The three vehicles continued down the road.
Bossie shone his flashlight while marking the map in the dim light and picked up the walkie-talkie.
"Guys, that gas station we just passed was empty too. That makes the third one so far."
He counted the gas stations still circled on the map, frowning slightly. "Three… four left.
If the next ones are empty too, the fuel we brought probably won't be enough for a round trip to Atlanta."
Leah rubbed her temples.
"Let's find somewhere to stay tonight. We'll deal with the rest tomorrow. Getting to Atlanta won't be a problem. As for the way back, we'll just look for more gas stations in the city."
They sped south along US-23 for nearly half an hour.
Only when night had almost completely fallen did they notice a narrow gravel path by the roadside, nearly swallowed by tall weeds.
Leah made the decision immediately and directed the convoy to turn in.
At the end of the path, the faint outline of a solitary farmhouse appeared. Half the barn had collapsed, and a rusted old truck sat abandoned in the yard.
"This will do."
The three vehicles cut their engines while still a short distance from the farmhouse.
Bossie jumped out and gestured to Turner in the back seat.
"Stay quiet. Cold weapons only. Check every room and make sure it's safe."
Turner nodded silently and quickly got out of the vehicle.
The front door of the farmhouse was slightly ajar.
Bossie pushed it open carefully. A thick wave of dust and mildew rushed out to meet him.
Inside was pitch-black.
He gestured, and Turner pulled a high-powered flashlight from his tactical belt and switched it on.
The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating the chaotic living room.
Furniture lay overturned everywhere. Junk and debris littered the floor. On the walls of the living room, dried black blood stains were splattered across the surface.
"There should be walkers here," Bossie whispered, drawing his knife.
Turner followed closely behind him as the two cleared the rooms one by one.
In the kitchen, broken dishes covered the floor. No walkers.
They moved deeper inside. The bedroom door was closed.
Bossie pressed his ear against it.
From inside came an extremely slow dragging sound, accompanied by a low, guttural rasp.
He gave Turner a look.
Turner nodded and kicked the door open.
The flashlight beam immediately locked onto the target.
A massive male walker in faded pajamas stood with its back to the door.
It was hunched over the bed. In front of it lay a corpse that had long since decayed into nothing but bones. The skeleton wore the same style of pajamas as the walker—possibly its wife or child.
The walker's shoulders twitched slightly, as if it were chewing.
Hearing the door burst open, it slowly turned its head. Its rotting face was coated with sickening slime, and its grayish-white eyes reflected the flashlight with a dull, vacant shine.
"Jesus," Turner spat in disgust.
Before the walker could fully turn around, Bossie lunged forward. His machete cut through the air with a sharp whistle.
Crack!
With a dull sound, the blade sank precisely into the back of the walker's skull.
It twitched once before collapsing completely, slumping over the skeletal remains.
The two checked the closet as well. No threat.
"Bedroom's clear."
Bossie pulled the blade out and wiped the blood off on the walker's clothes.
The smell of the rotting corpse was so unbearable that Turner shut the bedroom door as he stepped out.
They continued checking the rest of the house and a small basement. In a storage room they found two more walkers trapped inside—an elderly couple—and quickly put them down.
There was barely any food left in the house. It seemed the family had turned after running out of supplies.
The entire farmhouse reeked of death and decay, but at least there were no immediate threats left.
"Clear!" Turner's voice called out from inside.
Only then did the three vehicles quietly drive into the yard, parking in the shadows beside the house as much as possible.
They had found a place to spend the night.
The team moved quickly. Using broken furniture they found and the old truck, they blocked the entrance to the path and reinforced several weak points around the house, setting up a simple nighttime defense.
No one lit a fire. Everyone gnawed on cold compressed rations and washed them down with cold water.
The farmhouse smelled too foul, so most people stayed outside in the yard or under the porch while taking turns on watch.
Calista nearly choked on a compressed biscuit, her eyes rolling upward as she twisted open her bottle and gulped down a huge mouthful of water.
Ah… she missed Mrs. Howard's cooking.
For Calista, who was spoiled from always eating good food, Mrs. Howard's cooking might not have been anything extraordinary—but it was still far better than these military rations.
Leah quietly asked, "Cali, are you holding up okay?"
Leah and the others were used to this kind of life. They had endured far worse environments before. The only one they worried about was whether Calista could adapt.
Calista smiled at her.
"I'm fine, Leah. I'm not that delicate. Just think of it as camping and keeping watch."
Leah reached out and gently rubbed her hair.
"Just get a good night's sleep. You don't have to take a watch tonight."
Bossie chimed in from the side.
"Yeah, the rest of us are more than enough. Two per shift, three shifts total. Neither you nor Leah needs to stand guard."
Calista gave the men a grateful smile.
Turner muttered teasingly, "Mostly we're afraid if you're on watch, we'll all get wiped out and never even know…"
Fine. Great analysis, man.
Calista didn't make a fuss about refusing. She simply lay down beside Leah.
"Sis, we'll reach Atlanta tomorrow, right?"
Leah responded softly and whispered reassurance near her ear.
"Yeah. Don't worry. Once we find Dr. Jenner tomorrow, we'll be able to solve that little problem of yours."
Calista nodded.
Leah watched her younger sister slowly fall asleep. With so many worries weighing on her mind, she couldn't fall asleep for a long time.
The closer they got to their destination, the more she feared something might go wrong.
And earlier today at the gas station—when they had to deal with the little boy—Calista hadn't even objected to killing him.
Leah's feelings were unbearably complicated.
Look what this damned apocalypse had done to her sweet, kind sister.
...
"We definitely don't have enough fuel for the return trip."
All three vehicles were gas guzzlers.
Yesterday's detour had delayed them, and the gas stations they had passed earlier had all been drained of fuel.
The fuel they had planned simply wouldn't support the trip back.
"First siphon what we can from that truck's tank. After that, we'll try more gas stations along the way."
Leah's voice was slightly hoarse after a poor night's sleep as she pointed at the broken truck near the farmhouse entrance.
The convoy returned to US-23 South and continued heading south.
The road conditions during the day seemed even worse than yesterday. There were noticeably more abandoned vehicles and scattered walkers, and the air carried an even heavier stench of decay.
The convoy had to detour more frequently, slowing their progress.
The closer they got to the Atlanta metropolitan area, the more shocking the signs of destruction became.
Burned-out houses and abandoned military roadblocks began appearing along the roadside. Sandbags and barbed wire lay piled in disorder, yet there wasn't a single person in sight.
Above distant neighborhoods, ominous flocks of crows circled in the sky.
"Welcome to the hell zone," Turner muttered as he looked out the window.
Mike gripped the steering wheel tightly, his eyes constantly scanning the road ahead and the surroundings.
Judging by the map and the odometer, they had likely already entered the outskirts of the Atlanta metropolitan area. The city center—where the CDC was located—was probably less than an hour away.
That was… if the road conditions were ideal.