"Hurry up! Are you playing or not?!"
Inside the bank lobby, Anna, Sylvia, Sarah, and Allen sat in a circle, playing cards they'd found somewhere, thoroughly engrossed in their game.
Bryan, meanwhile, ran laps between floors—starting at the ground-floor entrance, sprinting up to the end of the second-floor corridor, then back down again. He was drenched in sweat but showed no signs of stopping.
By the entrance, Tracy paced with her rifle at the ready, eyes fixed on the sky outside, clearly waiting for something.
This was their third day here. No one had expected the blizzard to last this long. But the wind and snow had finally begun to subside. Visibility had improved dramatically—they could now see clearly in all directions.
During this time, they hadn't encountered or even glimpsed any fleeing survivors or pursuing Infected. The entire city had fallen into an eerie silence, as if everyone had simply vanished, leaving only their small group behind.
"Any luck?" Bryan finished another lap, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and walked over to Tracy. "Still can't reach them?"
Tracy sighed and shook her head helplessly. "I've been trying the military frequency for days. Still no response."
From his spot on a sofa, Wilfred spoke up, his expression grave. "So... do we keep waiting?"
He gestured toward several open backpacks nearby. "We've gone through a lot of our food over these three days. We need to save some for the journey to Atlanta. If we can't contact them soon, we'll have to leave on our own."
The heaviness of the conversation reached the card players. They set down their hands and looked over.
"Look—there's a red light over there!"
Just then, Sarah's gaze, which had been drifting toward Bryan, suddenly sharpened. A red glow appeared in her pupils. She raised her arm, pointing out the window, and shouted.
But she needn't have said anything. The moment the red light appeared, every eye was already on it.
A crimson streak shot into the sky, rising to a great height before slowly falling back to earth, trailing brilliant red radiance. Unmistakably a signal flare.
"Yes! The commander finally fired the flare!" Tracy's face transformed from shock to elation. She cried out in excitement, staring at the red light above.
Everyone rushed to the entrance to watch. They'd just been discussing whether to set out for Atlanta on their own—and now the signal had appeared.
Bryan tracked the flare's descent. It seemed to be about ten kilometers to the east. Following the highway in that direction, they could probably reach it in under two hours.
He clapped his hands sharply to get everyone's attention. "Alright! Now that we have a destination, let's pack up and move out. We should try to get there within two hours."
Everyone hurried to their backpacks, stuffing the scattered items back inside.
Bryan returned to his sofa, shouldered his pack, and hung the shotgun on the side. He'd reassembled it days ago, which had drawn some curious looks—but no one had objected. Without the convoy's rules binding them, an extra weapon was only an advantage.
He handed another backpack to Sarah when she approached, then gave the lighter duffel to Allen. It only contained feminine supplies now that the shotgun was out—easily discarded if needed.
Soon everyone was ready, armed with various weapons. Ammunition was limited; they couldn't rely solely on guns. Knives were too short for comfort, so they'd prepared longer implements for dealing with stray Infected.
They opened the bank's front door. A light breeze ruffled their hair. The roadside trees stood bare, their branches lined with icicles, dead leaves carpeting the ground.
Following the highway, they reached the on-ramp that led to the interstate within about fifteen minutes.
A dozen buses from the convoy sat abandoned there. Three days of blizzard had buried both vehicles and ground under thick snow—but the lumpy mounds scattered around clearly contained bodies.
Wilfred approached cautiously. He brushed snow off one mound and dragged out the corpse beneath: a middle-aged man in his forties with the same yellow skin as Bryan—clearly Asian.
He crouched to examine the body, searching for anything useful. But moments later, he let out a soft sound of surprise. He began moving the corpse, searching for something.
When he turned the body over, he found the back stained dark red. Several bullet holes were clearly visible.
He moved to the other snow mounds, pulling out more bodies, examining each one. Under everyone's watchful gaze, he uncovered several more corpses.
"Dad, what is it?"
Anna didn't understand what her father was doing. She hurried over and looked at him questioningly as he stood in contemplation.
Bryan studied the exhumed bodies for a moment, then noticed the anomaly himself. Understanding dawned in his eyes—he realized what Wilfred was getting at.
Wilfred examined the latest body he'd pulled from the snow. Something seemed to crystallize in his mind. He rose slowly and addressed the group.
"These people weren't killed by Infected. They were shot in the back by other humans."
Tracy stepped forward, looking at the bodies lying face-down, their wounds visible. "You're right—these are gunshot wounds from behind. Someone shot them while they were running. But this kind of thing happened constantly when the Infected broke out of the hospital. People were using others to slow down the horde. What's unusual about it?"
"Being shot from behind isn't unusual," Bryan said, emerging from the group to explain. "What's unusual is that they all died together. And do you see any bite wounds from Infected?"
"What?"
Tracy blinked, then crouched to examine the nearby bodies more closely. She found no evidence of Infected bites.
"Exactly." Wilfred nodded approvingly at Bryan, finding himself increasingly impressed by this child.
"I checked carefully—there isn't a single Infected corpse anywhere nearby. Though the distances vary, every one of these people was shot from behind. Multiple calibers were used—not just pistols. And crucially, all their weapons and packs are missing. I'm afraid..."
He trailed off, leaving the conclusion unspoken. Everyone's eyes were on him, waiting.
But instead of continuing, Wilfred looked at Bryan, silently inviting him to finish.
Bryan wasn't sure why the man was doing this, but after a brief hesitation, he continued: "Someone deliberately killed these survivors and took their supplies. They were fleeing when they were caught—that's why all the wounds are in their backs. There must have been quite a few killers, armed with shotguns and rifles. They probably looted those weapons from a military supply truck."
Silence fell over the group. Looking at the bodies, they could almost see the scene playing out: the terror on the victims' faces, the savage cruelty of the killers.
They'd known something like this would happen eventually. But seeing such brutality laid out before them still hit hard.
"How could they...!"
Anna and Sarah covered their mouths. Their kind hearts couldn't accept such horror.
Bryan felt his chest tighten after speaking. His fists clenched. This casual disregard for human life filled him with revulsion.
Whether it was letting others die to buy yourself time, or murdering people to steal their supplies—all of it violated every moral and legal principle.
But what did it matter? Nothing would change. As long as this damned apocalypse continued, as long as social order remained collapsed, such things would keep happening. And as time passed, as people forgot the old world, these atrocities would cease to cause even a ripple in the hearts of the new generation.
...
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