Without further discussion, the group moved on once they'd collected themselves. They approached the dozen abandoned buses, but found them completely stripped—anything useful was long gone.
With nothing to find, they continued toward the highway on-ramp.
But even on that short stretch of road, they discovered several more snow-covered mounds. A quick brush with their feet confirmed what lay beneath: more corpses, shot in the back, stripped of belongings. Same as the others below.
That alone might not have seemed too strange. But when they reached the highway itself, the sight before them left everyone frozen in shock.
Piled near the highway entrance were massive mounds of snow—small mountains of bodies. Some had died so recently that only a thin layer of snow covered them. And when Bryan looked down the highway, he saw fresh tire tracks, clearly visible, leading east. Whoever made them had left not long ago.
Wilfred rushed forward and began digging through the nearest mound. Just as expected: human corpses, all killed by gunfire.
Now even the slowest among them understood. Someone had been camped at this on-ramp, ambushing anyone who tried to access the highway. They had vehicles—either stolen during the chaos or taken from their victims. They'd been here recently, but had apparently left, probably drawn by the signal flare in the distance.
Someone was hunting survivors. And they'd been here just moments ago.
Cold sweat broke out on every forehead. Everyone stood rooted to the spot.
If the flare hadn't been fired... if the bank had been closer to this location... they might have walked right into the trap. Caught off guard, they could all have ended up as frozen corpses on the ground.
"This is bad."
Bryan bit his finger, crouching to examine the tire tracks that stretched into the distance. His mind raced.
He'd assumed this was an isolated incident—opportunistic killers taking advantage of chaos. He hadn't expected something this organized. What kind of depraved lunatic had orchestrated this?
Everyone had seen those dozen military trucks speed away the night of the attack. The signal flare was obviously from the convoy. Yet these killers were heading straight for it—which meant their numbers had to be substantial.
But what puzzled Bryan was this: even with superior numbers, he couldn't believe a group of armed civilians would dare challenge trained, fully-equipped soldiers head-on.
Then he remembered the bodies at the on-ramp—and the bullet wounds in their backs.
Unless...
A terrible possibility clicked into place. Bryan's head snapped up. "We need to catch up to them! I think they're planning to infiltrate the rally point in disguise and ambush the military from within!"
"What?!"
The others took a moment to process this. Then their faces went pale as the implications sank in.
"How dare they!"
Tracy was the convoy's soldier. She couldn't accept that anyone would target the military, sabotaging their mission to reach the QZ.
"We have to warn them—now!"
Understanding the gravity of the situation, the group wasted no time. They began walking along the tire tracks.
Unlike the loose, difficult snow elsewhere, the ground here had been compacted by vehicle weight. Walking was nearly as easy as on a normal road, allowing them to pick up speed.
They jogged along the compressed path. But gradually, their pace slowed. Reality set in: there was no way they could outrun vehicles on foot.
"Hah... hah... Wait—the radio!" Bryan gasped for breath as a thought struck him. "Didn't you say the military would broadcast on the public frequency? We should be able to hear them now, right?"
Tracy quickly pulled out her radio and began adjusting the dial.
This time, instead of static, a clear male voice emerged:
"This is Commander Harry of the Atlanta Quarantine Zone convoy. We are currently regrouping at Sweetwater Creek State Park, east of Douglasville. If you hear this message and still wish to proceed to the Atlanta QZ, please make your way here. We will remain at this location for two days."
"Sweetwater Creek State Park? Where's that? Does anyone know?" Sylvia asked, bewildered by the unfamiliar name.
"Don't overthink it—just follow the direction of the signal flare!" Bryan cut her off with a slight frown, then turned to Tracy. "Since we can receive the public channel, can we transmit to them?"
"Let me try!"
Tracy nodded and switched to the military frequency. She brought the radio to her lips. "Hello? Can anyone hear me?"
"Kssshh—kssshh—"
After several attempts, nothing but static. Tracy's expression fell. She shook her head at the group.
Disappointment flickered across everyone's faces. But there was nothing to be done. If the radio wouldn't work, they'd just have to move faster.
Seeing their dejection, Wilfred spoke up encouragingly. "Don't lose hope. We still have time. Even if they arrive first, attacking a military force requires preparation. They won't act immediately."
It was clearly meant as comfort, but it gave everyone a sliver of hope. Tracy continued trying the radio as they walked, but no response ever came.
They followed the tire tracks for nearly an hour, legs aching, breath ragged—until finally, up ahead, they spotted a sign for Sweetwater Creek State Park and an exit ramp.
Sharp-eyed Sylvia noticed the sign from a distance. She raised her hand, pointing excitedly. "You guys—"
Before she could finish, Wilfred clamped a hand over her mouth. "There are people ahead," he whispered. "Keep quiet!"
Everyone immediately crouched low. Under Wilfred's guidance, they slowly moved toward the treeline beside the road, eyes searching ahead for the people he'd mentioned.
As they crept closer, they spotted several military trucks parked at the on-ramp. Seven or eight people in military uniforms patrolled around the vehicles, weapons in hand.
When they'd closed the distance enough, the group stopped. They couldn't risk getting closer—the bare trees and white snow offered no real cover. Any nearer and they'd be spotted instantly.
Sarah edged over to Bryan and studied the figures by the trucks. "Are they... the bad guys?" she asked uncertainly.
"I don't know. We can't be sure yet."
Bryan scrutinized the uniformed figures, unable to make a definitive judgment. He turned to Tracy—she was the only real soldier among them.
"They're not ours."
Tracy's eyes were locked on the group ahead. Her grip on her rifle tightened until her knuckles went white. Remembering the mass of corpses they'd passed, her gaze blazed with barely contained fury.
"Easy! Don't do anything rash!"
Wilfred was getting a real education in hot tempers today. The situation was still unclear, and she was already ready to charge in.
"What we need to do is get inside and warn the military—not confront these people here and tip them off!"
Tracy took a deep breath, forcing down her rage. She nodded. "Fine. I'll listen to you. What's the plan?"
Wilfred thought for a moment, then pointed deeper into the woods. "There's still some distance to the park from here. If we all go together, it'll take too long. You should go alone—you'll be faster, and as an actual soldier, you can contact the commander directly."
Tracy hesitated at this suggestion. She looked at the group—women and children, mostly. "But... what about all of you?"
"Don't worry. We'll find somewhere to hide. Once you've contacted the commander and they've dealt with these people, just come back for us."
"Alright."
Tracy understood there was no time to waste. She studied each of them for a long moment. "I'll come back for you as soon as I can."
Then, under their watchful eyes, she crouched low and moved swiftly into the woods. With a final leap over a fallen trunk, she vanished from sight.
...
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