"Head southwest. Take Route 74."
Once they cleared the QZ, Bryan rolled the window down and gave Norman the route. Then he turned his gaze outward.
The Atlanta that greeted him now was nothing like the frozen wasteland he'd first encountered five years ago. Years without human presence had transformed the city into a verdant wilderness. Weeds pushed through every crack in the asphalt, and the skeletal high-rises wore thick cloaks of green—vines and ivy crawling up every surface like nature reclaiming what was rightfully hers.
He could even spot animals in the distance, darting between buildings—deer, dogs, raccoons—roaming freely through what had once been humanity's domain.
It wasn't until Bryan entered the military training academy that he'd learned the truth: every animal species was immune to CBI. Not just some. All of them.
The Cordyceps fungus seemed to have a singular obsession with humanity—as if nature itself had crafted a curse to punish mankind's insatiable greed.
Ironically, the animals that couldn't be infected—though still vulnerable to attacks from the Infected—seemed to be thriving better than the humans ever had.
The noise of three vehicles naturally drew attention from Infected lingering in the streets and buildings. But five years of sweeping operations by the QZ military—supplemented by the Fireflies' own culling efforts—had thinned their numbers considerably. The Infected that appeared were still numerous, but nothing compared to the swarms of the early days.
Bryan watched the dwindling pack of pursuers in the rearview mirror—desperate, stumbling figures falling further and further behind—and dismissed them with a glance.
The convoy followed routes carved out by previous teams, gradually leaving Atlanta's urban sprawl behind.
Peachtree City lay roughly twenty-nine miles southwest of Atlanta. It had been a moderately well-known community before the outbreak—even earned a few "Best Place to Live in America" accolades over the years.
None of that mattered now. Like countless other towns across the world, it had been reduced to another abandoned ruin in the wake of Cordyceps.
"Stop here."
As the convoy reached Peachtree City's outskirts, Bryan gave the order. The three vehicles slowed to a halt. He pushed his door open and dropped to the ground.
The rest of the squad dismounted from the military truck, forming a disciplined line. Every face was serious, waiting.
Bryan approached with his rifle at the ready, casting a glance at the cargo trucks where civilian conscripts were cautiously peeking out. He addressed his squad:
"You already know the location. Our mission is supply retrieval—no specific targets. Anything useful gets loaded up."
He'd barely finished before catching the we-knew-it looks on their faces. His mouth twitched, but he pressed on:
"Norman—find a vantage point. If anything looks wrong, report immediately."
"Elton—you're with me on point. Stay in contact with Norman at all times. Make sure the route is secure."
"Kim, Mike, Wade—escort the convoy. Once Elton radios in resource locations, move fast. Keep it quiet. Minimal noise."
Then he turned toward the civilian trucks and raised his voice. "I know you can all hear me. If you want to make it back alive, don't pull anything stupid. Anyone who causes problems gets a broken leg and gets left behind."
"Move out."
"Yes, sir!"
Norman immediately scanned the skyline and locked onto a tall signal tower rising above the town. Without hesitation, he sprinted toward it.
Wade and Mike began herding the civilians off the trucks, while Kim walked over to the two rookie drivers, speaking in low tones.
Satisfied, Bryan gave Elton a pat on the shoulder. "Let's go."
"Right behind you!"
The two split from the convoy and continued down Route 74 into Peachtree City, marking resource-rich locations as they went. Bryan noticed the town had remarkably few cars on the streets—but nearly every house had a golf cart parked in the driveway.
He also spotted a sprawling estate along the way. On closer inspection, it appeared to be a winery. He filed away its location—they'd be here for several days, and he fully intended to check it out before leaving.
"Captain, look—there's a department store over there!"
After quietly dispatching a few Runners wandering the streets, they pushed further in. Elton, who'd been scanning ahead, suddenly pointed excitedly.
Bryan followed his gesture and spotted a shopping center not far off.
"Let's take a look."
He kept his expression neutral. After five years, even a department store's useful inventory would be limited. But finding one was still worth investigating.
Both of them shifted to high alert. Places like this were magnets for Infected.
They entered the shopping center's parking lot, now buried under years of decomposing leaves. Wind stirred the detritus into small eddies. Even after all this time, faded bloodstains remained visible on the ground.
Bryan studied the entrance, then turned to Elton. "Circle the perimeter. Make sure nothing's lurking outside. I'll go in first."
Elton hesitated—he recognized the captain was keeping him out of danger—but said nothing. A barely perceptible nod, and he jogged toward the building's flank.
Once Elton was out of sight, Bryan slung his assault rifle across his back, drew his knife, and lowered his profile. He eased the front door open just enough to slip through.
The shopping center had four floors, connected by escalators on either side. A curved atrium opened up in the center, and two long banners hung from the upper levels—some store's advertisement, still dangling after all these years.
The ground floor was chaos. Debris and merchandise lay scattered everywhere. Several skeletons rested on the tiles, and a car had somehow plowed through a storefront, its front half embedded inside.
The silence should have been reassuring. Instead, it made Bryan move more carefully, each footstep lighter than the last.
Because he'd noticed something in the thick layer of dust: footprints. Row after row of them—chaotic, overlapping, but following distinct patterns. He didn't need to guess. This place had Infected.
He'd barely taken a few steps when a familiar sound reached his ears, freezing him in place.
At the far end of the corridor, a Runner limped around the corner. It stared ahead with bloodshot eyes, head jerking left and right as if searching for something, then began following one of the footprint trails across the floor.
Bryan watched it carefully, and a frown creased his brow. Something was off.
This Runner's clothes were remarkably clean. The blood on its face and body was still vivid red—fresh. This was no four- or five-year veteran of infection. This thing had turned days ago, at most.
There are other survivors in this town.
The realization hit like a jolt of electricity. Every nerve in his body tightened.
He scanned the surrounding area and, finding no signs of other survivors nearby, allowed himself a small measure of relief.
Bryan drew his knife and studied the Runner's movement pattern. When it turned away, he emerged from the shadows in a low crouch—silent, deliberate.
His footsteps were whisper-quiet. At this distance, a standard Runner's hearing wouldn't pick up a thing.
Five paces. Four. Three.
Bryan surged forward. His left hand shot out, locking around the Runner's throat. Before it could react, his right hand drove the knife through the base of its skull. A brief spasm, and it went still.
The motion was fluid—practiced. He'd done this more times than he could count.
He lowered the body gently, wiped the blade clean on the Runner's shirt, and rose to continue his sweep.
Click-click-click.
The sound came from behind him. Staccato. Deliberate. Accompanied by halting, uneven footsteps.
Bryan's pupils contracted. His blood went cold.
That sound—that unmistakable, bone-chilling clicking—ripped open a memory buried deep, dragging it to the surface whether he wanted it or not.
...
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