"Bring her out." Bryan glanced at the four terrified prisoners, then nodded to Elton.
Elton disappeared into a shadowed corner nearby and returned carrying someone over his shoulder. He dumped the figure unceremoniously on the ground.
A muffled groan. The person was clearly in pain, but something was stuffed in their mouth, reducing their cry to a strangled whimper.
The four prisoners looked over and saw a woman — hands bound, mouth gagged, drenched in blood from head to toe, beaten within an inch of her life.
It was Cindy.
Bryan's icy expression thawed into a warm smile as he addressed the four. "She's already told me quite a lot. But I don't trust information from a single source, so I'd appreciate it if you could help me verify a few things."
He leaned in again, repeating his earlier question. "Where's your camp? How many people? Current situation?"
Under his gaze, all four trembled. The woman with the black-framed glasses was the first to crack, and once she started, everything came pouring out.
They weren't originally from Peachtree City — just another group of wandering survivors, no different in nature from Andrea's people.
Roughly two years ago, exhausted by life on the road, they'd settled here. Chose a location, built a camp, and survived by scavenging the city.
In the beginning, they'd harbored no ill will toward others. They'd even helped passing survivors — some moved on with thanks, others chose to stay.
But times grew harder. As their numbers swelled and resources dwindled — most of them unarmed, too afraid to venture into Infected-heavy zones — there came days when they couldn't manage a single meal. That was when certain eyes turned toward the travelers passing through.
Because those travelers always carried abundant supplies. And they always traveled in small groups.
One day, driven by starvation, they attacked a small survivor group that had once accepted their help. The ambush succeeded — the victims, never expecting betrayal from former benefactors, were killed or captured. The spoils fed the camp handsomely.
But food always runs out. After tasting the ease of taking from others, they began systematically attacking every group that passed through.
At first, lacking weapons, they used deception — friendly faces, invitations to "rest at camp." Most travelers refused, but enough accepted. Once inside, the trap snapped shut. Kill, take weapons, take supplies.
As their arsenal grew, they dropped the pretense entirely. Open ambushes. Direct raids. The stockpile swelled.
Then fate handed them a gift — seeds. Real, viable food seeds, taken from one of their victims.
They relocated to the golf course complex, with its open grounds and defensible perimeter. Under the guidance of those with farming experience, they planted and waited.
Months later, green shoots broke through the soil. They also found a boat and fishing gear at the nearby lake, adding fresh fish to their diet. The food crisis was effectively over.
By that point, raiding was no longer a necessity. Between their crops and their catch, they could have lived comfortably through the apocalypse.
But greed has no ceiling. The habit of hunting other survivors had become ingrained — a way of life they had no interest in abandoning.
Of course, some members couldn't stomach the pointless killing. After failed attempts to change things, they'd quietly slipped away one night, taking food, seeds, and the few working vehicles. The camp's current population stood at eighty-seven.
The twenty-odd fighters dispatched tonight represented nearly a third of their total strength and the vast majority of their firearms. The camp now held only a skeleton crew — a handful of guards and a population of elderly, women, and children.
Bryan listened to it all, noting how closely this account mirrored what Andrea had told him that morning.
Two survivor communities. Both had started with goodwill toward strangers. Both had watched their morals crumble under the weight of survival, arriving at nearly the same dark destination. It wasn't a coincidence, he realized. Out in the world beyond the walls, this wasn't an exception.
It was the norm.
"Now — what about this Line Creek Nature Area? Why did that man try to lure me there?"
He glanced at the dead man, then fixed the glasses-wearing woman with a look.
She shook her head frantically. "I — I don't know. I'm not a fighter. I stay at camp. I only came along tonight to do inventory after... after it was over. I really don't know."
Bryan frowned, unsatisfied, and turned his gaze to the other three.
"I know!"
The scrawny young man wiped his forehead, reading Bryan's shift in attention as a warning. Better to talk now than face the consequences of silence. He jumped in before the others could speak.
"The Line Creek Nature Area is full of dead Infected. The air is saturated with Cordyceps spores, and the fungal masses are hidden deep in the trees. If you don't know what's in there ahead of time, you walk in, breathe it in, and by the time you realize what's happened — it's too late."
"One of our scouting parties went in there once, trying to hunt game. They inhaled the spores. By the next morning, they'd all turned. After that, we made it a rule — stay away from that area."
Bryan's expression didn't change. If the dead man had been trying to bait them into a death trap, naturally there'd be a killing ground waiting. This was well within expectations.
Before he could speak, the scrawny youth — seemingly anticipating the next question — blurted out: "I know what you're about to ask. There aren't any traps around the camp perimeter. You can go straight in."
"Oh?" Bryan's eyebrows rose slightly. "How do you know that?"
"I'm in charge of the medical supplies and weapons inventory — same as her, I'm here for post-battle logistics. The others were on exterior security duty."
The young man laughed bitterly, then explained the roles of the others before continuing. "The camp used to have perimeter traps, but after they started killing every outsider on sight, fewer and fewer people came through. The walls are tall enough to keep out Infected, so they decided the traps were unnecessary. They've been abandoned for a while now."
Clap, clap.
"Excellent. Thank you all for your cooperation."
Bryan smiled warmly, clearly satisfied — then, still smiling, leveled his pistol and fired twice. The bearded man and the short-haired woman dropped. He swung the barrel toward Cindy and fired a third time.
The entire sequence took less than two seconds. By the time the surviving two processed what had happened, three fresh bodies lay on the ground.
It wasn't that Bryan wanted to kill them. He'd noticed the bearded man and the middle-aged woman keeping their heads down throughout, refusing to cooperate, still harboring thoughts of resistance. Loose ends and liabilities were best dealt with early.
As for Cindy — that was simple housekeeping. She'd been tortured to the brink of death. Treating her wounds would cost medicine, food, and manpower. A net drain. Better to clean the slate entirely.
"AHHH—!"
The scrawny youth screamed and scrambled backward. The glasses-wearing woman lost control of her bladder, a sharp ammonia smell rising from beneath her.
Bryan let out a soft laugh, holstered his pistol, and spoke gently. "Relax. I was just clearing out the uncooperative ones. I keep my word — you have nothing to worry about."
...
Get 20+ chapters ahead on - P.a.t.r.e.o.n "RoseWhisky"