Braving the bitter wind and snow, Bryan climbed aboard the bus. A wave of warmth enveloped him immediately, and he exhaled in relief.
But he knew it was just an illusion. The bus was nearly as cold as outside—the contrast merely created a false sense of warmth. Once his body adjusted, he'd be freezing again soon enough.
Everyone on the bus was huddled together, blowing on red, frozen hands, trying to warm them with their breath. Some had abandoned personal space entirely, hugging each other for shared body heat.
Even Tracy was struggling. Though she maintained her watch over the passengers, her body shivered uncontrollably.
Bryan made his way to the back, where his usual seat had been claimed by others. He didn't care. He continued to the rear, where Sarah, Allen, Anna, Sylvia, and Wilfred had gathered.
Over the past week, the six of them had formed a small group. With the distance between their original seats proving inconvenient, they'd negotiated trades with neighboring passengers—a few small favors exchanged—and now sat together, chatting to pass the time.
"Here—everyone have some chocolate. Get some calories in."
Bryan found the empty spot they'd saved for him, opened his backpack, and distributed chocolate bars to everyone. His voice was barely above a whisper—only those immediately beside him could hear.
No one refused. But everyone was careful about eating. They tore open wrappers quickly, popped the chocolate in their mouths immediately, then crumpled the packaging into a trash bag to contain any lingering smell.
They'd learned from others' mistakes. Not long ago, someone on another bus had been eating openly—nuts, canned goods, real luxuries.
Nobody said anything at the time. But during a rest stop, masked assailants had beaten him bloody and stolen everything.
The soldiers' subsequent investigation turned up nothing—no clues, no culprits. The matter was dropped. The victim had been devastated.
His experience served as a warning. Now anyone with something valuable ate covertly, terrified of attracting unwanted attention.
In the very back corner, Allen crouched on the floor. His seat was covered with pistol components. Despite his red, frozen fingers, he was practicing assembly—movements still clumsy, stiff hands slowing him further. The whole process looked painfully awkward.
During the journey to Atlanta, Bryan and Sarah hadn't been idle. First came physical training for Allen—strict sleep schedules, rigorous exercise routines.
Then, a few days in, they'd started teaching him firearms: handling, assembly, the techniques Osborne had taught them, passed on word for word.
They'd never actually used any of it in real combat, but that didn't stop them from playing expert instructors. Talking someone through it worked just as well.
Allen threw himself into the training without complaint. Whatever Bryan or Sarah asked of him, he did without hesitation, practicing constantly.
Watching the boy start drilling assembly the moment he returned to the bus, Bryan sighed softly and placed a chocolate bar beside him. "Allen, this is for you. Don't rush—take your time."
"Thanks."
Allen glanced at the chocolate, murmured his thanks, but didn't stop working. Despite the time it took, he eventually fitted all the pieces together successfully.
Since witnessing his mother's murder, Allen's entire world had shattered. He'd spiraled into grief and despair, with no one to confide in. The suffocating pressure had bred resentment toward everyone who'd failed to save her.
Meeting Bryan had been his salvation. The older boy didn't talk much, but Allen constantly felt brotherly care from him. And there was Sarah, always forcing him to play—he didn't actually enjoy it, but somehow it made him happy. He had to become brave. Strong. He would protect these two people, even if they were both older than him.
"Sarah, is this right?" Satisfied with his work, Allen quickly handed the assembled pistol to Sarah for inspection.
Sarah, who'd been watching closely, took it without hesitation. She turned it over, examined it from different angles, then nodded with an approving look.
"You two are amazing. It's only been a few days and he can already assemble it independently." Sylvia, leaning back in her seat, watched Allen's delighted face, then turned to Bryan. "Nice teaching."
Her injuries had mostly healed. The massive bruise on her back had faded significantly, and she could walk on her own now—though extended walking still sent twinges of pain through her back.
She'd needed Wilfred and Anna's support during the blizzard march. Without them, there was no way she could have kept going.
Her gaze drifted to the window, where the hospital's outline was barely visible through the driving snow. Anxiety colored her voice. "I wonder what's happening in there."
"Something feels off about this place." Anna picked up the thread. "We came off the highway and entered this town without seeing a single Infected. Did they all hide from the blizzard too?"
Bryan shook his head. "We've hit blizzards before on the road, and Infected still showed up. They didn't disappear like this."
He stared at the window, snow pelting the glass. "It's definitely wrong. This area around Atlanta is supposed to be a hot zone. No way there are zero Infected. Something must have happened here..."
His murmuring silenced the others. They'd all heard the military's announcement as they approached: the Atlanta area was extremely dangerous. Infected activity was severe.
The news had sparked panic and outrage. Some accused the military of withholding information, deliberately leading them into danger.
But they were almost there. Turning back in this frozen wasteland without adequate supplies would be suicide. Reluctantly, they'd pressed on, silently praying for safe arrival—no more surprises.
Since that announcement, the fragile trust between soldiers and civilians had shattered. Relations had plummeted back to mutual suspicion and resentment.
Sylvia had been devastated by the news, worried sick about her sister in Atlanta. It had taken days of the others' encouragement before she'd recovered.
Fear of the unknown was often worse than facing a known threat. If they'd arrived and immediately fought Infected, they might have handled it. But this eerie emptiness? That unsettled everyone far more.
"Enough." Wilfred, silent until now, opened his eyes and addressed the group. "None of us knows what's out there. Worrying about unknowns is pointless. What you should do is rest—restore your condition as much as possible, prepare for whatever crisis might come. Not sit here overthinking and wasting energy. Let the military commanders worry about strategy."
His words brought everyone up short. They exchanged rueful smiles, acknowledging the truth of it. With quiet sighs, they moved closer together for warmth, tucked their hands in their pockets, leaned back, and closed their eyes to rest.
Even Allen, who'd wanted to keep practicing, put away the pistol and focused on recovering his strength.
The sudden silence in the back drew a few curious glances from others, but no one paid much attention. After brief looks, they returned to whispering with their neighbors, watching the hospital through the windows.
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