IBM Southeast Employees Federal Credit Union.
Bryan stood at the bank's entrance, reading the sign above the building. He peered into the dim lobby, still feeling a knot of unease in his stomach.
Through sheer luck, they'd avoided the disaster at the hospital. But the experience had made one thing crystal clear: the outside world was even more dangerous than he'd imagined. With his current age, his underdeveloped body, and his mediocre marksmanship, he couldn't survive this apocalypse indefinitely.
My abilities really aren't enough...
He sighed internally, his desire to reach a Quarantine Zone growing stronger. Only there could he find lasting protection and the space to learn and grow. The QZ might fall someday, but by then, he'd have the skills to protect himself.
"Let's go inside!"
While Bryan was lost in thought, the others had already grown impatient with the cold. One by one, they climbed the steps toward the bank's entrance.
Like the café, this bank had two floors. The ground-floor lobby handled regular transactions, while upstairs consisted mostly of offices.
Tracy picked up a snow-covered bottle from the ground, cracked the front door open, and hurled it inside. The sharp crash of breaking glass echoed through the silent building.
They waited at the entrance. No sounds came from within—no Infected, apparently.
Exchanging glances, they pushed the door open and stepped into the lobby, scanning their surroundings.
Banks typically didn't have many people even during normal hours—just a few staff members. After the Cordyceps outbreak, those employees would have fled immediately. Finding no Infected here wasn't surprising.
Bryan looked down at the scattered bills covering the floor. He crouched and picked up a hundred-dollar bill, studying Benjamin Franklin's printed face. The irony wasn't lost on him.
Who could have imagined that the almighty dollar—something people had killed for, gone mad over—would become worthless paper after the apocalypse, ignored by everyone?
"Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!"
"Get a fire going—I'm freezing to death!"
Once they confirmed the building was safe, everyone sprang into action. They had no choice—it was goddamn cold.
Tracy and Wilfred retrieved wooden chairs and tables from upstairs and began breaking them apart for firewood. Anna and Sylvia gathered fallen branches from the snow outside. The younger ones cleared a space on the floor and collected paper and bills to use as kindling.
While the others built the fire, Bryan sat nearby and opened the three backpacks he and Sarah had been carrying. Time to take inventory.
Food and pistols went without saying—everyone had those. He also had a radio, the one they'd taken from the soldier Tommy had killed back in Austin. They'd barely used it since then.
A shotgun—disassembled into components after he'd used it to kill that scumbag. But given the current situation, it was time to put it back together.
Beside the shotgun parts sat two egg-shaped objects. Grenades. He'd found them on that same scumbag. There had been four or five originally, but he'd only taken two—didn't want to risk taking them all.
Next, he pulled out a square container filled with liquid. Gasoline, siphoned from the RVs before they left. Essential for making Molotov cocktails.
Finally, from the very bottom, he retrieved a small metal box. Inside were the morphine syringes and needles from Antoine's safe.
He repacked everything methodically. When his eyes fell on the bag stuffed with sanitary pads, memories of certain unpleasant events surfaced. His mouth twitched, and he quickly zipped it shut.
A cheer went up as the fire flickered to life, casting warm light through the dim lobby. The flames crackled and popped.
Everyone gathered around the fire, hands extended toward the heat. They shivered with relief, letting out sounds of pure comfort.
But gradually, silence fell over the group. None of them had expected the convoy to be scattered by such a sudden onslaught. The memory of the massacre at the hospital entrance sent chills down their spines.
If Bryan hadn't warned them to leave...
One by one, their gazes drifted toward him—except for Tracy, who didn't understand.
"What is it now?!"
Tracy noticed the familiar pattern—everyone looking at the boy again. Her brow furrowed. After a moment's hesitation, she broke the silence.
"You all... seemed to expect something dangerous would happen. Can you tell me why?"
Silence.
Everyone tensed at her question. Because the whole thing was so bizarre, Bryan had warned them not to tell anyone else.
"Wh-what do you mean?" Wilfred noticed the others' expressions and spoke up quickly to draw Tracy's attention, feigning confusion.
But Tracy had already observed the subtle changes in their faces. Her suspicions were confirmed—they definitely knew something. Seeing Wilfred try to deflect, a mocking smile tugged at her lips.
"You all knew, didn't you?"
Without waiting for a response, she continued: "The reason you suddenly decided to leave the bus and risk walking a hundred meters away wasn't because of Sylvia's injuries. You suspected danger was coming—no, you weren't certain, which is why you only went that far instead of fleeing entirely."
"And after the Infected appeared, yes, you all looked shocked—but your eyes kept going to that boy. Your surprise wasn't just about the Infected. It included him. Even on our way here, I noticed you all kept glancing at him. Just now, you did it again. Am I right in thinking this crisis has something to do with this child?"
Her gaze locked onto Bryan, who sat silently in the corner. She studied him intently, searching for anything unusual.
Everyone stared at Tracy in amazement. They hadn't expected her to pick up on such subtle clues.
Sigh.
Bryan shook his head with a helpless, bitter smile. He hadn't anticipated the soldier's keen perception. He hadn't wanted to share this strange experience with anyone else—if the wrong person found out, it could only bring him trouble.
"Since you want to know, I'll tell you." After a moment's thought, he raised his head and met Tracy's eyes directly.
Seeing her sit up straight, ready to listen intently, Bryan organized his thoughts and recounted everything that had happened.
As he spoke, Tracy's expression shifted—just as Anna and the others' had when they first heard the story. Disbelief gradually gave way to shock, then to stunned silence.
After a long moment, she finally recovered. She turned her stiff neck, looking at everyone's faces, silently seeking confirmation.
The others understood. They nodded, confirming it was all true. Anna, sitting beside her, spoke softly: "We didn't believe it at first either. We only left out of caution. It wasn't until the Infected actually appeared that we truly believed."
At those words, Tracy's expression contorted with anger. She rounded on Bryan. "Then why didn't you tell us sooner?! Do you know how many lives we could have saved if we'd prepared in advance?! They're all dead because of your selfishness!"
"Even if I had told you, would you have believed me?"
Bryan met her furious gaze, his own brow furrowing with irritation. A cold smirk crossed his lips.
"Setting aside that it was already too late—even if I'd told you, you'd have thought it was a joke. You'd have ignored it completely!"
"You—!"
The retort died in Tracy's throat. She glared at him, eyes blazing, but couldn't find words to counter him.
Then she spun around, snatched up a stick from the floor, and began smashing everything in reach—venting the suffocating fury in her heart. Finally, she collapsed to the ground and wept silently.
No one moved to comfort her. They understood she needed time alone to process.
They quietly pulled food from their packs. It had been ages since they'd eaten properly, and they needed to replenish their strength. Besides, darkness was falling outside. They'd definitely be spending the night here.
"So..." Allen hesitated, then finally spoke up while everyone ate. "Once this blizzard passes, what do we do? Do we still try to reach Atlanta?"
...
Get 20+ chapters ahead on - P.a.t.r.e.o.n "RoseWhisky"