The convoy ground to a halt. In Bryan's truck, the small window connecting to the cab slid open, and a soldier addressed the passengers in the bed: "Disembark here. Keep it quiet—don't make any loud noises."
Everyone exchanged confused looks. They hadn't reached the Quarantine Zone yet. Why were they stopping here?
But the soldier offered no explanation. Having delivered his orders, he slid the window shut without acknowledging their questioning stares.
Behind them, the buses were stirring with similar confusion—clearly they weren't the only ones caught off guard.
Military orders were military orders. They climbed down from the truck, though not everyone was disembarking. Only two or three buses opened their doors; the rest stayed sealed.
About a hundred people gathered on the street, bewildered expressions all around. No one understood what was happening.
Tracy emerged from the front of the formation and addressed the crowd, keeping her voice low: "The road ahead has been destroyed. Vehicles can't proceed. From here, we walk."
Murmurs rippled through the group, though everyone was conscious enough of the danger to keep their voices down.
"Why are we suddenly walking?"
"What do you mean the road's been destroyed?"
Tracy waited for the whispers to die down before continuing: "We've made contact with the Atlanta QZ. The military there informed us that about a week ago, the zone was surrounded by Infected. They called in carpet bombing on the surrounding area—eliminated most of the Infected, but also destroyed most of the buildings and roads. Our vehicles can't go any further." She paused. "That's also why we didn't encounter many Infected on the way in. Most of them were drawn toward the explosions..."
Seeing the alarm spreading across their faces, she quickly added: "Don't panic. The military cleared a safe corridor through the ruins before the Infected could regroup. Once we reach that corridor, we'll have armed support. The Infected won't be a problem."
She licked her dry lips—all that talking had parched her throat.
The crowd's expressions eased somewhat, though anxiety still simmered beneath the surface.
Before Tracy could continue, a soldier approached and whispered in her ear: "Captain, command is pushing us to move. We need to go."
Tracy glanced at the clearly unprepared crowd, weighed her options, then addressed them one final time: "Stay quiet. Follow orders. I guarantee we'll get you into the QZ safely. But if anyone endangers the group, don't expect any mercy." She gestured for them to follow. "Let's move."
She turned and headed toward the front of the convoy.
The survivors exchanged uncertain glances, hesitated, then fell into step behind her.
As the group moved forward, Sarah looked back at the buses still waiting. She sidled up to Bryan. "Why is it just us? What about everyone else?"
Bryan considered Tracy's words. He put an arm around Sarah's shoulders and spoke quietly. "We're walking to the QZ. If everyone went together, any incident would be impossible to control with nearly a thousand people. Better to move in smaller groups—fewer people, less noise, easier to manage."
"Oh." Sarah glanced back at the buses again, nodding with partial understanding.
"Don't overthink it. Just follow along."
When they reached the front of the convoy, about thirty soldiers stood in formation, fully armed. At their head were two officers—one with a long scar across his face, projecting stern authority, the other a powerfully built Black man who radiated an intensity that made people instinctively uneasy.
Bryan studied them from within the crowd, raising an eyebrow. Something about them seemed familiar.
Before he could place them, Tracy stepped forward, her expression grave. "We're moving out now. I'll say it again: stay quiet, follow orders. We will get you to the QZ safely. But anyone who endangers the group will answer to me."
The civilians merged with the soldiers, and together they left the convoy behind, heading down the empty streets.
Harry and Justin watched the first group disappear around a corner, exchanged nods, then began organizing the next wave.
...
Snow crunched beneath their feet as the survivors trudged through desolate streets, eyes scanning every shadow. The slightest sound drew multiple wary glances.
Bryan kept his attention fixed on Wilfred. Since they'd started moving, the man's body had been twitching involuntarily—subtle spasms he was clearly fighting to suppress.
No one else had noticed. Everyone was too focused on the alleys and buildings flanking them.
But Bryan saw it all. His heart grew heavier with each passing minute. He was now almost certain: Wilfred had been infected by the Cordyceps. The only time he could have been exposed was during the fight at the on-ramp outside the park.
That was nearly eighteen hours ago. Based on Wilfred's current state and what Bryan remembered from those CBI information pamphlets, the man was losing control of his body.
Even with a strong constitution, he couldn't hold out much longer. Soon, even if he hadn't fully turned, anyone would be able to see something was wrong.
Bryan's gaze shifted to Anna, who was looking around with innocent curiosity, completely unaware of her father's condition.
Looking at Wilfred's gaunt face, drenched in sweat from fighting the infection's spread, Bryan finally understood. He also understood why Wilfred had looked so elated when he'd heard they were departing.
He knew he was doomed. He knew that once his infection became apparent, he'd be separated from the group. That's why he'd hidden it, why he'd forced himself to stay awake despite exhaustion—terrified of transforming too soon.
He was torturing himself to buy time. Just enough time to see his daughter safely into the Quarantine Zone.
Bryan lowered his head, moved by the depth of a parent's love. In this life and his last, he'd never experienced anything like it. Strangely, he found himself envying Anna.
Quietly, he unzipped his backpack and reached into its depths, pulling out a small metal tin. He cracked it open and withdrew a vial of morphine and a syringe.
He attached the needle, drew out the liquid, his movements careful and hidden. No one noticed.
Syringe in hand, he moved casually to Wilfred's side and tugged at his sleeve.
Wilfred felt the tug and glanced over. It was Bryan. Then he felt something being pressed into his hand, and the boy moved to block him from view.
Wilfred closed his fingers around the object and looked down. A syringe filled with liquid. An empty vial.
He read the label on the vial, and his body went rigid. He stared at Bryan with shock and uncertainty.
"You—!"
...
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