On the highway.
Bryan drove the bullet-riddled car down the road at speed. Both side mirrors had been shot to pieces during the firefight, so he could only rely on the central rearview mirror to watch what was behind them.
Even after several hundred meters, there was still no sign of the military truck in pursuit. Though puzzled, he felt the tension gradually ease from his shoulders. He glanced over at Sarah, who was still curled up low in her seat. "You can get up now. They're not following."
Sarah's body trembled slightly. She sat up and looked around, confirming they were now on the highway. She patted her chest and let out a long breath. What had just happened felt like something out of an action movie—she was still shaking from it.
She turned to Bryan, ready to give him a piece of her mind, but then she noticed his face and arms were covered in blood. The words died in her throat, replaced by alarm.
"You're hurt? Did you get shot?"
"What?" Bryan hadn't noticed until Sarah's outburst. Now that the adrenaline was fading, exhaustion crashed over him like a wave. Pain flared across his body, and he suddenly felt utterly drained.
Shards of glass had left cuts all over him. The worst was a burning sensation on the right side of his face—he realized a bullet must have grazed his cheek.
The realization made his blood run cold. He'd acted on impulse, made a reckless decision. If his luck had been even slightly worse, one of those bullets would have put a hole right through his head.
"I'm fine. Didn't get shot. Let's keep going—we'll deal with the wounds when we find somewhere safe."
Looking at the blood still seeping from his injuries, Sarah forced down her anger for now. She dug into her backpack and pulled out packets of tissues, dabbing at the wounds on his body.
The shattered windshield made it hard to see, but thankfully the highway was empty. Bryan drove for another half hour before Sarah's persistent urging finally convinced him to pull over onto the shoulder.
"You're absolutely crazy, you know that? Charging at armed soldiers like that!"
Sarah's face was expressionless as she carefully extracted glass shards from Bryan's wounds with a cotton swab dipped in alcohol. But when she saw him wince and grimace from the sting, her voice softened slightly into something more like a worried scolding.
Bryan smiled weakly. He knew he'd been reckless. Looking at Sarah, he said quietly, "You're right. I was impulsive. We were so close to getting out of there—I just... I got impatient. I'm sorry."
Hearing the genuine remorse in his voice, Sarah decided not to press further. She picked up a roll of bandages and wound them carefully around his arm, finishing the basic first aid.
She wasn't sure what she felt for Bryan anymore. At some point, she'd started relying on him more and more. She didn't want to see him get hurt—ever. So when his recklessness had nearly gotten him killed, she'd felt a surge of anger she couldn't quite explain.
Once his wounds were treated, Bryan stretched his limbs experimentally. Looking at the car, which now resembled Swiss cheese, he said, "Looks like we need a new ride."
"Hm? What's this?"
Walking toward the front of the car, Bryan noticed something wedged under the windshield wiper—a clipboard with several sheets of paper attached. He hadn't spotted it while driving because the windshield had been too damaged.
He pulled it free and flipped through the pages. It was a military operation log:
06:10
Departed main camp (south) for northern checkpoint.
07:03
Arrived at northern checkpoint. Beginning blockade deployment.
...
There were only those two entries—clearly, they'd only just started recording. But what made Bryan's expression harden was the line at the very bottom, under "Mission Objective":
Seal all exits. Indiscriminate cleansing of infection zone.
Horrifying as it sounded, Bryan had already suspected as much.
Once they were back on the road, he told Sarah what he'd found and showed her the log. Both of them fell silent, lost in their own heavy thoughts. The car was quiet for a long time.
American highways generally don't have toll booths, so if you needed gas, food, or rest, you had to exit the highway to find services.
After another half hour of driving, Bryan spotted a sign for a rest stop exit ahead. Without hesitation, he turned the wheel and took the off-ramp.
Not far from the highway exit stood a service area—much like any other he remembered from his previous life. A standard gas station, a diner, and a convenience store. Across the road sat a motel. Looking into the distance, he could even make out the faint outline of a nearby town.
But both the service area and the motel were in shambles, clearly ravaged by the infected at some point.
"Come on. Let's check it out."
Bryan parked on the roadside. He grabbed all his weapons—pistols and the metal pipe—before stepping out. He'd given the knife to Sarah, since she wasn't strong enough to wield heavier weapons effectively. As for the assault rifle, he'd emptied its magazine during their last encounter with the infected. It was just dead weight now.
Rather than heading for the clearly well-stocked service area, they crossed the road toward the motel.
Their priority was finding a working vehicle. The service area's parking lot was completely empty, but they could see several cars parked at the motel. And their food supplies weren't critically low yet—transportation came first.
What they didn't notice were the two figures lurking inside the convenience store behind them, watching their every move from the shadows.
"Didn't expect to find an RV here."
Scanning the motel parking lot, Bryan spotted a hulking white shape tucked in the far corner. His eyes lit up.
An RV would be perfect. They still had a long journey ahead, and it came with beds and a bathroom built in. Having one would make the rest of the trip much easier.
But after a moment's thought, he shook his head and dismissed the idea. An RV was too conspicuous—it would attract unwanted attention. Plus, its size would limit their speed. After weighing the pros and cons, he decided against it.
"All the doors are locked."
Nearby, Sarah had grown bold enough to venture into the parking lot once she confirmed there were no infected around. She moved between the remaining cars, tugging on door handles, but every single one was locked.
"There's a front office over there—should have keys inside. Let's take a look."
Bryan surveyed the area and pointed to a small building near the road. He led Sarah toward it.
They approached carefully, stopping beside the glass door. Venetian blinds blocked their view of the interior, so they pressed close and listened for any sounds inside. After a moment of silence—no infected growls—they slowly pushed the door open and peered in.
Unlike the chaos outside, the office interior was surprisingly clean and orderly, almost as if someone had been tidying up regularly. Sarah frowned. "Why is it so clean in here?"
"No idea. Maybe because the door was closed?"
But the cleanliness had already set off alarm bells in Bryan's head. He signaled Sarah with a look and gave a verbal response to keep up appearances, all while raising his pistol and advancing slowly toward a closed interior door.
Sarah caught on immediately. She raised her own pistol and played along: "Never mind that. Let's just find the car keys."
As she spoke, Bryan reached the door. The moment she finished her sentence—
He kicked it open and rushed inside, weapon raised.
But to his surprise, the room was empty. Just a bed with rumpled sheets and a sleeping pad on the floor beneath it. No one.
"Well? Anyone in there?" Sarah called from outside, still keeping watch.
"No one." Bryan crouched and slipped his hand under the blankets. He could still feel faint warmth. Standing, he said, "Someone was definitely staying here, but it looks like they've already left."
"Forget about that—let's just find the keys."
Seeing there was no immediate threat, Sarah climbed over the front desk and started rummaging through drawers and cabinets. She searched for a while without finding anything, then moved into the back room. Finally, she discovered a small metal box in the nightstand drawer—and inside were car keys.
"Found them! The keys are here."