"MILES!"
The woman's anguished scream echoed across the highway, sending birds and small animals fleeing through the surrounding woods.
Bryan and his group witnessed everything from their hiding spot. They stood frozen—mourning the Black man's fate while marveling at how pathetically weak these so-called hunters were.
The confrontation had been chaotic, yes, and the Black man was an unexpected variable. But these hunters had been prepared, ambushing from concealment. Yet somehow, not a single one had fired their rifle. Instead, they'd been suppressed by a man with a pistol. It was almost embarrassing to watch.
How had people this incompetent managed to kill so many at the on-ramp?
Before they could ponder further, the situation below shifted again. Seeing her companion fall, the female survivor raised her pistol in fury and opened fire on Ogden.
"Heh heh!"
Ogden let out a strange laugh. Having scored his sneak attack, he immediately ducked down, making no attempt to return fire.
By now, the other hunters had recovered. However poor their nerves, they were still people who'd killed before—and they had rifles. Shame at their earlier cowardice fueled their rage. They aimed at the checkpoint and unleashed a barrage.
The male survivor who'd been rescued quickly pulled the woman behind a truck for cover. Bullets sparked and pinged against the vehicle's metal hide.
Just then, a brutal-looking bald man burst from the nearby treeline, clutching a blood-soaked chicken. Seeing the chaos, his face contorted with rage.
"WHAT THE HELL! WHO TOLD YOU TO SHOOT?!"
His roar made every shooter flinch. They stopped firing immediately—some nearly dropped their weapons.
The bald man hurled the chicken to the ground and stormed toward the outermost shooter, a skinny young man cowering behind a truck. He grabbed the kid and threw him down, snarling: "Goddamn useless piece of shit! The others at least aimed at people—you were firing into the fucking SKY! If the soldiers inside hear this, we're ALL dead!"
Without giving the kid a chance to beg or explain, he stomped on his head.
The kick carried his full force. The skinny man screamed as blood gushed from his forehead. His body snapped backward, skull cracking against the frozen ground. He went still instantly, blood seeping from beneath his head, staining the snow in an expanding circle.
Watching the bald man's sudden appearance and casual brutality, Bryan frowned. These people didn't hesitate to turn on their own.
He began analyzing the tactical situation. On one side: the motorcycle group of four. One captured, one shot and likely incapacitated, leaving two hiding behind a truck near the checkpoint. They'd lost their packs, probably had one pistol each, and after the woman's wild shooting, they were almost certainly low on ammunition.
On the other side: the hunters. Bryan had counted carefully—including the bald man, there were ten total.
The Black man had shot two, both now writhing on the ground—combat ineffective, though still potential threats. The woman had knocked one unconscious—he wouldn't be getting up soon. The bald man had just killed one of his own. That bloody pool suggested the skinny kid wasn't going to make it.
Ten minus four left six.
Current status: two survivors with no ammo and no backup, versus six hunters with overwhelming firepower but questionable combat ability. Though the bald man was clearly the leader type—he'd be trouble. And then there was...
Bryan's gaze shifted to Ogden. Based on what he'd just witnessed, this was a patient opportunist who preferred striking from the shadows.
He ran quick mental calculations. If forced to assign odds, he'd put it at nine to one in favor of the hunters. Without outside intervention, the survivors didn't stand a chance.
"Let's help them."
While Bryan was thinking, Wilfred suddenly spoke up—catching him off guard. He didn't understand why the man would suggest this. His own instinct was to stay hidden and safe.
But Wilfred saw things differently. Having witnessed how weak these particular hunters were—the ones left to guard this on-ramp, anyway—his thinking had shifted. He wasn't heartless. If the power disparity had been overwhelming, he'd have kept his head down. But now? These people were pathetic fighters, and their numbers had been halved. The bald man seemed dangerous, but not enough to make Wilfred back down.
Most importantly, he was worried the military inside the park might have problems of their own. He needed a backup plan. These trucks and supplies were his best option.
"Yes!"
"Finally!"
The moment Wilfred spoke, Anna and Sylvia responded simultaneously, barely containing their excitement. Even Sarah and Allen looked eager to act.
Great, now everyone's feeling heroic. Bryan rolled his eyes internally. He didn't agree with taking this risk, but seeing their enthusiasm, he kept his objections to himself.
After a moment's thought, he unzipped his backpack and pulled out a grenade. He pressed it into Wilfred's palm.
"Take this. It might come in handy."
"A grenade? Where did you get this?"
Wilfred stared at the device in disbelief, clearly curious.
Sylvia, however, recognized it instantly. Back in Waskom, when she'd attacked that scumbag, he'd had several of these. She'd passed out afterward and never learned what happened next.
Everyone had told her she'd been the one to kill him. But she knew better. Now, seeing the grenade, she had her answer.
"That day... you finished him off?" she asked uncertainly.
Bryan understood what she was asking. There was no point hiding it now—and it would answer Wilfred's question too. He gave a brief account of what had happened.
"You mean... Sarah killed...?"
Sylvia looked from Bryan to Sarah, her expression stunned. She wouldn't have been surprised if Bryan had done it. But this delicate twelve-year-old girl? She'd pulled the trigger on a shotgun and killed a man?
Seeing the conversation drifting off-track, Wilfred cleared his throat and checked on the situation below.
"Enough. If we're doing this, let's not waste time. Bryan, are you and the others coming?"
Despite Bryan's mature demeanor and experience fighting Infected, he was still a child. Wilfred wanted to be sure.
"Sarah and I will come. But we can't fight up close—we'll provide cover fire."
Since they'd committed to helping, Bryan would participate. It was a chance to gain combat experience. But he knew his limitations and wouldn't try to be a hero.
Wilfred nodded, accepting this. He turned to Anna and Sylvia. "When we move, follow my lead. No independent action."
Then he led them back the way they'd come, preparing to flank around.
As for Allen—the youngest—no one even suggested he join. They told him to stay and monitor the situation.
Allen wasn't happy about it, but he knew he could barely handle a pistol. He'd only be dead weight. Reluctantly, he accepted.
The group backtracked a ways, then climbed back onto the highway via a slope. All the hunters' attention was focused on the survivors at the checkpoint—the on-ramp entrance was completely unguarded. This made their approach considerably easier.
Within minutes, they reached their designated position, hiding behind a rusted-out abandoned car.
They raised their heads just enough to observe the scene ahead. The hunters had repositioned: one behind each truck flanking the road, two more creeping forward—apparently planning another ambush. Ogden was nowhere in sight, but presumably also moving to attack.
The bald man stood with his boot on the captured survivor, shouting loudly—clearly trying to keep the hidden survivors' attention focused on him.
From their vantage point, Bryan's group had a clear view of everything. They understood the hunters were about to make their move.
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