—Grrraaah!
A guttural, excited roar echoed through the entire shopping mall. Dozens of Runners, swinging their arms wildly, broke into a full sprint, racing down the escalators floor by floor.
When the space became too crowded, some Runners were shoved off and tumbled down the steps. But they quickly scrambled back up and kept running, following the sound of movement below.
Brian, snapping out of his tense focus, heard the commotion from outside. He stepped out of the baseball store with long, steady strides, pulled his assault rifle from the side of his backpack, racked the bolt, and aimed at the Runners descending the escalator. Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger.
—Rat-tat-tat-tat!
Bullets erupted from the barrel, easily shattering the glass panel on the side of the escalator and striking the legs of the last few Runners in the pack. A spray of blood burst into the air.
The bullets shattered bones. The infected whose legs were hit instantly lost their balance, tumbling forward and knocking over the Runners ahead of them. Like a snowball rolling downhill, one after another, the bodies tumbled down the escalator in a chaotic heap.
Seeing this, Brian sprinted forward, reaching the base of the escalator just before the last of them hit the ground. He began systematically putting down each Runner that landed, firing precise shots into their heads with his sidearm.
Because there were so many, he had to frequently swap out magazines. Whenever a Runner tried to rise, Brian kicked it back down—sometimes crushing its skull under his boot if it was too injured to move.
Once all the fallen Runners were eliminated, Brian looked up the escalator. Only a few remained, still descending from the upper floors.
He quickly estimated the distance—probably about thirty seconds before they reached the bottom.
Leaning slightly against the escalator railing, Brian reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, silver-white box. He twisted the lid open, tilted it toward his mouth, and carefully poured a small amount inside. He needed something to steady his nerves.
A sharp, bitter liquid flooded his mouth. He didn't drink much—just a small sip—then quickly screwed the lid back on. He swirled the taste around his tongue, clearly savoring the aftertaste. Yeah… only white liquor hits quite like this.
"Captain…"
Just as Brian was enjoying the moment, the main entrance of the mall suddenly burst open. A fully armed soldier rushed in, his face etched with urgency. It was Elton, who had been scouting the perimeter.
Earlier, Elton had received a message from Norman: he'd reached the vantage point and was assessing the situation in Peachtree City. Knowing Brian always kept his radio volume low, Elton hadn't thought twice and used his own radio to contact him.
But after a few seconds of silence, instead of a response from Brian, he heard gunfire from inside the mall.
Elton instantly knew Brian was in trouble. Remembering that everything had been quiet until he made the call, he realized—he might have just caused the problem.
Realizing this, he turned around and immediately ran to support Brian. But he'd already scouted the far side of the mall, so it took him precious time to get back.
Along the way, the noise had drawn the attention of nearby infected, which Elton had to deal with on his way in.
When he finally burst into the mall, he saw a gruesome pile of infected bodies scattered at the base of the escalator. And there—Brian, the man he'd been so worried about—was casually leaning against the railing, looking completely relaxed, even satisfied.
Elton froze in place, his jaw tightening. The words he'd been about to say got stuck in his throat. It was too awkward, too absurd.
"Hold on…"
Seeing Elton enter, Brian waved him off, signaling him to stay back for a moment. He quickly slipped the silver-white box back into his jacket.
He raised his assault rifle, used the butt to smash the next Runner rushing down the escalator, then stomped hard on its head, eliminating the first one to reach the bottom. Only then did he continue.
"There are still a few Runners up there. I'll deal with them first."
With that, he slung the rifle across his back, drew his knife, and sprinted up the escalator. In just a few steps, he reached the second floor. As the first Runner lunged at him, he slashed its throat, then shoved the body forward—blocking the next one behind it.
In one fluid motion, he spun, grabbed another Runner attacking from the side by the throat, and twisted its neck with both hands. A sharp crack echoed as the spine snapped.
Then, with perfect timing, he sidestepped. The Runner blocked by the corpse lunged forward, missed its target, and tumbled headfirst down the escalator.
Brian casually tossed the dead Runner's body aside, glanced down the escalator, and shouted:
"Elton! Finish off anyone who falls. And tell the others—we're here. Bring them in!"
As he spoke, he casually slashed another Runner charging at him and kicked its body aside.
After a gunshot from below signaled that Elton was handling the fallen, Brian waited a moment at the top of the escalator. Once he confirmed no more Runners were coming, he calmly descended back to the ground floor.
"How long until they get here?"
Back in the main hall, Brian looked at Elton, who was still holding the radio, and quietly asked for an update.
"I just contacted Mike. They're moving slowly along the highway, gathering supplies from the locations you marked. I've given them our position. They should be here in about thirty minutes."
Brian nodded, checked his watch. The hour hand was slowly moving toward four o'clock.
"Go upstairs. Check all the stores. Make a list of anything useful. When they arrive, we'll load up immediately."
"Yes, sir!"
Without hesitation, Elton snapped to attention, shouted his acknowledgment, and dashed toward the escalators.
Brian didn't waste time either. He turned and walked back to the first Runner's body he'd killed.
Kneeling beside the corpse, he examined its surprisingly clean clothes. Then he glanced at the other Runners lying near the escalator—tattered, filthy, decayed. His suspicion was confirmed: this body had only turned a few days ago.
He flipped the body over. The face was bruised and swollen—clearly from a beating. The left leg had several small-caliber gunshot wounds. That explained the limp.
He searched the body thoroughly. Aside from a few loose coins, he found nothing else of value.
"Damn…"
Brian slowly stood, hands on his hips, staring at the corpse. He let out a soft sigh, a flicker of disappointment on his face. But then, as if remembering something, he turned his head toward a dark corner in the back. That's where this Runner had emerged.
He pulled out his high-powered flashlight and began walking toward the corner. Halfway there, he noticed a long, smeared blood trail on the floor. In the chaos with the Clicker, he hadn't seen it.
This discovery raised his guard. But as he approached, he realized it led to a stairwell.
To the left were two elevators. To the right, a staircase descending—likely to an underground parking garage.
At the very back was a heavy metal door, chained shut with a thick padlock. Across the door, written in blood, were the words: "THEY'RE INSIDE!"
The message was chilling—clearly meant to scare anyone away. Anyone seeing it would hesitate to go near. Though judging by the faded, cracked paint, it had been there for years.
Brian swept the beam of his flashlight around the stairwell. Following the blood trail, he spotted a patch of dried blood in one corner. Beside it lay an open backpack and a crumpled piece of paper.
Now he understood where the Runner had come from.
He scanned the area again with the flashlight, confirming no immediate threat. Then, cautiously, he stepped inside.
As he passed through the narrow corridor, he instinctively reached back and closed the door behind him—just in case an infected came lunging out from the shadows.
He bent down, picked up the open backpack and the crumpled note. Carefully, he smoothed out the paper. The handwriting was messy, written in blue ink, but he could still make it out:
"Andrea, if you're reading this, get out of here—take everyone and run. There are others in this town. They're not friendly to outsiders. Damn it… I've been shot in the leg. Barren's dead. I barely made it into this mall.
They came in to kill me, but those idiots woke up the infected. Now they're trapped upstairs. I don't think I'll last until you get here. Listen—get out. Take everyone to the Atlanta Quarantine Zone… Promise me… you'll survive…"