The room was dark. Only a narrow window in the far corner let in a sliver of daylight, illuminating a small patch of floor.
The smooth white tiles were covered in blood—vast, overlapping pools of it. The walls hadn't been spared either, streaked and spattered with stains in every shade of red and brown.
On a reclining chair in the center of the room lay the naked body of a woman. Her limbs had been severed. A long, deliberate incision ran down her torso from chest to abdomen, laid open by something sharp.
A deep purple ligature mark encircled her throat. She'd been strangled to death. Her eyes were still wide open, frozen in an expression of absolute disbelief—as if even in her final moment, she couldn't accept what was happening to her.
Beside the chair lay dismantled furniture, scattered books, and the remains of a campfire, burned down to cold ash.
On either side of the fire pit, two makeshift spits held what could only be described as segments—charred and blackened, unmistakably human in origin. Scattered nearby were small, pale fragments. Bone.
Even Bryan—whose psychological fortitude had been forged through years of horror—stood paralyzed.
They had been eating people.
He wrenched his gaze from the nightmare and forced himself to look back at the two male corpses near the doorway.
He'd barely registered them before, their faces obscured by blood. Now, examining them more closely, he saw that each had a single gunshot wound to the head—one through the forehead, the other through the temple.
He angled his flashlight toward their hands. Sure enough, a pistol lay near one man's fingers. The magazine was empty.
Then Bryan noticed something on the wall behind them. He raised the flashlight higher, and two messages came into focus. One wall bore a cross drawn in blood. On the other, a sentence:
May God forgive us our sins.
Bryan switched off the flashlight and stood in the darkness, piecing it together. Combined with the note he'd found downstairs, the story wrote itself.
These three had captured two outsiders who'd wandered into town. Killed one. Wounded the other. When they went to finish the job, they'd attracted Infected and been chased upstairs, barricading themselves inside this room.
They'd survived—temporarily. But trapped with no way out, surrounded by Infected, something had broken inside them. Whether it was guilt devouring them from within, or simple despair at realizing they'd never escape this room alive.
They'd chosen bullets. And left their confession on the wall, begging for forgiveness from a God who may or may not have been listening.
Whether the repentance was genuine... only they would ever know.
Bryan put away the flashlight, lifted the door Elton had removed, and set it back in place against the frame.
He walked to the nail salon's entrance, pulled the glass doors shut, and locked them with the hanging padlock. Whatever was in that room, nobody else needed to see it.
...
Ground floor.
By the time Bryan returned to the first floor, Elton was outside, waving the convoy in. The vehicles appeared moments later, rolling into the parking lot.
"Captain! You're back!"
Elton turned at the sound of the door and footsteps. His face, which had regained some color, immediately went pale again at whatever memory surfaced.
Bryan shook his head, walked over, and gave Elton a reassuring clap on the shoulder. "Don't dwell on it. You'll probably see worse before this is all over. It gets easier."
"...Right."
Elton nodded with difficulty, shook his head as if to physically dislodge the images, and turned back to directing the convoy.
Bryan shifted his attention to Wade, Kim, and Mike, who were approaching. "Wade—line up the civilians at the entrance. Kim, Mike—come with me."
"Yes, sir!"
Wade jogged toward the civilian group. Kim and Mike exchanged a glance, said nothing, and fell in behind Bryan as he headed inside.
On the way, Bryan keyed his radio. "Norman, status? Find anything?"
"Affirmative. I've been observing all afternoon. Multiple groups of people moving through the town—at least several separate sightings. You were right, Captain. There are definitely other survivors here."
"Have you seen anyone heading toward the shopping center?"
"What?"
A brief pause. Some rustling on Norman's end, then: "Negative. No one moving in your direction. What's going on, Captain?"
Bryan's eyes narrowed. He thought for a moment, then checked his watch. "That's all. Come on back."
"Copy."
After signing off, Bryan turned to face Kim and Mike, who were watching him with undisguised curiosity. They'd heard the entire exchange. No point hiding it.
"Your instincts are right. I've confirmed it—there are other survivors operating in this town."
Mike and Kim looked at each other, mouths half-open as if wanting to say something but unsure where to start.
Bryan raised an eyebrow. "Spit it out."
That was enough to break the dam. Mike stepped close and dropped his voice. "On the way here, we found a woman inside one of the houses. Unconscious. She was alone, and... we couldn't just leave her there. So we brought her along. She's in the truck."
Bryan frowned, something shifting behind his eyes. But he didn't reprimand them. "Don't let it happen again."
"Yes, sir!"
Both men visibly relaxed, tension draining from their shoulders.
"Kim—find a high point inside the shopping center. Until Norman gets back, you're on overwatch."
"Mike—take me to this woman."
An unknown variable had entered the equation. With hostiles potentially in the area, Bryan needed to determine which side she belonged to.
They split up. Bryan followed Mike to the parking lot, where Elton was approaching with the two rookie drivers. One of the soldiers had a woman leaning heavily against his shoulder.
"Captain, why are you—"
Elton started to ask, but Bryan cut past him.
"I'm here for her."
His gaze locked onto the woman. She wore worn but relatively intact clothing, smudged with dust as if she'd brushed against something dirty. Her eyes were half-lidded, her lips colorless, her entire frame radiating weakness.
Under Bryan's piercing stare, the woman visibly flinched—shrinking into herself. But she managed to speak.
"Hello."
Bryan gave her a small nod—his version of a greeting—and softened his tone as much as he could manage. "Ma'am, mind if we talk?"
"...Okay."
She hesitated, but the military uniforms seemed to put her marginally at ease.
"What's your name?"
"Cindy."
"Why are you here?"
"I've been drifting from place to place. I don't even know how I passed out. If you hadn't found me, I'd probably be dead..." Her expression shifted to one of deep gratitude as she looked at Mike.
"Do you have anyone else with you?"
Something flickered across Cindy's face—just for an instant—before it was replaced by raw grief. Her voice cracked. "I had a few companions... but we got separated by Infected. I don't know if they're still alive..."
Bryan caught the tell. He didn't call her on it. His eyes remained unreadable—deep, still water revealing nothing.
"One last question. Have you encountered any other survivors in this town?"
...
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