Three vehicles began descending the winding US-441 South.
This road had once been a famous scenic route for viewing the autumn colors of the Great Smoky Mountains. Now it felt eerie and unsettling.
Abandoned vehicles were scattered along the roadside. Some had crashed into each other, their doors hanging open. The interiors were empty except for dried bloodstains.
Wild grass had grown thick along the road, nearly swallowing the rusted shells.
Leah sat in the passenger seat, checking her M4 carbine while also monitoring the convoy's radio and walkie-talkie signals.
"Radio check, channel one," Leah said.
"Pickup here. Loud and clear," Wells replied. Jenson was driving the Ford F-150 with the welded ram bar, while Wells sat in the passenger seat.
"Humvee One here. Road ahead is clear for now," Bossie responded.
Their plan was to follow Highway 441 south, bypass the outskirts of the Cherokee tourist area—which was likely already a walker nest—then turn southwest at a suitable point and link up with US-23. That road would take them into Georgia and straight toward Atlanta.
The first few hours of the trip were relatively calm.
The forest had swallowed most traces of human civilization along the roadside.
Occasionally, a walker could be seen wandering aimlessly among the trees. When it heard the engine noise, it would slowly turn and stretch a rotting arm toward the sound.
But the convoy moved quickly. Soon the walkers were left far behind, shrinking into tiny specks in the rearview mirror.
"Looks like the mountain folks still haven't learned how to hitch a ride," Bossie muttered.
Before he could finish, Mike suddenly slammed on the brakes.
"Shit," he cursed under his breath.
The two vehicles behind them stopped as well.
Ahead was a sharp turn. Beyond the bend, the scene changed completely.
A long line of vehicles lay immobilized across the highway like a dead metallic serpent.
Cars, trucks, and SUVs of every kind were crammed together in twisted piles. Some were smashed beyond recognition, their windows shattered and doors covered in dark brown handprints.
"Well, looks like the party's started," Bossie said as he and Turner instantly dropped their relaxed expressions and raised their rifles.
"You two take the left hillside. Scout the high ground," Leah ordered as she opened the door and moved around to the right side.
"Wells and I take the right. Stay quiet. Don't fire unless necessary."
The team moved quickly and silently.
Calista stayed in the vehicles with the three drivers, weapons ready as they kept watch.
A few minutes later, Turner's lowered voice came through the radio.
"Left side in sight. About a dozen. Scattered around. They look pretty 'quiet.'"
"Same on the right," Wells reported. "Road's completely blocked, but there's a dirt path on the left. Might be a ranger trail or something locals made. Looks like we can get around."
"Copy. Pull back slowly. We'll try that road."
The four scouts withdrew quietly.
The convoy carefully reversed until they found the entrance to the dirt track, almost hidden by bushes.
The road surface was rough and uneven. Branches scraped against the armored vehicle bodies with an unpleasant screech.
But it was their only option.
They bumped along the dirt road for nearly an hour.
More than two months into the apocalypse, all network signals had long disappeared. GPS was useless. They relied entirely on paper maps and a compass to judge their direction.
Finally, the dirt path merged with a slightly wider county road.
"Looks like TN-71," Calista said while comparing the map. "It should connect to US-23."
The three vehicles drove onto the quiet county road.
Open fields stretched along both sides, dotted with scattered farmhouses.
Many of the houses had clearly been looted. Barn doors hung open like gaping mouths.
Around noon, they stopped briefly beside a small creek to rest. They took turns eating, standing watch, and checking the vehicles.
Carver leaned against the Humvee's tire, squinting at the surroundings while humming badly off-key and chatting lazily with the others.
"So when does this luxury trip end?" he asked hoarsely.
"When we find the person we're looking for," Leah replied coolly, tossing him a compressed biscuit.
"For a doctor?" Carver caught it. "Is it really worth the risk?"
Like the others, he felt the trip might not be necessary. But they had all been mercenaries before, used to following orders without too many questions.
"For me and Calista, it's worth it," Leah said, turning away to study the map again.
Carver paused as he started opening the biscuit.
"Is Calista sick?"
Leah immediately snatched the biscuit back.
"Shut up. You're the one who's sick. Don't eat my food—go get your own."
By afternoon, they finally connected to US-23 South.
This highway was wider, which also meant more abandoned vehicles and more potential danger.
Several times the convoy had to stop while the pickup carefully pushed wrecked cars out of the way. The roar of the engine attracted wandering walkers in the distance more than once, but nothing serious happened.
Still, the delays cost them time.
The sun began sinking toward the horizon, painting the sky orange and red.
There was still no sign of Atlanta.
It looked like they would have to find a safe place to spend the night before dark.
"About a mile ahead there's a small town on the map called Ocoee," Calista said, pointing at the map. "There's an old gas station on the outskirts. It looks isolated. Might be worth checking."
"Copy. Stay alert."
The convoy slowed as they approached the lonely gas station beside the highway.
It looked old. Several letters on the sign were missing, leaving only "C…E'S."
Next to the station stood a convenience store. Most of its windows were broken, and the door hung half open.
The three vehicles spread out into a defensive formation.
Wells and Jenson stayed by the vehicles to watch the road.
The others cautiously approached the convenience store.
Inside, the place was a complete mess. Shelves had collapsed, the goods were long gone, and the floor was covered in trash and broken glass.
No sign of walker activity.
"Looks like it's already been picked clean a few times," Mike said quietly.
"Check the storage room in the back and the shed behind the gas station," Leah ordered.
The six of them split up.
Calista followed Leah toward a small structure behind the gas station that looked like a staff break room or tool shed.
The door was closed but unlocked.
Leah pushed it open gently with the barrel of her gun. The room was dim, and a musty smell drifted out.
The space was small. Inside were only a broken table, several chairs, and a filing cabinet lying on the floor.
It appeared empty.
Just as they were about to leave, Leah suddenly heard an extremely faint sound—like someone trying to suppress their breathing.
She immediately raised her hand, signaling Calista to stay quiet.
The two sisters held their breath.
The sound came from behind the fallen filing cabinet.
Calista and Leah exchanged a glance and slowly moved to flank it from both sides.
Leah aimed her rifle forward while Calista prepared to shoot at any moment.
But behind the cabinet, there wasn't a snarling walker.
There was only a woman.
...
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