The next morning.
Dawn light filtered into the shopping center, and the internal clocks of every soldier and civilian pulled them from sleep almost simultaneously.
After a quick breakfast, Elton began organizing the day's work—directing one of the rookie drivers to back a cargo truck up to the entrance for loading, then putting the civilian crew to work transferring last night's boxed supplies onto the vehicle.
Meanwhile, Bryan gathered his squad around the map table and unfolded the Peachtree City map.
"Mike, you and Elton stay here. Collect everything useful within range of the shopping center. Keep the civilians safe." His eyes flicked sideways toward Cindy, who was craning her neck in their direction from across the floor. "And keep an eye on that woman. Don't let her out of your sight."
"...Fine."
Mike's disappointment was palpable—he'd been hoping to explore—but one look at Bryan's expression killed the protest before it formed. He grabbed his rifle and headed toward the entrance.
Bryan tapped a spot on the map—their current position—then traced a line southward along the highway to a large shopping complex a few miles out. He looked at Wade and Kim.
"Follow the highway south. There's a major retail center here. Clear it out, check every pharmacy, supermarket, and convenience store along the way. Mark anything useful for the trucks."
Then his voice dropped. "Scout the layout inside the complex. Set things up. We may be moving tonight. If you sense anyone watching you, act like you haven't noticed. Understood?"
Wade and Kim exchanged a look, nodded in silent understanding, and departed with their gear.
Once they were gone, Bryan folded the map, signaled Norman, and the two of them headed out as well.
Away from the shopping center, once they'd put some distance behind them, Bryan spoke. "What did Cindy do last night? You saw?"
"Yeah." Norman recalled the scene. "A man met her at the window. She passed him a note and said some things—I was too far to hear clearly, but the gist was an attack tonight. Kill everyone, take the guns and supplies."
He glanced at Bryan. "The man passed something to her. Did you see what it was?"
"Checked while she was asleep. Powerful sedatives. She probably saw how lax our discipline looked and figured she could drug our food. Once we're all unconscious, her people walk in and take everything without a fight."
"Heh. Simple and brutal."
Norman snorted. "I tailed the man after. He went to a large hotel a couple miles out—just south of the retail complex, actually. I spotted four or five people inside but couldn't determine exact numbers without going in. Pulled back."
Bryan had already anticipated most of this. The real variable was the enemy's numbers. His squad could spring a surprise, but if the locals showed up in force, tactical advantage wouldn't matter. No amount of skill could overcome being outnumbered five-to-one. Unless you were some kind of fictional super-soldier.
What he needed was hard intelligence: how many, and how well armed.
He checked the time—just past 6:30 AM. The locals had only discovered them yesterday afternoon, and their base was on the far side of town. Gathering a large force this quickly was unlikely. The people at the hotel were probably a local patrol or scavenging team, not a full assault force. Their numbers should be limited.
"Head to the hotel. Confirm their headcount and what they're carrying. If it's more than we can handle, we pull out immediately."
They weren't here to wage war. This was a supply run. If the risk exceeded the reward, they'd cut their losses and leave. But if the numbers were manageable... they'd gain a significant stockpile of captured supplies, potentially completing the mission ahead of schedule.
"Understood."
Norman took off at a run toward the southwest, disappearing around a corner within seconds.
"Time to make some weapons."
Bryan had no intention of being a passive target. He'd been perfectly willing to gather supplies and leave without incident. But if these people wanted a fight, he wasn't going to wait for them to throw the first punch. And he definitely wasn't going to waste time letting the situation drag on.
He headed southeast—the map had shown two gas stations in that direction.
...
The first gas station he reached was a non-starter—Infected packed so densely inside that he took one look and kept moving. The second, further out, was more manageable.
Several Runners milled around the pumps, staying in the shade. Whenever they drifted toward sunlit areas, they'd instinctively turn back—a behavioral quirk Bryan had noted before.
From behind the perimeter wall, he assessed the situation: six Runners, predictable patrol patterns, adequate cover from the pump islands.
He drew his knife and moved.
At the count of five, he reached out and snagged a Runner mid-stride, snapping its neck before it could make a sound. He laid it down gently, rolled to the next pump island, and drove his blade through the skull of a second Runner that had its back turned.
Two down, pressure eased. Using the pump islands as cover, he systematically eliminated the rest without alerting anything outside the station.
He was now at the edge of Norman's red zone. Infected density was climbing. Not catastrophic, but enough to warrant caution.
Bryan located a maintenance access cover about a meter from the pumps. He pried it open, revealing the underground fuel tank's valve assembly—a circular housing with a green pipe and red shut-off valve.
Crouching, he used a screwdriver to remove the valve's mounting bolts, exposing the access hole beneath.
From his pack, he produced a length of plastic tubing several meters long, fitted with a small spigot at one end and a hand-crank pump mechanism at the other—a manual fuel extractor. He'd had Lulu custom-build it for him back at the QZ.
He fed the tube down into the tank, engaged the hand crank, and within moments, a dark line of liquid was climbing through the tube.
Gasoline. Good.
Bryan headed into the station's convenience store—shelves long since stripped bare—and found two white plastic fuel containers in the back. He carried them outside and got to work.
Fifteen minutes later, Bryan left the gas station carrying two full containers of gasoline. The Infected presence was too heavy to linger. Better to find somewhere safe to work.
He was making his way back toward the highway when he heard it—soft, furtive footsteps behind him. Barely audible. But he caught them instantly.
Bryan didn't stop. Didn't turn around. He kept walking, pace unchanged, as if he'd noticed nothing.
The footsteps persisted—someone tailing him, maintaining distance.
His eyes began scanning the buildings on either side, evaluating cover, sight lines, defensible positions.
Tonight's operation against the locals was already planned. The last thing he needed was a wildcard complicating matters. Whatever this was—whoever was back there—it needed to be resolved. Now.
...
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