Not far from Waskom, where the convoy had stopped, lay a small town called Greenwood.
Unlike other towns, this one was overrun. Infected filled every street—a terrifying mass that made one's scalp tingle at first glance.
In a church at the town's center, over a dozen haggard men and women sat or lay on the pews, staring blankly ahead, faces etched with despair.
Food scraps littered the floor around them. In one corner, several buckets served as makeshift toilets, covered but unable to contain the stench.
In another corner, separated from the rest, sat a father and daughter whose demeanor couldn't have been more different. The father—mid-forties, rugged features, powerfully built—peered through a crack in the boarded window, his eyes burning with the will to survive.
The daughter—seventeen or eighteen, with brown hair and pretty features—gripped a hunting rifle, watchfully eyeing the despairing group across the room.
All of them were survivors trapped in this church. Judging by the food pile, they'd been here at least a month.
Just then, a man covered in tattoos with a bright mohawk sat up from one of the pews. He scanned the room with hollow eyes, and upon spotting the father-daughter pair in the corner, let a sneer twist his lips.
"Wilfred," he called mockingly, "you've been staring out that window for over a month. Still haven't given up? The Infected outside keep growing. We're never getting out. No one's coming to save us. Why not just accept it? Enjoy what time we have left, like the rest of us..."
His gaze slid to the pretty young woman on the floor, undisguised lust in his eyes. "Your daughter's still pure, isn't she? Before she leaves this world, why not let her experience what it means to be a wom—AAH! Damn it!"
Before he could finish, the girl sprang to her feet, set down her rifle, grabbed a slingshot from the ground, and launched a stone directly at his face.
Mohawk had seen her move but couldn't muster the energy to dodge after days of apathy. The stone struck his cheek hard, drawing a yelp of pain.
"Only worthless scum like you would sit here waiting to die. You think I'm like you?" Wilfred turned from the window, regarding Mohawk with cold contempt.
"And Ogden—if you ever speak to my daughter that way again, I'll cut out your tongue."
He addressed his daughter, whose expression had turned equally icy. "Anna, take over watch for me."
"Yes, Father."
Anna nodded, flipped Ogden a universal hand gesture, and took her father's position at the window, eyes scanning the outside intently.
"You... you two!" Ogden clutched his bruising face, pointing at the pair who'd so thoroughly dismissed him, too furious to form words. If they didn't have that gun, he'd have taught them a lesson long ago.
But impotent rage accomplished nothing. He could only glare, then drag a half-dressed middle-aged woman from the floor and pull her toward the prayer room to vent his frustrations.
Soon, sounds emerged—Ogden's grunts of satisfaction mingled with the woman's pained moans.
Wilfred ignored it all. He sat in Anna's vacated spot, leaned against the wall, and closed his eyes, mind working on escape plans.
He and Anna weren't from this town. They'd simply been passing through when the outbreak trapped them here.
A hundred-man military unit had arrived to evacuate residents to the Shreveport Quarantine Zone. Everyone was supposed to follow in their own vehicles.
Just as they'd prepared to leave, Infected had swarmed from nowhere—his first glimpse of those monsters. They'd torn through the town, slaughtering people in the streets. Even now, he could picture the terror and despair on fleeing faces.
The escort soldiers had tried to fight back, but their rifles couldn't stem the tide. Most died. Only a handful who'd reached the trucks early managed to escape.
Townsfolk fled to their homes. Wilfred, Anna, and these dozen others—coworkers at a packaging facility—had barely made it to the central church, narrowly escaping the pursuing Infected.
Those who'd made it home but hadn't sealed their doors and windows were followed inside. Only those who'd barricaded immediately survived—but with Infected filling the streets, they couldn't flee.
By morning, bitten residents turned in their homes. Without any knowledge of the infection, their families and friends were caught unprepared and bitten in turn.
Wilfred had watched through the window as a panicked teenager flung open his front door and ran into the street, trying to escape an Infected family member—forgetting the streets held far more. The boy was beaten to death by the swarming horde.
Those without bitten family members faced a crueler fate: starvation.
As food dwindled, some risked foraging outside. The Infected gave them no chance. Most didn't make it far before being killed.
As time stretched on and food grew scarcer, moral constraints crumbled. People fought over remaining supplies, attacked even family members who tried to share. Some, driven mad by hunger, turned cannibalistic, becoming monsters themselves.
In just one month, most of the town's population had either been infected while scavenging or at home, or had been murdered by desperate neighbors and devoured.
How did Wilfred know all this? Because from his month at the window, he'd witnessed everything.
If his group hadn't been at the food packaging plant when disaster struck—each escaping with armfuls of supplies—they too might have become either demons or Infected by now.
But their situation wasn't much better. Food was running low. The Infected outside showed no signs of leaving.
Those dozen survivors who'd escaped with him had lost all hope. They'd stopped trying to find a way out, surrendering instead to hedonistic abandon—enjoying whatever pleasures remained before the end.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Just as Wilfred rested with closed eyes, distant explosions shattered the silence. His eyes snapped open. "What's happening out there?!"
Anna wasn't sure either. "It... sounded like explosions. From the west. Pretty far away, though."
"What's west of here?!" Wilfred whirled toward the others—he wasn't local and didn't know the area.
The despairing group had heard the explosions too. They scrambled to their feet. A young Black man spoke up: "West is Waskom. Small town, not far—maybe ten minutes away."
"Has someone come to rescue us?!" A blonde woman shot upright, face alight with sudden hope, despair transforming into desperate faith.
Even Ogden came tumbling out of the prayer room, pants barely fastened, expression equally excited.
SHRIEK—!
As they talked, the Infected outside had also noticed the western explosions. They turned as one toward the sound.
The first blast had produced noise but no visible prey, so they'd remained stationary.
But as explosion followed explosion, their attention locked onto the source. With a collective howl, the Infected horde began moving—slowly at first, then faster—westward along the highway.
"Heh heh..." Wilfred watched through the window, barely containing his elation.
"The Infected are moving! Even without rescue, we can finally leave!"
The announcement electrified everyone. They cheered and danced as if granted new life.
No one noticed Ogden's expression after his initial joy. His gaze had drifted to Anna, standing silently by the window. He licked his dry lips, and a strange smile crept across his face...