Once all the survivors were aboard, the convoy wasted no time—they set off immediately.
The three newcomers drew every eye in the bus. People studied them with open curiosity. Wilfred and Anna got neutral treatment, but when gazes landed on the tattooed, mohawked Ogden, expressions soured. He reminded everyone too much of Jim.
I don't even know you people, Ogden thought irritably. What's your problem?
Wilfred led Anna to a bench seat. Ogden tried to sit nearby, but his distinctive appearance made everyone look away, pretending not to notice him.
He bristled but kept quiet. He wasn't stupid—picking a fight in an unfamiliar group that already disliked him would only make things worse.
Suppressing his irritation, he found an isolated corner seat and sat down without complaint.
Some passengers had been hoping for a confrontation. His restraint surprised them, and their opinions shifted slightly. But once the bus started moving, interest in the newcomers faded. Heads tilted, and sleep reclaimed them.
Minutes later, Anna broke the silence. "Father, where is this convoy going?"
After the Infected abandoned Greenwood, they'd wanted to leave immediately—but it was late, freezing cold, and they had no vehicle. They'd agreed to wait until morning to find transportation.
They'd raided a clothing store for warm clothes, then split up to rest in separate buildings, planning to regroup at dawn.
Anna had collapsed onto a real bed for the first time in ages. It should have been bliss.
But all she wanted was for morning to come quickly so she could escape Ogden. Ever since they'd left that church, she'd caught him staring at her multiple times. Her skin crawled every time.
Then that night, gunfire and explosions had erupted from Waskom's direction, followed by a sky full of flames.
The noise drew everyone back together. They'd watched the distant spectacle and debated—was the military clearing Infected out there?
Some disagreed. What kind of military op happened at night? The Infected had clearly left voluntarily. More likely, survivors in Waskom had triggered something, drawing the horde into combat.
That theory had won the group over. A few worried whether they should flee immediately in case the Infected returned.
But the horde wouldn't come back soon. They'd decided to stay the night, then gather supplies at first light and leave.
Next morning, no one could sleep past 6 AM. They'd immediately looked west—all quiet now. The survivors had either died or fled.
Four went to find and hotwire a vehicle; the rest paired off to scavenge. Anna had wanted her father to just slip away then, but he'd said the timing was wrong. They still needed these people. Reluctantly, she'd stayed.
When everyone reconvened, only Ogden and his partner hadn't returned. They'd waited and waited. Finally, near noon, the two appeared—carrying almost nothing. The woman's flushed face and the telltale smell made the reason obvious.
Anna had nearly gagged. She couldn't even look at him.
But Ogden's delay had led to an unexpected turn: while they'd been stuck waiting, a quarantine zone convoy had appeared.
The moment they spotted the American flag, everyone had screamed and waved. They'd flagged down the convoy—but when a scar-faced officer stepped out, no one had dared approach him.
Her father had walked forward alone and negotiated their passage.
Anna had been overjoyed. Another day teamed with that creep would have driven her insane. A military convoy to a real quarantine zone? Yes please.
She'd stolen a glance at Ogden. His face had been dark as a thundercloud.
At her question, Wilfred was silent for a moment. Then: "All I know is that this convoy came from Dallas. They're escorting civilians to the Atlanta Quarantine Zone."
"Atlanta?"
Anna's eyes widened. That was still a long way off.
"That's right." Wilfred nodded. "I'd originally planned for us to head to the Shreveport QZ. But the officer told me most zones have hit capacity and won't accept new arrivals. Instead of gambling on a maybe, I figured we should stick with this convoy." He paused. "Plus... the people who fought that horde last night? That was them."
"What?!"
The first news had been surprising. The second was shocking. An entire town's worth of Infected—and this convoy had faced them down?
"Those Infected..."
The pieces clicked—the damaged, blood-smeared vehicles, the bone-tired faces. She sought her father's eyes, looking for confirmation.
He sighed and gave her a look that said everything.
Anna leaned back, processing. Then her father murmured again, barely audible:
"When you get a chance, get to know these people. Gather intel. Let's verify what we've heard."
She nodded imperceptibly, then glanced at the injured Black woman on the back seats. Pain still twisted her face. Anna hesitated, half-rising as if to go help—then stopped herself and closed her eyes instead.
Wilfred noticed. His daughter's kind heart came from her mother, who'd also taught her nursing basics. She wanted to help.
After a moment: "Once we stop, you can go check on her if you'd like."
Anna said nothing, eyes still closed. No one knew what she was thinking.
Wilfred let it go and began mentally planning their next steps.
The new survivors were barely a footnote in the convoy's journey. The whole afternoon, nearly everyone slept. The bus stops didn't even wake most of them.
A few who stayed alert watched the ruins of Shreveport roll past. The once-bustling city was devastated—nothing like the functional Dallas they'd left. No human presence at all. Just Infected and the goddamn fungus.
Following protocol, the convoy paused outside each town for soldiers to scout before proceeding.
Ammunition use was now tightly controlled. Scavenging was aggressive.
As dusk approached, they stopped outside Calhoun—a town even smaller than Greenwood or Waskom. Monroe lay ahead, and no one wanted to spend the night there. They'd shelter here instead.
...
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