Click.
Bryan entered the office and flipped the switch by the door. The overhead light flickered twice, then bathed the dim room in pale fluorescent glow.
The space was modest—a desk and chair at the far end, three large sofas arranged in a U-shape along the walls.
He shut the door, crossed to the desk, and dropped into the chair, leaning back. From his pocket, he produced the sealed envelope he'd received at the Administration Center. A glance through the window confirmed no one was outside. Only then did he break the seal.
Mission: Supply retrieval. Location: Peachtree City. Duration: Four days.
He scanned the note once, committing every detail to memory.
Then he pulled a lighter from his pocket, touched the flame to the paper, and set it in the desk's ashtray. He watched it curl and blacken until nothing remained but ash, then leaned back and closed his eyes.
The assignment surprised him. Five years had passed since the outbreak, but the first year had been a period of consolidation—few convoys were sent out. After that, the Fireflies' attacks on QZ checkpoints and their persistent harassment had consumed most of the government's attention and resources. Eliminating the insurgent threat took priority over everything else.
As a result, the QZ had only managed to scavenge roughly sixty percent of the resources in greater Atlanta. There was no logical reason to send squads to distant satellite cities when so much remained uncollected nearby.
But the more Bryan thought about it, the more the reasoning crystallized. Downtown Atlanta had become a warzone—Fireflies and QZ forces clashing constantly. The cost-to-benefit ratio of urban supply runs had become absurd.
Better to skip the city entirely and send convoys to nearby towns instead. Less risk, no Firefly interference, and significantly higher yields. Two birds, one stone.
While Bryan sat with his eyes closed, turning strategy over in his mind, time slipped away. His squad returned one by one.
Norman arrived first—the weapons depot was closest, and he moved fast. Six firearms now leaned against the sofa: three rifles, a submachine gun, a shotgun, and a sniper rifle. The surfaces showed some wear, but regular maintenance had kept them in excellent condition.
Norman settled onto the sofa and began methodically inspecting each weapon, ensuring nothing would malfunction when it mattered.
Kim and Wade came next, each carrying a crate—one of ammunition, one of grenades. They collected spare magazines from Norman and began loading rounds with practiced efficiency.
Elton was last. He sat down and immediately began calibrating the radios, testing channels and signal clarity.
As everyone worked in focused silence, Mike appeared in the doorway, hands blackened with grease. "Captain, vehicle checks out. No issues."
"Good." Bryan nodded and glanced through the office window at the truck. "Everything else loaded?"
"Relax—I know I goof around, but I get things done." Mike flashed a wide grin. "Tools, spare parts, everything we might need. All loaded up."
And he knows it, too, Bryan thought, suppressing a comment. Despite several missions together, Mike's boyish energy still made him uneasy. But the kid was reliable where it counted.
He looked at the others. "Don't forget to check your sidearms too."
"Yes, sir!"
"Got it!"
Twenty minutes later, preparations were complete. The squad lounged on the sofas, chatting idly, when their radios crackled to life:
"Attention, Squad B12. Proceed to staging area 13-4 and await departure clearance."
"Finally!" Mike was on his feet before the transmission ended, clipping his radio, spare magazines, and grenades to his belt. He grabbed his rifle and was halfway to the door before anyone else moved.
The others took it in stride—this was vintage Mike—and began gearing up at a more measured pace.
"Norman, you're driving. Everyone else in the back."
Bryan killed the office lights, locked the door, and headed for the passenger seat. He pulled the door open and climbed in.
Mike, who'd been sprinting for the driver's side, froze mid-stride. "Captain, I always drive. Since when—"
"Get in the back."
From the passenger seat, Bryan gave Mike a flat look through the window. "Every mission, I have to listen to you run your mouth nonstop from the driver's seat. Just give me one quiet ride."
Mike looked as though he'd been struck by lightning. His entire body wilted, his face the picture of existential despair.
"Come on. In you go." Norman walked up behind him, grabbed him by the collar, and steered him into the rear compartment before climbing into the driver's seat himself.
The engine rumbled to life. Norman eased the truck out of the garage. Once it was clear, Kim brought up the rear, pulling the rolling door down and locking it before the rest piled into the back.
Bryan cracked the connecting hatch to the rear compartment and confirmed everyone was aboard. "Move out."
Norman nodded, pressed the accelerator, and the truck rolled out of the vehicle depot, trailing exhaust.
...
QZ Exterior Staging Area.
A broad concrete lot stretched before them, its surface divided into numbered zones by white-painted lines. Only a handful of vehicles occupied the otherwise empty spaces—other teams waiting for departure clearance.
Norman drove the truck in, located zone 13-4, and parked.
"Elton, go check us in."
Bryan stepped out and called the order over his shoulder. Then, shielding his eyes against the sun, he spotted a familiar figure not far away. After a moment's hesitation, he walked toward a man in officer's uniform.
The officer stood ramrod straight—tall and powerfully built, half a head taller than Bryan. He was studying a document in his hands when a familiar voice made him look up.
"Sir."
Justin's stern face relaxed into a genuine smile when he saw who it was. "Bryan."
He slipped the document into his pocket with practiced nonchalance and stepped forward to pull Bryan into a brief embrace.
Justin had been Bryan's instructor at the military training academy—the same officer who'd escorted them all the way to Atlanta. He'd taught Bryan firearms handling and close-quarters combat.
"Another mission?" Justin clapped Bryan's shoulder, his mind drifting to the first time he'd met this kid in Waskom. "I heard about your last op. Big find. Sergeant now, squad leader—congratulations."
"Yeah. Heading out shortly." Bryan nodded, brushing past the praise. "Where have you been? Haven't seen you in months."
At that, Justin coughed awkwardly, his gaze drifting to the middle distance. He clearly had no intention of answering.
Bryan read him immediately and didn't push. Instead, they fell into easy conversation about external conditions—the state of things beyond the walls—carefully avoiding anything sensitive.
"Captain! We're good to go!"
A shout from the parking area interrupted them. Bryan turned to see Mike waving from beside the truck.
He also noticed that two additional cargo vehicles had appeared alongside their military truck, along with a dozen or so QZ civilians.
Bryan said goodbye to Justin and jogged over.
"Just got the update," Mike reported. "Since we're heading farther out than most, we depart right after the next convoy clears the gate. Administration Center's already radioed us to proceed to the main gate."
Bryan nodded. "Those two trucks check out?"
"Took a quick look. Bodywork's a bit rough, but mechanically they're fine."
"Good."
By the time they returned to the staging area, Kim had finished briefing the civilian conscripts and loaded them onto the cargo trucks. Two fresh soldiers now occupied the drivers' seats of the cargo vehicles, sweat beading on their foreheads despite the morning hour. Their nerves were showing.
"Move out!"
Bryan spared the two rookies a single glance as he passed, then climbed into the passenger seat. At his command, all three vehicles rolled toward the Quarantine Zone's main gate.
The massive doors groaned open. The convoy passed through and entered the dangerous sprawl of Atlanta's ruins, shrinking in the eyes of the wall sentries until they vanished entirely, heading southwest.
...
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