Norton loaded shells into his pump-action shotgun, checked that his bulletproof vest was secure, and ran a hand over his bald head. Then he aimed the shotgun at the captured survivor beneath his boot and bellowed toward the checkpoint:
"Listen up in there! You know what's happening! If you don't want this guy to die, surrender NOW! Otherwise...!"
He let the threat hang, then smirked and stomped down hard. Even from their hiding spot, Wilfred's group could hear the sickening crunch.
"AAHH!" The survivor screamed, writhing in agony on the snow, tears streaming down his face. "Lev! Lucy! SAVE ME!"
"You—!"
The woman called Lucy had seen what was happening to her companion. She didn't feel much, honestly—they'd only met him on the road—but she still snarled through gritted teeth: "You cowardly BASTARD!"
"HAHAHA—!" Norton laughed with genuine delight. He loved watching victims' companions twist with impotent rage while he worked.
"So, your choice is—"
BANG!
Before he could finish, Lucy suddenly stood and fired. The bullet whizzed past his head, missing by inches.
Norton froze. Sweat beaded on his temple as fury slowly replaced shock. He hadn't expected her to actually shoot, completely disregarding the hostage's safety.
But she'd only fired once before ducking back down. The two men he'd positioned by the trucks noticed her movement and opened fire, keeping her suppressed.
"FUCK! DID I TELL YOU TO SHOOT?!"
Seeing his men fire without orders pushed Norton to the edge. If he'd had anyone competent with him, this would be different—but the capable fighters had all gone into the park with the boss. He was stuck with these useless dregs.
He'd been guarding this on-ramp with a skeleton crew. Not many survivors came this far, and when they did, he rarely needed to intervene personally. When he'd spotted a wild chicken earlier, he couldn't resist going after it for a decent meal.
But in his brief absence, everything had gone to hell. The boss had given strict orders: no gunfire that might alert the soldiers inside.
Now there'd been plenty of gunfire—and they were in a standoff. Remembering his boss's methods of punishment made Norton's blood run cold.
No choice. I have to end this fast.
Norton resolved to avoid more shooting if possible. If things escalated further, he'd grab a truck and run. America was big enough—with his skills, he could survive anywhere.
He shot a murderous glare at the two idiots who'd opened fire. If he didn't need bodies for intimidation, he'd have killed them already.
He glanced at his two men sneaking forward and allowed himself a cruel smile. Once they were in position, that bitch would pay for this.
While mentally plotting his revenge, he kept shouting to hold the survivors' attention: "Since you don't care about this guy's life, guess I don't either!"
He raised his boot over the captive's horrified face and brought it down on his skull.
CRACK! CRACK!
The man's head drove deep into the snow. Bones splintered audibly.
His body convulsed violently, thrashing like a seizure victim. Then, moments later, he went still.
Norton kicked the motionless body aside, listening to Lucy's screamed curses from the checkpoint. His distraction was working perfectly. He couldn't help but grin.
Then he heard it—a faint sound behind him. Soft, but unmistakable.
Every alarm in Norton's head went off. Years as a fugitive had honed his awareness to a razor's edge.
He whirled around—and found himself staring at a middle-aged man and two women who'd appeared out of nowhere. All three had pistols raised. The man's weapon was aimed directly at Norton's head.
Pure instinct took over. Norton hurled himself sideways, diving behind a stack of supply crates to avoid the incoming fire.
The shot cracked through the air a split-second after he moved, striking exactly where he'd been standing.
More gunfire followed in rapid succession. Some rounds chased his movement; others were aimed at his two men by the trucks.
Those two idiots had been focused entirely on the checkpoint—they never imagined an attack from behind. Completely unprepared.
Bullets punched into their backs, burrowing into flesh. Twin screams pierced the air as rifles clattered to the ground. They collapsed, writhing and moaning.
"Damn it!"
Wilfred cursed. He'd had a perfect headshot lined up on the biggest threat—and the bastard had somehow sensed danger at the last second. His twitch-fast reflexes had saved his life.
Simultaneously, shouts erupted from the checkpoint. The two hunters who'd been sneaking forward had reached their positions and launched their ambush.
Gunshots and screams followed—then sudden silence, replaced by the sounds of a struggle and a woman's furious shouts. It was impossible to tell what was happening.
Wilfred pulled out the grenade. He wanted to end this quickly—blast the bald man out of cover before any more complications arose.
But before he could act, three green spherical objects came sailing out from behind those supply crates, arcing through the air toward their position.
Everyone's eyes went wide. The objects were identical to the grenade Bryan had just given away.
"GET DOWN!"
Wilfred hadn't expected the enemy to have grenades too. Survival instinct kicked in. He shouted a warning and dove away from cover.
Sylvia and Anna had seen the incoming grenades as well. They were already running.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The triple detonation shook the ground. Smoke and debris filled the air. Shrapnel screamed in all directions.
In that same instant, Wilfred's group—still too close—threw themselves flat, minimizing their exposure to the blast.
Fortunately, Bryan and Sarah had been hanging back to provide covering fire. They were far enough away to escape the shrapnel entirely.
As smoke billowed across the scene, a figure burst from behind the crates. Shotgun blazing, Norton advanced through the haze, pinning down Wilfred's group with suppressive fire. None of them dared rise.
Norton hadn't anticipated a second group of survivors appearing out of nowhere and taking out his men. It rattled him. His truck-side guards were down, and the three men he'd sent to ambush the checkpoint were occupied elsewhere. He was alone.
But danger sparked his viciousness. He knew that cowering meant death. His philosophy was simple: attack first.
Sensing the chaos at the checkpoint, he'd seized the moment without hesitation, throwing all three of his grenades at once.
He'd avoided using them before for fear of alerting the military inside. Otherwise, one grenade would have ended those survivors long ago.
But it was too late for caution now. The moment he threw those grenades, he'd already decided: finish these people, grab a truck, and run. America was a big country. With his abilities, he'd do just fine.
The shotgun roared in controlled bursts as Norton charged straight toward the Black woman. He'd observed carefully—the other man and woman were too close together, but this one was isolated.
His shells were running low. By the time he reached her, he wouldn't have time to reload. He needed a hostage. The Black woman was his best target.
...
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