Although Bryan's gut told him Joel and Tommy might still be alive, after calming down and thinking rationally, he had to admit the idea seemed far-fetched.
First: if Joel and Tommy were alive, why hadn't they come looking for the kids? Why would they have gone to Houston instead?
Second: that soldier claimed those two had taken down a fifty-man military squad. Bryan knew Tommy was an excellent shot—but was Joel really that skilled? He honestly wasn't sure.
And even if—against all odds—those two were Joel and Tommy, Bryan and Sarah had no way to get to Houston now. According to what he'd overheard, Houston had already fallen, transformed into an Infected playground. Even if they could reach it, they'd likely find nothing.
"Sigh..."
Bryan exhaled heavily. Yes, there was a small chance those men were Joel and Tommy. But it was only a chance. He couldn't justify abandoning their current path for a wild guess—that would mean betting everything on speculation.
He shook his head vigorously, forcing the thoughts away. Refocusing on the tree line, he noticed Sarah had already emerged from the bushes and was walking toward him.
Checking the time, he was surprised to discover nearly an hour had passed. Yet the convoy showed no signs of departing. "I'm going to check the situation up front. Want to come?"
"Sure, let's go." Sarah adjusted her coat, any playful mood gone, and followed Bryan toward the head of the convoy.
On their way back, they passed the thirty-odd prisoners still kneeling in punishment. By now, their faces were twisted in pain, knees trembling violently. Some looked ready to collapse—utterly pathetic.
Bryan spared them only a glance. People have to pay for their choices.
After a few minutes walking along the main road, they spotted a wall of spectators. A line of soldiers held civilians at a distance while quite a crowd had gathered to watch.
Bryan pulled Sarah into the group, found a spot with a decent view, and peered ahead.
The road was packed with people—groups of several pushing cars to the side, clearing the highway's scattered wreckage into a single lane, leaving enough room for the large buses to pass.
When they encountered an overturned truck or van, it took a dozen or more people working together to flip it upright.
After nearly an hour of effort, everyone was drenched in sweat despite the cold. Wind cut across their flushed faces. The congestion had been mostly cleared—maybe another half hour and the road would be open.
Bryan couldn't help but admire the efficiency. Power in numbers, indeed. All those vehicles cleared in such short time.
He also noticed a man with a prominent facial scar directing operations from the center of the crowd. The man wore a different uniform from the regular soldiers, calmly coordinating the work with steady authority.
Seeing no unusual developments, Bryan estimated they'd be done by the time he and Sarah returned to the bus. No point standing in the cold. He led her back.
Sure enough, shortly after they reboarded, a soldier with a megaphone announced that the road ahead was nearly clear. The convoy would depart soon. Everyone still outside should return to their vehicles immediately.
Women and children trickled back first. Minutes later, the men who'd been moving vehicles climbed aboard, rubbing their frozen hands. Last came the young troublemaker—barely able to walk, supported by companions as he half-collapsed into his seat.
Bryan noticed the young man shooting venomous glares at the female soldier in front and at those who'd initially supported him before abandoning him. Pure hatred and spite.
The female soldier—Tracy—clearly caught the look but seemed utterly unbothered. To her, he was nothing more than a joke.
The engine rumbled to life. The bus lurched forward. Every adult male, exhausted from the labor, fell asleep almost instantly upon sitting down.
The chorus of snoring proved contagious. Bryan's eyes grew heavy, drowsiness pulling at him.
Something warm pressed against his shoulder. He glanced over to find Sarah had lost the battle, already asleep against him.
That sealed it. Bryan stopped fighting his own fatigue, rested his head against hers, and drifted off.
. . .
Apart from the initial obstruction, the rest of the journey proceeded without incident.
Whenever they approached a town, the convoy would halt at the outskirts. Military vehicles would enter first, clearing and securing the area before signaling the rest to proceed.
Fortunately, the towns they passed contained only scattered Infected—mere handfuls, easily dispatched by armed soldiers.
Following this pattern, they traveled until evening approached. The convoy stopped outside a small town called Waskom, planning to rest for the night.
Per protocol, a dozen trucks entered first while the other vehicles waited outside. Within minutes of the military's entry, gunfire and explosions erupted from within—intensifying rather than dying down.
The civilians waiting in the buses understood immediately: the town harbored a significant Infected presence. Otherwise, why such sustained combat?
But the gunfire didn't last long. Half an hour later, the buses began rolling into town.
Apart from the military's portable floodlights, the town lay dark. A day's light snowfall had dusted rooftops and streets in white, giving the entire settlement an eerie, pristine appearance.
Soldiers worked in pairs along the streets, hauling Infected corpses to designated disposal areas. Dark blood oozed from bullet wounds, pooling crimson against the white snow—viscerally jarring. The thick, coppery stench of blood seeped into the buses, making passengers gag.
Even Bryan, long accustomed to such smells, grimaced and covered his nose, closing his window.
Military trucks dispersed to key intersections, establishing a secure perimeter, while the buses and fuel tankers proceeded to the town center where civilians would rest.
Once the buses stopped, passengers disembarked under direction, carrying their bags and belongings.
After sitting all day, everyone was stiff and weary. They stretched, massaged sore muscles, and tried to revive themselves. Rest would have to wait—everyone had assigned tasks.
Some followed soldiers door-to-door, searching and clearing buildings, ensuring no Infected or anomalies remained.
Others helped dispose of shot Infected, carrying bodies to distant sites for incineration.
Still others hauled food supplies from military trucks to distribution points. With nearly seven thousand people—civilians plus military—hot meals weren't feasible. Everything was pre-packaged food and canned goods.
Given the bitter cold, Commander Harry ordered a large kitchen found and hot soup prepared—something to warm everyone up and prevent hypothermia as temperatures dropped further overnight.
Everyone received assignments. Even young teenagers were expected to help however they could.
While people prepared food, dismantled furniture for firewood, disposed of bodies, and cleared buildings, the military connected small generators to restore basic power.
The electricity only managed to light streetlamps—nothing more. But no one complained. They'd grown accustomed to life without power. Having any light at all was a luxury.
As the town bustled with activity, no one noticed that in another small town not far away, a massive horde of Infected was surging toward them.