One week later.
Eastern United States. Georgia.
West of Atlanta.
Whoooosh~
Bitter wind howled through the trees lining the highway, driving snow and ice into a swirling maelstrom that obscured everything in sight—a full-blown blizzard.
At the end of Interstate 20, dark shapes gradually emerged: a massive convoy. Fully-armed soldiers and civilians in down jackets, arms wrapped around themselves, shivering violently.
But no one was in the vehicles. Instead, everyone trudged alongside them, boots crunching through deep snow.
At the front, dozens of soldiers and civilians wielded shovels, clearing the road for the vehicles behind.
The trucks and buses were driven by single drivers, creeping along the freshly-cleared path. Some vehicles had broken down and were being towed by iron cables attached to working trucks.
"Damn this weather! Could this day get any worse?"
Bryan plunged his boot into the snow, hands jammed deep in his pockets, head bowed against the wind-driven flakes stinging his face. One heavy step after another.
Nine full days since leaving Dallas. Under normal pre-apocalypse conditions, the trip would've taken less than a day.
But the snow had forced them to slow down. They'd had to clear Infected from every town they passed to ensure safe passage for future convoys. Add in the Infected attacks and countless other complications, and it had taken nearly ten days just to reach Atlanta's outskirts. If they hadn't gotten lucky several times—spotting migrating Infected herds in time to avoid them—who knew how much longer it would've taken?
But luck ran out eventually. And when it did, misfortune came in waves.
The weather had been fine when they'd set out this morning. Then the wind picked up, snowfall intensified, and within hours they were trapped in a blizzard. No shelter anywhere nearby—nothing to do but push forward.
Then they'd hit a roadblock: vehicles piled up, debris everywhere. Clearing it in this weather was impossible.
Fortunately, someone spotted a small road that could bypass the obstruction. They'd turned onto it without hesitation.
Bad idea. Part of the road was a low-lying section where snow had accumulated much deeper than on the highway. Something—maybe the snow scraping the undercarriages, maybe something else—caused vehicle after vehicle to break down. Engines refused to start.
But they were already halfway down that road. With deeper snow ahead and broken vehicles behind, they were stuck. If the remaining working vehicles failed too, they'd all be finished.
Everyone piled out to help clear the path ahead. With limited shovels, they had to take turns. The broken vehicles were pushed by dozens of hands at a time.
By the time they finally made it back to the highway, the real problems began. The military had brought spare parts for emergency repairs, but nowhere near enough for this many vehicles. And there were no towns nearby to scavenge from.
Their only option: reorganize the convoy. Working vehicles would tow one or two broken ones each. Snow-clearing had to continue to prevent more breakdowns.
With vehicles carrying extra loads, everyone else had to walk. Hence the current scene.
Bryan glanced left at Sarah and Allen—faces pale from cold, arms crossed tightly, trudging through the storm. Then right, where Anna and Wilfred supported Sylvia between them.
He could feel everyone slowing down. Even lifting his own feet felt like hauling lead weights.
Some people were already at their limits. Without companions holding them up, they'd have collapsed long ago.
If this continued, everyone would eventually drop where they stood—frozen corpses in the snow.
Just then, Bryan spotted a soldier fighting through the wind to climb onto a truck cab. The man raised a megaphone and shouted.
The blizzard drowned out most of it, but Bryan was close enough to catch fragments:
"Everyone... hold on... almost... nearest... county seat... rest there... please... keep going...!"
The broken message was enough. Bryan pieced together the meaning.
His spirits lifted briefly—then concern flooded in. A county seat wasn't like a small town. The population would be much larger, which meant far more Infected.
But this time they'd have no defensive lines. Everyone was frozen, exhausted, in terrible shape. If they encountered a large Infected presence, they'd be annihilated.
Bryan didn't believe the convoy commander hadn't thought of this. But staying in the blizzard meant certain death. Better to gamble that the storm would mask their presence and the Infected wouldn't find them.
Though the wind swallowed most of the megaphone's words, those close enough heard and passed the message along. Soon everyone knew.
The information matched Bryan's guess: a few hundred meters ahead lay the nearest county seat—Douglasville, the seat of Douglas County in Atlanta's western suburbs.
Energized by the news, people found new strength. Their pace quickened.
Soon a junction appeared, a sign marking the turn toward Douglasville.
People cheered as they left the highway—then remembered the Infected threat and quickly quieted down.
They followed the road in. Rooftops, streets, everything was buried under white. Not a single Infected in sight.
The military's preparations proved unnecessary, but everyone breathed quiet sighs of relief.
They couldn't venture too far from the highway, but a large hospital complex sat conveniently nearby—big enough to shelter everyone, with an underground parking garage that could hold all their vehicles. If they could find the right parts inside, they could repair on-site.
The convoy stopped at the hospital entrance. The electric gate was closed. The sign read: Wellstar Douglas Hospital. Across the street stood a large pharmacy, surrounded by various other hospital buildings—all apparently part of the same complex.
The crowd gathered at the gate, but no one dared enter. Even though no Infected were visible, everyone knew hospitals had been ground zero when Cordyceps erupted.
They'd all seen those monsters by now. Charging in blindly when the building might be crawling with Infected would be suicide.
People exchanged uncertain glances, then looked to the soldiers. Strangely, the civilians' eyes held no friendliness—only schadenfreude. The camaraderie of days past had evaporated.
As the crowd milled at the entrance, Commander Harry organized a squad under Lieutenant Colbert to scout the hospital interior.
Justin would've been better suited for this—superior combat skills and physical abilities—but his temperament was too... impulsive. Better to send Colbert for a careful reconnaissance.
Meanwhile, civilians and soldiers couldn't keep standing in the blizzard. Harry ordered the vehicle doors opened so everyone could rest inside, recover as much strength as possible—but absolute silence was mandatory.
He also deployed elite soldiers to fan out from the hospital, find secure positions, and monitor the surrounding streets for any sign of trouble.
Colbert led his reinforced squad past the dispersing crowd, hopped the electronic gate, and crunched through the snow toward the hospital's depths. One by one, his men vanished into the swirling white.
Watching them go, Bryan felt his heart begin to pound. An inexplicable sense of foreboding gripped him.
He pressed a hand to his chest, unsure why he felt this way. But as people around him headed back to the vehicles, he followed. Whatever was coming, he needed to get out of this blizzard first.
...
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