Back in their own RV, Bryan sat staring at the morphine on the table, his emotions a tangled mess.
Morphine was a powerful painkiller—but also addictive. Essentially a controlled substance, differing from street drugs only in how long it took to create dependency.
Bryan couldn't understand why Antoine had possessed this. Recalling the old man's peculiar behaviors and his daily drinking, a theory formed: Antoine must have suffered from some chronic condition. The alcohol hadn't been for pleasure—it had been self-medication, numbing himself against constant pain.
While he mourned for Antoine, Bryan couldn't suppress a flicker of relief. In critical situations, a powerful analgesic like this could be lifesaving. It might prove crucial on their journey to Atlanta.
. . .
That night, Bryan lay in bed. With only two people in the RV now, there was no need to share—they each had their own.
Yet sleep wouldn't come. His mind raced with scattered thoughts. Strangely, he found himself missing Osborne's nightly snoring and the girls' whispered conversations.
Suddenly, he felt his blanket lift. A moment later, a warm body slipped in beside him. He didn't need to guess—it was Sarah.
She emerged from beneath the covers, resting her head against his chest, draping a leg over him, and wrapping her arms around him tightly. Finding the most comfortable position, she settled in with practiced ease, as if she'd done this countless times before.
Neither spoke. Their time together had taught them to read each other's thoughts, to sense each other's shifting moods.
Feeling the dampness spreading across his chest and the slight trembling of her body, Bryan understood. Losing all their friends in one day, combined with Antoine's suicide, had wounded Sarah deeply. He patted her back gently, trying to ease her grief.
He stared blankly at the ceiling, more lost than he'd ever been. He didn't know what the future held, what challenges awaited, or where their journey would end.
But feeling Sarah's warmth against him, Bryan instinctively pulled her closer. Whatever the future brought, right now, all he wanted was to protect this girl in his arms—to keep her safe, to walk this road with her, wherever it led.
. . .
Two days after the lottery winners entered the Quarantine Zone, allocation lists for the other QZs were posted in quick succession. With randomized assignments and no selection process, everything moved fast.
The military posted lists by proximity, directing residents from each list to specific assembly points. Warnings accompanied every announcement: anyone on a list who failed to report would face consequences if caught in the city.
Simultaneously, dozens of cargo trucks rolled out from the QZ, trailed by residents who'd entered just days before. But their expressions had changed—no longer jubilant, they looked deflated, as if something had crushed their spirits.
The trucks dispersed to pharmacies, hospitals, and medical facilities throughout Dallas. Each vehicle came with a dozen armed guards while QZ residents loaded all medicine and supplies onto the trucks.
Once full, the trucks returned to the QZ to unload, then emerged empty to repeat the process. They were stripping the outer city of critical supplies.
Three days later, the first convoy from the nearest Quarantine Zone arrived in Dallas. Soldiers guided them to designated parking areas.
Announcements began broadcasting: the first wave of evacuees for that QZ should gather their belongings and proceed to the assembly point. More warnings followed.
Once assembled, soldiers cross-referenced ID cards against the roster, checking faces and names—preventing infiltration by those assigned elsewhere.
As days passed, more QZ convoys arrived. Batch after batch of Dallas residents—some willing, some forced—boarded the trucks. Sorrow at parting from family and friends hung heavy over the entire city.
Of course, incidents occurred along the way. One, in particular, left Bryan mortified.
First: soldiers on patrol spotted strange firelight inside an office building that should have been empty—evacuated when the residents departed.
Investigating, they discovered dozens of adults and children hiding inside, along with a substantial stockpile of supplies.
Investigation revealed they were residents assigned to distant QZs who'd hoarded supplies before the outbreak. Unwilling to abandon their stockpiles or accept QZ restrictions, they'd banded together, planning to wait things out, then leave with their goods to build their own utopia.
The safest place to hide? Right under everyone's noses—hence the office building. Everything had gone smoothly until some kid decided to play with fire, drawing attention. A tragic miscalculation.
Second: during one identity check, a soldier noticed something off about a disheveled man with an overgrown beard—impossible to match against his ID photo.
When ordered to clean his face, the man panicked, stammering incoherently. The soldier's suspicions deepened.
Cornered, desperation flashed in the man's eyes. He drew a pistol from his coat, ready to shoot.
But the soldier, already on alert, reacted instantly—tackling the man before he could fire.
As they struggled, another similarly unkempt figure at the edge of the crowd started slinking away.
Perimeter guards spotted him immediately. Both were subdued. Investigation revealed they were partners, both assigned to distant QZs. Unwilling to risk the journey, they'd hunted down people assigned to nearby zones, stolen their ID cards, and murdered them to take their places.
These two incidents alone involved dozens of lives—but in a Dallas where death was daily routine, they barely qualified as news.
As for the incident that mortified Bryan? One morning, he woke to find his lower body soaked in some kind of liquid.
His first thought: Did I...? But the location felt wrong. He threw off the blanket to investigate—and found himself staring at a crimson stain. The source: Sarah, sleeping beside him.
That's right. The thirteen-year-old had just experienced her first period.
He woke her gently. She blinked up at him, utterly confused—clearly, no one had ever explained this to her. Bryan didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
Searching his memory for whatever meager knowledge he possessed about female biology—and some very awkward details—he felt his soul leave his body.
He told Sarah to stay put, changed his clothes, and ventured out to find supplies. After checking several locations, he hit a wall: everything was gone.
Left with no choice, Bryan steeled himself and returned to the administrative office to find Clarice. He'd have to swallow his pride and ask for help—plus some guidance on what Sarah needed to know. She was the only woman he knew who was still accessible.
Clarice was surprised to see him again. When she learned why he'd come, she burst into laughter, nose in the air, thoroughly enjoying his discomfort.
Bryan fled the office clutching a cardboard box, face burning scarlet, Clarice's howling laughter chasing him out the door. Now he understood exactly how that bald man had felt.
Back at the RV, he handed over the supplies and stumbled through the most awkward explanation of his life. Having a grown man deliver "the talk" was pure torture for everyone involved.
As Dallas's population continued to dwindle and October faded away, the military began organizing the convoy to Atlanta. Their departure was imminent—an unknown journey awaited.