As the sky gradually lightened toward dawn, the gunfire in the town faded to silence. Flames still licked at the buildings, but the inferno had lost its earlier ferocity.
When the last Infected outside the perimeter finally fell, the crisis officially ended.
Viewed from above, the night's battle had reduced half of Waskom to ruins.
Now the streets bustled with people—smiling, gesturing excitedly, wearing the giddy relief of survivors. Having faced death together and fought side by side seemed to have brought everyone closer.
When the convoy had first departed, people only spoke to those they already knew. Strangers were strangers.
Now soldiers and civilians chatted freely, offering friendly greetings. The cold distance was gone. Perhaps everyone had realized that sticking together was the only way to survive in this dangerous new world.
Whether they'd fought through the night or huddled in houses terrified until dawn, no one had slept. They'd endured the entire ordeal on nerves and adrenaline.
The crisis was over, but the aftermath couldn't wait.
First: casualty count. Despite using terrain and cover to their advantage, losses were significant. Between combat deaths and infections, the military had lost 356 soldiers. Civilians numbered over 200 dead or infected.
Second: the infected personnel. During the close-quarters fighting, some soldiers and civilians had been scratched or bitten. By morning, some wounds were already festering, dark circles forming under bloodshot eyes. It seemed cruel, but those infected by Cordyceps couldn't continue with the convoy.
To be safe, Commander Harry ordered everyone scanned—no exceptions.
The infected already knew their fate. Even if they continued on, death was inevitable. Worse, they might endanger friends and family.
Since death was certain either way, better to stay behind and spend their remaining time in this small town. Some wrote letters, asking the departing to deliver them to relatives in the quarantine zones. Others embraced their families one last time, sobbing through final goodbyes and last wishes.
Then came supplies. The convoy's primary mission was clearing Infected from towns along the route, ensuring safe passage for future groups, and leaving markers for the convoys behind them.
They'd eliminated a massive horde, but fuel wasn't the main concern—aside from the Molotovs at the start, most of the fire had spread on its own.
Ammunition was another matter. They'd burned through nearly a third of their reserves. That was dangerous for the journey ahead. Some suggested stopping at the Shreveport QZ to resupply.
The idea was quickly shot down. With everyone packed into the quarantine zones, the rest of the city had been overrun. They couldn't risk another Infected siege just to grab supplies.
After discussion, they decided to press on as planned—but with strict ammunition rationing and aggressive scavenging along the way.
Finally: the people who'd hidden during the attack to avoid fighting, then nursed their resentment into sabotage. Every single one had been found and brought to the town center.
Their fates wouldn't be pleasant. The cowards would be expelled, their food and weapons confiscated. They'd stay behind with the infected, and whether they left would be up to those infected survivors—or they could wait until everyone turned.
As for the seven who'd tried to steal the supply truck during the chaos, the ringleader was already dead. The remaining six weren't so lucky. They were bound and dragged to the central plaza, lined up in a row. The charges: murder, endangering lives, and more. Sentence: death by firing squad, immediate execution.
Tracy happened to be among the soldiers assigned to the firing squad. When she spotted the rainbow-colored hair, recognition flickered across her face. She walked closer, saw Jim's terror-streaked, tear-soaked face, and raised her eyebrows.
"You actually had the guts to steal a truck. I thought you were all bark. Guess I underestimated you. Impressive."
She turned away without waiting for his response, rejoined the line, raised her rifle, and aimed.
In the end, aside from Chad—who'd gotten exactly what he deserved—five people who shouldn't have died that day were executed. Driven by resentment and greed, they met their end to angry jeers and contemptuous curses.
By the time everything was sorted, it was nearly noon. The convoy couldn't afford more delays. The loudspeakers announced ten minutes to departure.
Before leaving, soldiers left behind some weapons and ammunition. The meaning was clear: use them to end the soon-to-turn, or to end yourselves.
With final waves to those staying behind, the convoy headed west—back the way they'd come.
The other three exits from town were blocked with Infected corpses. The scenes were too gruesome, and fires still burned. To leave, they'd have to circle around the perimeter and rejoin the highway from outside.
Inside the bus, everyone except the well-rested driver was utterly exhausted. The moment they sat down, they passed out. Some of the men snored loud enough to shake the windows.
Bryan listened to the snoring chorus with exasperation. Great. Can't even sleep in peace.
He glanced toward the back row, where they'd laid out the unconscious Black woman. Originally there hadn't been connecting seats back there, but after witnessing her heroics, grateful survivors had cleared three rows for her to rest properly. Besides, last night's losses had left plenty of empty seats.
He held Sarah close and leaned back, eyes closed, still puzzling over something. The soldiers had definitely seen the shotgun wounds. Why hadn't anyone asked questions?
He couldn't figure it out and eventually gave up. Whatever. Cross that bridge when I come to it. Maybe they really didn't notice?
Inside the town, the fires had hidden the snowfall. Now that they'd driven out, they could see the road was already covered with a finger's depth of snow—and it was still coming down with no signs of stopping. They'd need to move faster. Once the snow got too deep, travel would become impossible.
The convoy took a small road around Waskom's perimeter. After half an hour of bumpy driving, they finally rejoined the highway.
Not far ahead lay Greenwood—the town where the Infected horde had come from. The streets were covered in blood-stained snow and devastation. The stench of death hung in the air.
Clearly, this place had once harbored a massive Infected population. Combined with the distance to Waskom, the conclusion was obvious: that horde had originated here.
Shortly after entering Greenwood, the convoy stopped again. People who'd just fallen asleep jerked awake, frantically looking around.
Understandable—last night had left everyone jumpy. They were practically flinching at shadows now.
Fortunately, Tracy quickly relayed what was happening. Everyone relaxed.
Apparently, the advance scouts had found a group of survivors calling for help, blocking the road ahead.
After a fifteen-minute wait and some kind of negotiation, the survivors would be joining the convoy for the trip to Atlanta.
Once scans confirmed they weren't infected, the dozen or so newcomers were split up across different buses for observation—they couldn't all ride together yet.
As the bus door opened, Bryan watched three people board: a muscular middle-aged man, a pretty young woman with brown hair, and a sleazy-looking guy with a mohawk.
All three drew stares. People whispered and sized up the newcomers. The first two got neutral reactions, but the mohawked man with all the tattoos—Ogden—earned looks of disgust. He reminded everyone of that rainbow-haired punk Jim.
Ogden noticed the hostile glances and thought irritably, I don't even know you people. What's with the attitude?
Wilfred guided his daughter Anna to a bench seat. Ogden moved to sit near them, but the unfriendly stares made it clear no one wanted him as a neighbor. Everyone suddenly found something else to look at.
Ogden's blood pressure spiked, but he wasn't stupid. In an unfamiliar group where first impressions had already gone south, starting a fight would make integration impossible.
He swallowed his anger, said nothing, and found an empty corner seat by himself.
Some passengers had been hoping for drama. When he backed down quietly, their opinions of him improved slightly. But as the bus started moving again, they lost interest in the newcomers and drifted back to sleep.
After a few minutes of silence, Anna couldn't contain her curiosity. "Father, where is this military convoy going?"
After the Infected had abandoned Greenwood, they'd planned to leave immediately. But it was too dark, too cold, and they had no transportation. They'd decided to wait until dawn to find a vehicle.
They'd grabbed warm clothes from a clothing store and split up to rest in different houses, planning to regroup in the morning to decide their next move.
Anna had found a bed for the first time in what felt like forever. The warmth enveloping her should have felt wonderful.
But she desperately wanted morning to come so she could get away from that disgusting Ogden. Since leaving the church, she'd caught him staring at her multiple times. It made her skin crawl.
Then, that night, continuous gunfire and explosions echoed from the direction of Waskom, followed by flames lighting up the sky.
The commotion drew everyone back together. They watched the distant chaos and speculated—maybe the military was clearing Infected over there.
Others disagreed. What military operation happened in the middle of the night? Besides, the Infected had clearly left on their own. More likely survivors in Waskom had set off explosions, attracted the horde, and were now fighting for their lives.
That theory gained traction. Some wondered if they should flee immediately in case the Infected came back.
But the horde wouldn't return anytime soon. They decided to wait until morning, then gather supplies and leave at first light.
The next day, anxiety had everyone up before 6 AM. First thing, they looked west—silence. Either the survivors there had died or escaped.
They split up: four people to find and start a vehicle, the rest in pairs to scavenge supplies.
Anna had wanted to convince her father to just leave, but he'd said the timing wasn't right. They still needed these people's help. Reluctantly, she'd agreed to wait.
When everyone regrouped, only Ogden and the woman paired with him were missing. They waited and waited. Nearly noon, the two finally appeared around a corner—with barely any supplies. The woman's flushed face and the smell clinging to them made it obvious what they'd been doing.
Anna was so disgusted she could barely look at him.
But their delay had led to something unexpected: while they'd been stuck waiting, the quarantine zone convoy had appeared.
The moment they spotted the American flag on the trucks, everyone had screamed and waved frantically, finally flagging down the convoy. When a scarred military officer stepped out, though, no one had the courage to approach.
Wilfred had taken the lead, negotiating their way aboard.
Anna was thrilled. Another day with that creep Ogden as a "teammate" and she might have actually lost her mind. Joining a government convoy? A thousand times yes.
She'd even snuck a glance at Ogden. Unlike her relief, his expression had turned distinctly sour.
Hearing his daughter's question, Wilfred paused before answering quietly. "I only know this convoy left Dallas. They're escorting civilians to the Atlanta Quarantine Zone."
"Atlanta?"
Anna's eyes widened. Atlanta was still a long way from here.
"That's right." Wilfred nodded confirmation, then continued: "I'd originally planned to head for the Shreveport QZ. But that officer told me most quarantine zones have reached capacity and are refusing new arrivals. Rather than gamble on getting in somewhere, I figured we should stick with this convoy. Besides... the people who fought those Infected last night? That was them."
"Wh-what?!"
If the first piece of news was surprising, the second was staggering. That horde had been an entire town's worth of Infected. This convoy had fought them off and survived? Unbelievable.
"Those Infected..."
The pieces fell into place—the battered, blood-stained vehicles she'd seen, the exhausted faces. She looked at her father for confirmation.
Wilfred sighed and met her eyes. His expression said everything.
Anna leaned back, needing time to process. Then her father's voice came again, barely above a whisper.
"When you get a chance, try to get closer to these people. Gather information. Let's verify what we've been told."
She nodded almost imperceptibly, then glanced at the Black woman lying on the back seats. Pain was etched across the woman's face even in unconsciousness. Anna hesitated, half-rising as if to help, then stopped herself and closed her eyes instead.
Wilfred noticed his daughter's reaction. He knew she had a kind heart, inherited from her mother, who'd taught her nursing skills. She wanted to help.
After a moment's thought, he spoke again. "If you want, once the bus stops, you can go check on her."
Anna didn't respond, just sat there with her eyes closed. No one could tell what she was thinking.
Wilfred didn't press. He crossed his arms and began planning their next moves.
The new survivors were just a minor blip in the convoy's journey. Throughout the afternoon, nearly everyone on the bus slept. Even when the vehicles stopped, most didn't stir.
A few who stayed awake watched as they passed Shreveport. Through the windows, the once-thriving city lay in ruins—nothing like the intact Dallas they'd left behind. No signs of human presence anywhere. Only Infected and the cursed Cordyceps.
Following their established pattern, the convoy stopped outside each town, sending soldiers ahead to scout before proceeding.
But now they used ammunition sparingly and scavenged aggressively.
As evening approached, the convoy halted outside a small town called Calhoun—smaller than both Greenwood and Waskom. The next town was Monroe, and no one wanted to spend the night there. They'd make do here.
...
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