"SHRIEEEEK—!"
The hunting cry echoed through the shopping center. Dozens of Runners came pouring down the escalators, shoving and stumbling over each other in their frenzy. When the crowd grew too dense, some were pushed over the railing—tumbling to the lower floors—only to scramble upright and continue the charge.
Bryan shook off the adrenaline and strode out of the baseball shop. He unslung his assault rifle as he walked, racked the bolt, aimed at the Runners streaming down the nearest escalator, and squeezed the trigger.
Rat-tat-tat—!
Rounds tore through the escalator's glass paneling and ripped into the legs of the Runners at the back of the pack. Bone shattered. The hit ones crumpled forward, crashing into the horde ahead of them, creating a chain reaction—thirty-plus Runners tumbling down the escalator like an avalanche of limbs.
Bryan sprinted to the base of the escalator before they landed, pistol out, and began executing them one by one as they hit the ground floor. Some required magazine changes; any Runner that managed to rise earned a boot to the chest and a crushed skull under his heel.
When the pile stopped moving, he looked up. Only a handful of stragglers remained, still making their way down from the upper floors. Half a minute before they'd arrive.
He leaned against the escalator railing, reached inside his jacket, and produced a small silver flask. He unscrewed the cap, tilted it to his lips, and took a careful sip.
The liquor burned—sharp and bitter going down. He didn't allow himself more than a mouthful, screwing the cap back on and rolling the taste around in his mouth. Nothing quite like baijiu to settle the nerves.
He was still savoring the warmth when the main entrance flew open and a fully armed soldier burst in, face tight with worry.
Elton.
Earlier, when Elton had radioed about Norman reaching the vantage point, he'd thought nothing of it—Bryan's radio was always set to minimum volume. He hadn't expected a problem.
Then gunfire erupted inside the shopping center.
Elton had immediately turned back to provide support, but he'd already completed half his perimeter sweep and had to cover the distance. A few stray Infected attracted by the noise needed dealing with along the way.
By the time he crashed through the entrance, he found a mountain of Infected corpses piled at the base of the escalator—and Bryan, the man he'd been so worried about, casually leaning against the railing, flask in hand, looking like he was on a goddamn picnic.
Elton froze. His mouth opened. Closed. The urgent warning he'd been about to shout died an undignified death in his throat.
"Hold on a sec—"
Bryan waved him off, tucked the flask away, and raised his rifle. A Runner came barreling down the escalator; Bryan slammed the stock into its face, dropped it, and stomped its head flat in one motion.
"Couple more Runners still coming down. Let me mop up."
He slung the rifle, drew his knife, and took the escalator two steps at a time. On the second floor, the first Runner to charge him took a blade through the temple. Bryan shoved the corpse forward into the one behind it, then grabbed a third by the throat as it lunged from the side. A savage twist—crack—and its neck snapped.
The one he'd blocked with the corpse stumbled past the obstruction and pitched forward, tumbling back down the escalator to the ground floor.
Bryan tossed the dead Runner aside and called down: "Elton! Finish that one off. And radio the others—tell them our position."
A gunshot from below. Then Bryan waited at the second-floor landing, knife ready. When nothing else came, he headed back down.
"Status? When can they get here?"
Back on the ground floor, Bryan found Elton on the radio.
"Just spoke with Mike. They're working their way down the highway, collecting from the spots we marked. I gave them our coordinates—about thirty minutes out."
Bryan checked his watch. The hour hand was creeping toward four o'clock.
"Head upstairs. Check every store on every floor—anything usable, write it down. When they arrive, we start loading immediately."
"Yes, sir!"
Elton took off toward the upper levels. Bryan turned and walked back to where he'd killed his first Runner—the fresh one.
He crouched beside the corpse. Clean clothes. Then he looked at the pile of ragged, decomposing Runners at the escalator base. No comparison. This one had turned within the last few days.
Bryan rolled the body over. The face was covered in bruises—someone had beaten this person badly before they'd turned. The left leg had several bullet holes—pistol caliber. That explained the limp.
He searched the body thoroughly. A few coins. Nothing else of value.
Bryan stood, hands on his hips, and sighed. Disappointment flickered across his face—but then he remembered something. His gaze drifted toward the dark corridor at the far end of the ground floor. The Runner had come from that direction.
He pulled out his flashlight and moved carefully toward the hallway. Halfway there, he noticed a long, smeared blood trail on the floor. He'd been too busy with the Clicker to spot it earlier.
The corridor opened into a stairwell. Two elevators on the left, a descending staircase on the right—leading to what appeared to be an underground parking garage.
At the back was a heavy set of double doors. A thick chain looped through the handles, secured with a padlock. Scrawled across the doors in what could only be blood were the words: THEY'RE INSIDE.
The warning was old—years old, by the look of it. But still enough to make you think twice about getting closer.
Bryan swept his flashlight around the stairwell and followed the blood trail to a corner, where he found a dried pool of blood, an open backpack, and a crumpled note.
So that was where the Runner had come from.
He swept the area once more—confirming it was clear—then stepped inside, pulling the stairwell door shut behind him as a precaution. No sense risking an Infected wandering in from the side.
He picked up the note and the backpack, smoothing out the wrinkled paper. The handwriting was hasty, written in blue ink, but still legible:
"Andrea—if you find this, take the others and get out of here. There are other people in this town. They're hostile to outsiders. Damn it... I've been shot in the leg. Barren's dead. I barely made it into this department store.
They came in after me, but the idiots attracted Infected and got chased upstairs. I don't think I'm going to make it until you find me. Remember—get out of here. Take everyone to the Atlanta Quarantine Zone... Promise me... survive..."
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