Sweetwater Creek State Park lay at the far edge of Douglasville, accessible directly from an interstate exit. Oster County began just beyond it, placing the park squarely between two counties.
In better times, it had been a popular getaway for residents of the surrounding cities. Now, in the aftermath, it stood abandoned. Given enough time, it would likely become overrun with Infected.
The faint smell of gunpowder still hung in the air. Bright lights illuminated the grounds, pushing back the darkness. The paths—stone and dirt alike—were pockmarked with craters. Several military trucks sat blackened and smoldering, wisps of smoke still rising from their charred frames.
Dozens of bodies lay scattered across the snow-covered ground. Blood stained every corner. The evidence of brutal combat was impossible to miss.
A group of survivors and soldiers worked together, moving corpses to a central location while others shoveled fresh snow over the bloodstains.
Outside the park's reception building, several dozen people knelt in the snow—some in civilian clothes, others in military fatigues. Their hands were cuffed behind their backs, and they shivered in the cold, not daring to move.
Armed soldiers surrounded them, rifles at the ready. Any wrong move would be met with immediate force.
Inside the reception hall, every inch of space was occupied by tents. Survivors milled about while military medics treated the wounded.
The tents had been salvaged from a camping supply store's warehouse on the grounds. Most were damaged or torn, but some basic repairs had made them functional. They weren't pleasant to sleep in—musty and uncomfortable—but beggars couldn't be choosers. At least they provided some shelter from the cold.
Bryan sat inside one of the tents, a book open in his hands, seemingly oblivious to the movement around him. His mind was elsewhere, replaying everything that had happened.
It had been ten hours since they'd left the on-ramp. It was now 8 PM, and darkness had fully settled.
The park was only about fifteen minutes from the ramp. Their original plan had been to stop at a distance and observe before committing.
But before they'd even made it halfway, the sounds of battle from the park had suddenly stopped. The silence set everyone on edge, uncertain whether to proceed.
After another quick discussion, they'd decided to stick to the plan—at least get close enough to see what was happening. But as they approached an intersection, four rifle-wielding soldiers had emerged from the trees on both sides, weapons trained directly on them.
Faced with those black muzzles, they hadn't even had time to reach for their own guns. They'd surrendered immediately, hands raised.
Fortunately, these soldiers were the real thing—not hunters in disguise. The relief was palpable, and it also confirmed that the military had won the battle.
A soldier escorted them into the park, where they witnessed the aftermath firsthand. The devastation was staggering. For people who'd lived peaceful civilian lives before all this, it was deeply unsettling to see.
During the escort, they learned what had happened. The explosion at the on-ramp had drawn the military's attention, and the commander had ordered someone to contact the checkpoint soldiers for a status report.
When no response came, they'd received an emergency transmission from an outside source instead—prompting an immediate alert.
The hunters disguised as survivors had heard the commotion and realized their cover was blown. They'd assumed the military still needed time to figure things out, so they'd taken a few crucial minutes to prepare.
Those few minutes had cost them everything. The soldiers had spotted the suspicious activity and struck first.
The hunters had numbers and had acquired a significant amount of equipment and ammunition from the convoy. They'd also positioned an ambush team outside the park. If the military hadn't acted preemptively, the outcome might have been very different.
But most of the hunters had been ordinary civilians before all this. They'd never experienced real combat. Many broke under the pressure, either surrendering or fleeing.
Once the ringleaders—about a dozen of them—were eliminated, the battle had ended in under half an hour.
"Here. Eat something."
Bryan snapped out of his thoughts as a plastic-wrapped piece of bread appeared in front of him.
He looked up, set his book aside, and accepted it. "Thanks."
"You're no fun at all, you know that?" Tracy plopped down at the tent entrance, tore open her own bread, and took a bite. "Word came down. We're leaving tomorrow morning, straight to the Atlanta QZ. Tonight's our last stop."
"That soon?" Bryan frowned, surprised. They'd barely gathered a thousand survivors here, with many more still unaccounted for. If they left now, those people would be abandoned.
"Wasn't the plan to wait two days? Why the sudden rush?"
Tracy glanced around, hesitated, then leaned close to his ear. "The supply truck got blown up during the fight—no one knows by who. After tonight, we'll be out of food. If we don't move while people still have energy, we'll be in real trouble in a couple days. Plus, we've got a lot of wounded and sick. The medics are barely keeping some of them stable. We can't afford to wait."
Bryan processed this in silence, his eyes scanning the survivors around them, eating what little they had. This was the best option under the circumstances.
After a moment, he asked, "What about vehicles? Even with fewer people, we don't have enough to carry everyone."
"That's handled." Tracy pointed toward the prisoners outside. "These bastards stole a bunch of buses from other survivors who fought their way here. Our people have already gone to retrieve them. Should be back soon."
She finished her bread, dusted off her hands, and stood, glancing at Sarah and Allen sleeping inside the tent.
She'd already heard about Sylvia. It hurt—and part of her was still angry at Wilfred's decision at the roadblock. But she'd grown accustomed to death by now. She sighed softly. "Get some rest. Early start tomorrow."
She exchanged a few words with the soldier standing guard, then left.
Shortly after, the military announced the departure over the PA system. Predictable unrest followed, but it was quickly suppressed.
The hunters' attack had made the military far less tolerant of civilian complaints. Their approach now was noticeably harder than before.
Despite their frustration, the survivors understood the situation. And with the QZ so close, most chose to swallow their complaints—redirecting their anger toward the prisoners outside.
Wilfred, Anna, and Lucy returned carrying thick blankets—compensation for surrendering the truck's supplies.
Honestly, if they hadn't needed to get into the QZ, no one would've handed over supplies they'd nearly died to acquire.
But Wilfred's decision couldn't be called wrong, either. No one had known the military would win. And the checkpoint hunters had proven pathetically weak. Getting a vehicle and supplies as a fallback had seemed reasonable at the time.
It was only in hindsight—with the military victorious and Sylvia dead—that the choice looked costly.