"You—!"
Bryan met Wilfred's eyes, hearing the shock in his voice. He gave him a reassuring look, then patted his arm, gesturing for him to use it quickly.
Wilfred pressed his lips together. Now wasn't the time for questions—too many people around. He took a deep breath, pocketed the empty vial, and gripped the syringe.
He tugged his left glove down slightly. The movement pulled at the wound beneath, and fresh sweat broke out on his forehead. The injury on his wrist was exposed—angry red tendrils spreading outward from torn, rotting flesh.
He stared at the wound, watching it spread and fester. Then he relaxed his arm just enough to raise the syringe inconspicuously and plunge it into his wrist, injecting every drop.
"Whew..."
As the pain began to fade, Wilfred exhaled deeply. The relief was immediate—his whole body felt lighter. He pocketed the syringe and shot Bryan a grateful look.
Seeing Wilfred's color improve, Bryan relaxed slightly. He quickened his pace and moved toward the front of the column.
He found Tracy at the head of the group. "Quick question—are the other groups taking the same route, or different ones?"
Tracy glanced at him, puzzled. "Why do you ask?"
"Just... curious."
She gave him a look that said you expect me to believe that? But if he didn't want to explain, she wouldn't push. It wasn't classified information anyway.
"Different routes, obviously. If we make noise and attract Infected, we don't want the groups behind us walking into a trap."
Bryan nodded almost imperceptibly, somewhat relieved. He thanked her and fell back into the group.
Tracy watched him go, eyes narrowing. She'd learned not to underestimate his mind—he was no ordinary child. Whatever he was really asking about, she'd have to think on it.
But she couldn't puzzle it out with so little to go on. Sighing, she returned her attention to their surroundings. Getting everyone to the QZ safely was her priority. She'd have plenty of time to figure it out.
...
After about fifteen minutes of walking, Tracy suddenly raised her right hand—the signal to halt. She dropped into a crouch.
Everyone behind her tensed and followed suit, eyes fixed on the street ahead.
A high-rise apartment building had been sheared in half, its upper floors missing. Following the angle of the break, they could see where the other half had collapsed into the street, forming a mountain of rubble that blocked their path.
And in front of that rubble stood a dense mass of Infected—countless figures with heads drooping, emitting low growls, standing motionless on the street.
If Tracy hadn't spotted them first and stopped the group, they would have walked right into detection range.
Seeing the blocked path, unease rippled through the crowd. Parents clapped hands over their children's mouths, terrified of making the slightest sound.
All eyes turned to Tracy, hoping she had an alternate route.
A soldier moved to her side. "Captain, what now? Do we detour?"
"No." Tracy shook her head firmly. "If we want to reach the safe zone, we have to stick to the planned route. We don't know where Infected might be on other paths. We have to get through this barrier."
The soldier hesitated, then asked, "So where do we go?"
Tracy studied the Infected and the rubble, searching for options. There were none—too many Infected, no way through at street level.
She turned her attention to the buildings on either side, scanning quickly. Her eyes lit up when she spotted a particular office tower.
Ten floors up, an external construction walkway had been built between two sections of the building—a maintenance passage that extended inward and connected to a unit on the other side of the rubble.
Without hesitation, she pointed at the tower. "That building. We go through there—cross over the rubble from above."
With a clear objective, the group moved again, this time with agonizing slowness now that they'd seen what lay ahead.
The caution paid off. They reached the office building entrance without incident.
Through the glass doors, the lobby appeared empty. Tracy signaled, raised her rifle, and pushed through the revolving door with several soldiers. They swept the area, confirmed it was clear, then waved the others in.
Floor by floor, they repeated the process—securing nearby areas, barricading closed doors, silently eliminating lone Infected with knives from behind.
By the time they reached the tenth floor, nearly an hour had passed. No one complained about the delays. Their lives depended on this caution.
Tracy opened the door to the external walkway. The outer wall's glass had been shattered, leaving a gaping hole. Cold wind howled through, scattering debris across the room.
She approached the breach and saw that the walkway's railing had been smashed where it faced the opening. She stepped onto the metal grating, and the whole passage swayed in the wind. She grabbed the railing immediately.
Below, she could see the dense mass of Infected. But on the other side of the rubble, there were only scattered stragglers—the debris had blocked most of them on this side.
Confirming the far side was relatively safe, she turned to the group, her voice trembling slightly: "W-wait here. I'll scout ahead first."
She faced forward, swallowed hard, gripped both railings, and began inching across.
Inside the room, several soldiers noticed her white-knuckled grip and had to look away to keep from laughing.
After a few steps without incident, Tracy picked up her pace. Her acrophobia was mild, and she had railings to hold. As long as she didn't look down, she could manage.
Soon she reached the other side—a conference room, empty, glass intact. She'd need to break through.
She glanced down at the Infected below, took a deep breath, raised her rifle, and drove the stock into the corner of the glass.
CRASH!
Tempered glass shattered into countless pieces, raining down ten stories onto the Infected below.
...
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