Every gaze converged on the logistics staff officer who normally spent his time flattering officers and running errands.

Carter jammed the cigar back between his teeth and drew on it hard.

"Go on." He leaned back in his chair. "Keep talking."

Vincent's mind was already running at full speed, organizing every word with care, every word carefully chosen to bury these people in filth.

"These people were originally nothing but a gang of civilian thugs roaming the streets of Atlanta." He stressed the word thugs. "They have heavy firepower."

"A few months ago, when I was out on the city's outskirts collecting supplies, they ambushed me without warning."

He inverted everything without blinking. His own preying on survivors became a cowardly attack on him. Certain senior officers' covert instructions became nothing more than a routine supply run.

"They seized a large cache of supplies that rightfully belonged to Fort Benning. They killed and wounded many of my men — brutal methods. No mercy."

He paused deliberately and watched the officers' faces.

Sure enough. The moment they heard supplies taken, the expressions around the table turned darker.

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