No matter how brutal the fighting at the perimeter, no matter how many Infected and Stalkers poured through the alleys, no matter what some people were doing in the chaos—the women, children, and elderly sheltering at the town center knew nothing of it.
Inside the houses at the center, some families huddled in corners, hands clasped in silent prayer. Others stood at windows, watching the distant flames, listening to the gunfire and explosions, faces etched with fear and uncertainty. Still others had shouldered their belongings, ready to flee at the first sign of things going south.
Sigh. What a mess. Bryan leaned against the window frame, rubbing his temples as he observed the tableau of human anxiety.
He genuinely didn't know what else to say about their situation. They'd left Dallas barely a day ago. First the morning's highway pileup, now a nighttime Infected assault. When had the world outside become this hostile?
Sarah stood beside him, exhaustion written all over her face. She'd been in a daze ever since the alarm jolted her awake. She shook her head to clear it, took a sip from her canteen, and asked anxiously: "The Infected won't break through, will they?"
Bryan checked the time. 2:50 AM. Almost two hours since the attack began. He felt slightly reassured. He patted her hand and said, "Relax. We'll be fine."
But just then, the soldiers patrolling the street seemed to receive new orders. They suddenly mobilized—two taking aim at the far end of the street while the other two dragged barriers into position, as if preparing to stop something.
The commotion drew everyone inside to the doors and windows. Their anxiety instantly spiked into terror. They assumed the Infected had broken through and the soldiers were making a last stand.
But others quickly noticed something was off. The soldiers didn't look panicked. And the barriers only blocked part of the road, not all of it—useless against a horde.
HONK! HONK!
Before anyone could puzzle it out, headlights appeared at the end of the street. A military supply truck roared around the corner, horn blaring like the driver wanted everyone in town to know he was coming.
The two soldiers handling the barriers dropped what they were carrying and scrambled for cover, rifles trained on the oncoming vehicle.
The truck's occupants spotted the roadblock and the soldiers. A tall, thin man leaned out the passenger window, rifle in hand. Without hesitation, he opened fire on the soldiers, face twisted with manic glee, apparently unconcerned about catching a bullet himself.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The soldiers returned fire, but the truck's high beams were blinding. They couldn't aim properly—just squeezed their eyes half-shut and sprayed bullets at the cab, hoping to get lucky.
Joseph, meanwhile, seemed immune to fear. Bullets whipped past him, one grazing his arm and leaving a scorched line, but he didn't even flinch. He just kept shooting, managing to wound two soldiers who'd poked out from cover to reload.
The remaining soldiers ducked behind their barriers and stopped returning fire.
"HAHAHAHA—!"
Seeing the soldiers cowed, Chad and Joseph howled with deranged laughter. As they passed the civilians watching from the windows, they screamed: "You idiots can die with the military! We're out of here! WOOHOO!"
The truck barreled toward the hastily-assembled roadblock.
The flimsy barrier never stood a chance. The truck smashed through it like it wasn't there.
Bryan watched the truck accelerate through the debris with no sign of slowing. A small smile tugged at his lips. Those two are done.
He'd noticed earlier: one of the soldiers had scattered something on the road just past the barrier. Something that glinted in the light. Spike strips. However much they were celebrating now, the tears would come soon enough.
Chad, lost in his triumphant howling, never noticed the metallic gleam ahead in the snow.
Joseph did. In the passenger seat, he caught the reflection and leaned forward, squinting. His blood ran cold when he recognized the rows of tire-shredding spikes. His exhilarated scream became a panicked shriek:
"STOP THE TRUCK!"
The shout startled Chad so badly he flinched. But when "stop" registered, his foot slammed the brake on pure reflex.
Too late. A speeding truck doesn't stop on a dime. Tires screaming against asphalt, the vehicle skidded forward on momentum alone—directly over the spike strip.
BANG!
The left front tire exploded as spikes punctured it. The wheel went flat instantly. Combined with Chad's hard braking, he lost all control of the steering. The truck slewed sideways.
CRASH!
The out-of-control vehicle veered toward the building where Bryan was watching. People screamed and scattered.
But halfway there, the extreme angle became too much. The truck lost its balance and flipped, rolling onto its side in the middle of the street.
The cargo—food and ammunition—burst through the tarp covering the bed, scattering across the snow. Brass casings gleamed golden against the white, impossibly bright.
Soldiers came running from adjacent streets, drawn by the commotion, sealing both ends of the road. Even with wings, those two wouldn't escape now.
Black smoke curled from the crumpled hood. A hand and a rifle emerged from the passenger window. Joseph hauled himself out, face slick with blood.
He looked around at the soldiers closing in and knew it was over. Hatred and frustration burned in his eyes.
Then his gaze fell on something—several grenades that had rolled out of the truck bed with the rest of the cargo. He looked at the building full of women and children. A vicious light entered his eyes.
Ignoring Chad's cries for help from inside the cab, Joseph half-rolled, half-crawled off the overturned truck and scrambled for the grenades.
A young soldier spotted him going for the explosives. Without thinking, he raised his rifle and fired.
But Joseph had already thrown himself sideways behind the truck. Using it as cover, he lunged for the nearest building.
The bullets missed Joseph entirely—and came dangerously close to the remaining grenades. The other soldiers went pale and shouted at the young one to cease fire.
Technically, the odds of a bullet detonating a grenade were low. But low wasn't zero. That whole pile was ammunition and supplies. If it went up, they'd all be in deep trouble.
While everyone's attention was on Joseph, Chad finally managed to free his trapped left foot from the crushed driver's compartment.
Searing pain radiated from his leg. Cold sweat poured down his face. But the gunfire outside told him he couldn't stay. He had to move.
Chad didn't bother with his injury. He braced his left foot on the parking brake, gritted his teeth against the agony, planted his right foot on the seat back, grabbed the window frame with both hands, and hauled himself up and out.
Gasping, he'd just managed to sit on the overturned door panel and was preparing to drop down when instinct made him scan his surroundings. His expression froze. His hands shot up, surrender in every line of his body, head bowed in defeat.
More than a dozen soldiers surrounded the overturned truck, rifles raised. Black muzzles stared at him—cold, unblinking, utterly without mercy.
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