Chapter 64 — Twenty-Four Kilometers West
The decision was not dramatic. It was arithmetic.
Rice: nine days if rations were reduced to two-thirds. Dried fish: four days. Vegetables were still in the leaf-stage, and the salt was almost gone. Salt mattered. Without salt, meat could not be preserved; without preservation, fishing meant nothing. Protein would rot faster than they could consume it.
Lufias did not announce the mission. He scratched numbers into a charcoal-stained plank beside the filtration basin while Revas watched.
Twenty-four kilometers, Revas said.
West, Lufias replied.
Mainland.
Yes.
Commercial district. Supermarket.
Lufias nodded. It was a large concrete structure with likely sealed interior sections. Bulk storage. Industrial packaging. It also meant high population density, and high density meant a high infection count.
Lyra crossed her arms, her face set in a hard line. That district was crowded before the collapse.
Yes.
Which means many infected.
Yes.
There was no denial and no optimism. This was not scavenging farmland; this was entering a compression zone.
Preparation
They did not leave the same day. Two days were spent planning, with routes mapped in charcoal and memory. The primary approach would be tree-line movement parallel to the broken highway to avoid open exposure in parking lots. They would enter via the loading dock—fewer windows meant less glass noise.
The team size was set at four: Lufias, Revas, Mira, and Arlen. Too many meant a loud sound signature; too few meant no redundancy. Each carried a rifle with limited ammunition, a sidearm for emergencies, and a blade or axe. They packed two days of rations and measured amounts of filtered water.
The priority list was strict: salt, canned protein, dry grains, medical supplies, and batteries.
Departure
They left before sunrise. There were no speeches. Nera caught Lufias's sleeve briefly in the dim light.
Come back.
Yes.
He did not say I promise. Promises had died months ago; only intent remained.
The first ten kilometers were a slog through forest and broken farmland. The air was damp, and the soil soft under their boots. They encountered two walkers before noon—old, partially decomposed things. One collapsed when Mira struck the knee joint before finishing the skull. The second required a suppressed shot when its head angle became awkward behind a fence. They did not chase drifting shapes in the distance. Energy was conserved; every unnecessary kill was a loss of calories.
At kilometer twelve, Arlen began sweating heavily. It was not fear, but the heat. Lufias noticed the slight stagger.
Water check, he said quietly.
Arlen hesitated. He had rationed too aggressively, trying to prove his worth after Tomas. Dehydration and stress weakened the immune response. Lufias handed him a measured sip from the reserve.
No heroics, he said.
Arlen nodded. There was no argument.
Kilometer Fifteen — Urban Edge
The smell changed first. It was metallic and stale—the scent of urban decay, which carries differently than the rot of the forest. Buildings began to emerge between the trees. Warehouses, delivery trucks frozen mid-turn, and cars scattered like bleached bones.
It was too quiet. That kind of quiet compresses the chest.
Revas crouched behind an overturned delivery truck. There, he murmured.
The parking lot opened wide before them, a sea of sun-bleached asphalt. Six walkers were visible near the entrance. One dragged a leg; another stood perfectly still; a third crouched over something long since dried. Their former uniforms were still visible. If they were former staff, they knew this building. Memory persists in muscle even after cognition fails, and that made them dangerous inside.
They did not step onto the open asphalt. Instead, they circled the outer lot, handling two isolated walkers near the loading alley silently. Mira used a piece of scrap metal to create a distraction at the far end of the lot. The clatter echoed sharply against the concrete, and four of the walkers shifted toward the sound. Two remained at the entrance.
Lufias stepped into partial view. One saw him and lunged immediately, its preserved muscle making it fast. He stepped sideways instead of back, letting its momentum carry it past before driving his axe through the base of its skull. Revas fired once, taking down the second.
They did not pursue the others. Objective first.
Entry
The loading dock door hung half-open, the metal bent outward. The interior air hit them like a wall—mold, old refrigeration chemicals, and rot. They entered in a staggered formation.
The warehouse shelves had been mostly stripped by panic looters who had taken everything at eye-level. But the upper racks remained. People rarely look up in a crisis. Lufias scanned the heights and found what they needed: industrial salt sacks, fifty kilograms each, unopened.
Priority confirmed.
They worked fast and maintained controlled breathing. The cart was assembled silently, and they loaded the salt first, followed by canned fish, beans, and intact bags of rice from a corner storage area. The medical aisle was stripped, but an upper locked cabinet yielded antibiotic cream, gauze, and alcohol wipes. It was worth the weight.
Then, a sound emerged from deep inside—a metal shriek. It was not the wind or the building settling. It was a repeated impact.
Revas signaled a freeze. Lufias moved alone toward the refrigeration corridor. The cold storage door was bulging outward slightly. Five walkers were trapped inside, repeatedly slamming against the metal. One wore a security vest and had a large, powerful build. If the door gave way, it would be close-quarters chaos.
Lufias assessed the fracture in the hinge. The door could give. He did not engage; instead, he tied the handle to an overhead pipe bracket using a double knot and heavy rope. The walkers pushed, and the door trembled, but it held. It was a temporary solution, but the mission did not include hero clearance. He left them to the slow erosion of time.
Extraction
On their way out, the four walkers from the parking lot had drifted toward the loading side. Engagement was unavoidable. Revas dropped the first with a measured headshot. Arlen handled the second with a machete, though it took two blows.
The third was heavy, wearing the remnants of a construction vest. It absorbed a torso shot from Revas and kept moving, too close for a reset. It slammed into Lufias, the impact driving the air from his lungs as they hit the concrete. His rifle skidded away.
The walker's jaw snapped inches from his face, its hot, damp breath filling his senses. Lufias jammed his forearm under its chin to block the bite. The pressure was immense, born of intact muscle and singular intent. He shifted his weight, drove a knee into its hip joint to destabilize it, and rolled. He pinned its arm and drew the short-gripped axe from his belt, thrusting it upward through the base of the skull.
The bone gave with a wet crack. The body collapsed over him, heavy and still. Lufias lay there for a second, his breath ragged, feeling exactly how close he had come to the end.
The fourth walker drifted back, not out of fear, but simply redirected. They did not chase it. The mission was complete; the energy threshold had been reached.
The Return
The cart was heavy now, the weight of the salt significant. The return path was slower, with the team rotating the pull. Sweat burned their eyes and hands blistered through their makeshift gloves. At kilometer eighteen, Arlen stumbled from exhaustion. They rested for five minutes—no more. The urban air felt oppressive, filled with an unseen density.
By sunset, they reached the concealed boat. The crossing was silent, the island silhouette visible against the fading light. Smoke was rising—ordered, human smoke. Lufias exhaled, not in relief, but in a reset of his calculations. They had extended their supply window by weeks.
The salt was unloaded, and Lyra touched a sack as if to confirm it was real. Aeris inhaled the sterile scent of the medical box, and Kaelyn ran her fingers across a rice bag.
We can stretch this, she said softly.
Yes, Lufias replied. Carefully.
That night, rations were increased slightly. It was not a feast, just a recalibration. And for the first time in days, no one counted grains before they slept.
Lufias stood at the treeline again, not out of paranoia, but habit. They had stepped outward, reduced the cluster near one supply node, and expanded their radius of control. It was small and measured, but it was an expansion nonetheless.
Ahead, the mainland remained full of shadows, and twenty-four kilometers was no longer just a distance. It was a beginning.