"Attention! All residents whose names appear on the Quarantine Zone list, please hold your ID cards and proceed to the designated assembly point. Trucks will arrive shortly to transport you into the QZ!"
The streets buzzed with activity as residents clutching bags of all sizes marched down the center of the road, heads held high, faces beaming with the unmistakable pride of lottery winners. They moved steadily toward the military's designated collection point.
Along both sides of the street, crowds pressed together—countless faces watching those who walked through the center. Their eyes brimmed with envy and jealousy, though some offered genuine well-wishes, waving goodbye to former companions.
"Goodbye!" Bryan and Sarah stood at the edge of the crowd, spotting Osborne and Kelly among the departing masses. Both groups waved frantically, shouting their farewells across the distance.
Only when the pair disappeared into the soldier-guarded collection area, vanishing completely from sight, did Bryan and Sarah turn to walk back.
"Grandpa Armand and his family should be inside the QZ by now..."
Sarah clung to Bryan's arm, her eyes glistening with unshed tears—mourning the loss of so many friends in a single day.
"Yeah, they definitely made it in by now." Bryan wasn't the least bit surprised that Armand's family had secured entry. In this apocalypse, medical personnel were invaluable. No one would be stupid enough to turn them away—certainly not the government.
His gaze drifted over the crowd ahead, settling on the distant blue sky. "And now it's just the two of us again..."
. . .
Back in the RV, they sat in their chairs, finding the emptiness unsettling after so many days of company.
To keep their minds occupied, they decided to prepare everything they'd need for departure. Beyond their personal gear, Bryan packed a larger travel bag, carefully disassembling the shotgun and tucking it inside. Fortunately, it was a short-barreled model—a long barrel would have forced them to abandon it entirely.
Carrying it was a burden, sure, but having it was better than not. The assault rifle, now useless without ammunition, they simply discarded.
What troubled him was concealment. If soldiers inspected the bag, they'd find the shotgun immediately. After racking his brain for a solution and coming up empty, he decided to set the problem aside. If push came to shove, they'd just leave it behind.
"Sigh! There's still some beer in here. Nobody's going to drink it now—might as well give it to that old drunk Antoine."
After organizing their belongings, Bryan opened the refrigerator to clear it out, discovering four or five bottles of beer still inside. With a light sigh, he gathered them all in his arms and headed toward the neighboring RV.
"Hey, Antoine! Open up—look what I brought you!"
Cradling the bottles, Bryan called out as he approached. But no matter how loudly he knocked, no one answered. Strange—usually Antoine would respond to his calls regardless of how drunk he was.
Did something happen to the old man?
Bryan peered through the window, but the interior was pitch black—he couldn't see a thing. Remembering Antoine's strange behavior the night before, unease crept into his chest.
He set down the beer and tried the door handle. To his surprise, it was unlocked, swinging open at his touch.
The instant the door opened, a massive wave of unknown gas rushed out, hitting him like a wall. His head swam, his vision blurred, and nausea clawed at his throat.
Bryan immediately knew something was wrong. He clamped a hand over his nose and mouth, stumbling backward, retreating to a safe distance before finally releasing his grip and gulping fresh air.
"What happened?!"
Sarah had heard the commotion from inside their RV. She poked her head out to investigate and found Bryan hunched against the vehicle, one hand bracing himself while the other tugged at his collar, gasping desperately.
Panic flashed across her face as she rushed down to steady him. "Are you okay?"
"I'm... I'm fine..." After several deep breaths, Bryan recovered from the initial shock. His eyes returned to Antoine's RV.
He couldn't understand why such a noxious gas had suddenly poured out. If Antoine was still inside...
The thought propelled him back to their RV. He grabbed a clean cloth, soaked it with water, and instructed Sarah to stay put under no circumstances. Then, pressing the wet cloth to his nose and mouth, he plunged back inside.
The suffocating sensation returned, but the damp cloth filtered enough that he could endure it.
Through the darkness, he scanned the chaotic interior—empty beer bottles scattered across the floor. On the bed in the back lay a still figure.
Bryan's heart sank. He rushed to throw open every window, ensuring airflow, then hurried toward the bed.
Antoine lay there with his eyes closed, his face pale as paper, legs together, hands folded over his stomach. His body was rigid, chest utterly still—clearly dead for some time.
Yet his expression held no trace of pain. Instead, clutching a photograph in his hands, a faint smile graced his lips, as if he'd drifted off while dreaming of something beautiful. He looked... peaceful.
Bryan checked for breath, found none, and sighed inwardly. He gently removed the photograph from the old man's hands. It was a yellowed picture of a young couple.
The man was recognizably a younger Antoine. Beside him, a beautiful woman leaned against his shoulder. Both smiled at the camera with pure, radiant happiness. On the back, someone had written a message—recently, by the look of it:
I'm coming to find you. We'll be together again soon... won't we?
. . .
"Name: Antoine."
"Age: 67."
"Cause of death: Suicide."
"Method: Carbon monoxide poisoning."
". . ."
Outside the RV, two officers—a man and a woman in uniform—documented the body lying on the ground.
After completing their notes, they retrieved a body bag from the patrol car's trunk, working together to zip Antoine inside. Then they carried him toward the vehicle, preparing to transport the remains to the designated disposal site.
Suicides were a daily occurrence in Dallas now. Nothing surprising. The officers worked with practiced efficiency, completing their task quickly. Of course, some of Antoine's belongings inevitably found their way into their pockets.
Bryan and Sarah stood nearby, watching in silence. Their faces remained expressionless, but their tightly clasped hands betrayed the turmoil beneath the surface.
"Kid—you're Bryan, right? The deceased left this letter for you."
After loading the body and closing the trunk, the female officer approached Bryan, handing him an envelope. Then she quickened her pace, not looking back as she climbed into the car and drove away.
Bryan raised an eyebrow at her odd behavior, then opened the letter:
. . .
Dear Bryan,
You're probably the first one reading this, right? I'm sorry I couldn't say goodbye properly. But honestly, I grew fond of you, kid. Thank you for all the joy you and Sarah brought me these past weeks.
I'm old. By all rights, I should've died months ago. Every extra day has been a bonus. But I'm tired now. Last night, I thought about my wife again. She must be so lonely over there. Maybe it's time I joined her.
Don't feel sad for me—this is a release, really. Everything in this RV is yours now. Take whatever you need, if any of it's useful...
. . .
"May you find peace up there."
Bryan folded the letter, offering a silent prayer for Antoine. Then he glanced at the departing patrol car, finally understanding the officer's strange behavior—she'd been afraid he'd demand Antoine's belongings back.
He didn't care much. Antoine had been a drunk; he wouldn't have had much of value anyway. Bryan had already noticed it was mostly just food and some weapons and ammunition—things they already possessed.
Not that it mattered. Most people in Dallas could barely feed themselves now, surviving on government rations. Who would expect two kids to have their own supplies?
"Bryan, look! There's more writing on the back."
Just as Bryan was about to pocket the envelope, Sarah's sharp eyes caught something. Another line of text on the reverse side.
"Really?"
He unfolded the letter again, flipping it over. Sure enough, at the very bottom:
I left you a surprise under the bed. Don't let anyone else take it!
Bryan stared at the words in surprise. Antoine had anticipated the police would open the letter first, knew they'd strip the place of valuables before handing it over—and had counted on them overlooking this inconspicuous note on the back.
"You crafty old drunk... Not bad at all."
He climbed into Antoine's RV and lifted the mattress. Hidden beneath was a concealed safe—combination-locked, impossible to open without the code.
Four digits required. Bryan remembered the date on that photograph: 07/12.
He entered the numbers. The lock clicked open.
But when he saw the contents, he froze, falling silent. Inside sat two vials of injectable solution and a syringe. The label read: MORPHINE.