Chapter 42 — Glenn's Departure
Scarface's smile froze on his face.
Hank's P226 spat fire without warning.
The bullet punched through the center of Scarface's brow with surgical precision.
His head snapped backward from the impact. A neat hole bloomed in the middle of his forehead—
followed by a violent burst of red and white from the back of his skull, splattering across the rusted metal of the container.
His body toppled stiffly, hitting the ground with a dull, dusty thud.
Hank slowly lowered the pistol. A thin ribbon of smoke rose from the barrel.
"You can thank your mother," he muttered, deadpan.
Silence swallowed the factory again — all that remained was the stink of blood and gunpowder.
Hank's breathing came heavy and ragged. He slumped down beside a corpse, legs giving out for a moment.
Click.
A flame sparked to life.
He took a deep drag from the cigarette, letting the harsh smoke burn through his lungs — numbing the pain in his chest from the earlier bullet impact and the various grazes.
Exhale.
A thick smoke ring drifted up into the warehouse full of slaughter, slowly dissolving into the air.
All the carnage of moments ago now felt dreamlike — unreal.
But Hank didn't have the luxury of reflection.
Once the nicotine steadied his nerves, he flicked the half-smoked cigarette onto Scarface's corpse. Sparks scattered across the bloodstained fabric.
He got up and headed back to where he'd dropped the assault pack.
It was still there — untouched.
He slung it over his shoulders and began cleaning the battleground like a veteran looter — calm, efficient, mercilessly practical.
Spare magazines. 9mm rounds. 12-gauge shells. Anything usable went into the pack.
He returned to the body with an axe in its face, wrenched the blade free, wiped the blood on the corpse, and slid it back into his belt.
The whole cleanup took less than three minutes.
When he was done, he didn't look back at the corpses — didn't spare the place another thought.
He jogged toward the opposite exit of the factory, eyes scanning for movement.
The street outside was quiet…
But from a distance, the low rumble of multiple engines began to rise.
Scarface's older brother?
Hank's face hardened.
He didn't stick around long enough to find out.
He slipped back into the factory maze and used the chaotic layout to exit from a completely different side.
He avoided the main road, keeping low and steering clear of the increasingly loud engine noise.
He spent as long as possible avoiding stray walkers, taking an even wider detour than before.
Finally — the cruiser came into view in the narrow alley.
Whistle~
Hank raised the P226 in one hand and whistled softly.
The passenger window rolled down a crack.
Glenn's anxious face appeared. When he saw it was Hank—bloody, battered, and radiating raw killing intent—his whole body sagged in relief. He hurriedly unlocked the doors.
"Officer! Thank God—you're back! I heard explosions and gunshots over there and thought—" Glenn's voice trembled with leftover fear.
"It's over. Handled a few trash bags."
Hank holstered his gun, slid into the driver's seat, and tossed the heavy assault pack into the back.
He turned the key.
Tak… tak… tak…
The engine coughed, the dashboard lights flickering weakly.
"Come on, you piece of crap," Hank muttered.
Just before the battery fully died, the engine roared grudgingly to life.
Hank dropped into Drive and floored it. The cruiser shot out of the alley and headed toward the gas station. They drove in tense silence, scanning every shadow, every corner — but nothing ambushed them.
By the time they returned to the motel's U-shaped yard, the sky had turned orange-red with sunset.
The dying sun set the horizon ablaze — like the world itself was burning.
Kenny and Lee hurried over.
"What the hell happened? Why were you gone so long? And you're covered in—" Kenny stared at Hank's bloodstained clothes, eyebrows scrunched.
"Minor issue." Hank waved him off, cutting short the interrogation. His voice was flat with exhaustion.
"Police station got messy. Handled. But we might have bigger trouble on the way."
"No time to explain. Pack up. At first light, we head for Savannah."
Hank dropped the assault pack and immediately began distributing weapons and ammunition.
He had one M590 shotgun. The other two he'd recovered from the police station went to Kenny and Lee — thirty 12-gauge shells each.
Kenny and Katjaa also received police-issued Glock pistols — one magazine per gun.
Kenny checked the pump-action shotgun, racked it, grinned.
"Oh yeah. This thing feels right."
"Carly," Hank tossed her a handful of loose rounds, "you've already got a handgun and spare mags. Just pocket the rest so you're topped off."
Carly looked surprised but accepted calmly. "Thanks, Officer."
Doug received a small-caliber revolver and a few cartridges — at least enough to defend himself.
Lilly and Larry got two old hunting rifles with limited ammo.
Hank wasn't giving them anything more lethal than necessary — not a chance.
If he wasn't trying to avoid tension, they wouldn't have gotten guns at all.
A kitchen knife would have been generous.
Once the others were armed, Hank dealt with his own loadout:
P226 handgun — one mag inserted, five spare mags on his vest (120 rounds total)
M590 shotgun — 9 rounds loaded, 69 spare shells on bandoliers
Tactical knife on thigh
Hand axe at the back of his waist
Smoke grenades, flashbangs, and high-calorie rations in the assault pack
While he geared up, Glenn watched — not with relief, but with hesitation.
"Officer… I…"
He took a breath — the decision clearly painful.
"I want to go to Atlanta."
The courtyard fell silent.
Glenn didn't meet Hank's eyes. He spoke fast, like ripping off a bandage:
"We have a vehicle now. I need to go to Atlanta and find T-Dog. He's my best friend."
His voice shrank toward the end.
Kenny's eyebrows knotted, ready to object — but Hank stopped him with a single look.
Hank felt a sting in his chest.
Good teammates were rare in this rotten world.
And Glenn was one of the few he genuinely trusted.
But a promise was a promise.
"If that's your choice," Hank said quietly, "then be careful."
Glenn finally looked at him — eyes full of gratitude.
"We talked about this already," Hank added with a weary smile, patting him on the shoulder.
"And we're leaving tomorrow anyway."
Hank packed a small backpack with food and water, placed it on the cruiser's passenger seat.
Then he pulled out a freshly loaded Beretta 92 and a spare magazine.
"Take it. For the road."
He handed it to Glenn, who was already sitting behind the wheel.
Glenn looked at the supplies… the gun… the extra magazine…
His eyes reddened immediately. His lips trembled — he tried to speak, to thank him —
but no sound came out. Only a strangled sob.
Suddenly remembering something, Glenn dug into his pocket and pulled out the battered walkie-talkie.
"T–this… this is yours, Officer." He held it out the window. "You'll need it more than me…"
Hank stared at the radio — then gently pushed it back into Glenn's hands.
"You keep it."
His voice didn't change tone — but Glenn heard the care behind it.
"With your personality?"
"If you come across some idiot trapped somewhere again, I know you. You'll try to save them. And you'll need that radio if you do."
Glenn's fingers clenched around the walkie-talkie, knuckles whitening.
He lowered his head. His shoulders shook.
Tears rolled down onto the back of his hand.
It wasn't just a radio.
It was a lifeline — a promise — a way back to someone who would answer.
"…Thank you."
He finally forced the words out, thick with emotion.
"Thank you, Officer… take care."
"You too, delivery boy." Hank tapped the door twice.
"Stay alive. And find your friend."
Glenn nodded hard, wiped his face with his sleeve, and composed himself.
He looked one last time at the motel — at the people who'd shared life-and-death with him.
Then he shifted into Drive.
The cruiser rolled forward and left the U-shaped courtyard.
Hank stood where he was, watching the taillights glow red in the deepening dusk, getting smaller and smaller until they disappeared around the corner.
The engine noise faded.
Silence swallowed the night again.
Hank stayed there for a long time.
Softly — only loud enough for himself to hear — he murmured:
"I hope next time we meet… Lucille hasn't turned you into paste."
The sky burned a deep crimson until the last ray of sun sank.
Clouds glowed blood-red at the edges — even the rising moon had a faint scarlet halo.
"Wow, the clouds look so pretty," Clementine said with a gasp, pointing her small finger at the sky.
"The moon is turning red too."