"There really are others here!"
Reading the first part of the note, Brian silently confirmed what he had suspected. But as he reached the second half, he immediately frowned, turned, and walked out of the stairwell toward the escalator where he had dealt with the Runner.
His eyes swept over the bodies on the ground, but none matched the description. He looked up and called to the upper floor:
"Elton!"
"Here!"
A moment later, a voice responded from the right side of the second floor. Soon after, Elton's head appeared over the railing, looking down at Brian.
"Captain, what is it?"
"When you're searching up there, keep an eye out for any bodies with very new clothes—someone who died recently!"
Elton's eyes widened in surprise, but he nodded obediently and acknowledged the order.
Brian tucked the note into his pocket, picked up the open backpack, and looked inside. It contained only a sketchbook, a box of colored pencils, and a few other art-related items.
He pulled out the sketchbook. On the front cover was written a name: Ed —likely the owner. Carefully, he opened the worn cover.
The first page showed a vivid, lifelike portrait of a woman.
She had long, wavy red hair, lying peacefully on the grass, eyes closed. Even in sleep, exhaustion was visible on her face. The background was a lakeside scene. In the lower right corner, written in black ink: For my beloved: Andrea, drawn July 21, 2016.
Seeing the name, Brian raised an eyebrow slightly. He flipped through the pages. Nearly every drawing was of this woman, Andrea—page after page, filled with detail. The dates spanned from 2016, with the last drawing dated just two weeks ago.
It seemed Andrea and her companion had never made it here. Whether they'd been found by the town's survivors or had already left Peachtree City for Atlanta, he couldn't say.
Quietly, Brian slipped the sketchbook back into the backpack, zipped it up, and placed it by the escalator.
Then he stepped outside the mall. Nothing had changed—only the sun was sinking lower, and a few more infected bodies lay scattered on the street.
He looked toward the tallest structure in town—the signal tower—and adjusted the radio at his neck.
"Norman, do you copy? Respond."
"…Zzz… Captain, I hear you."
"I've found some intel. There are other people in Peachtree City. See if you can spot any signs of them."
"Got it. Leave it to me."
After giving the order, Brian glanced back down the road they'd come from. The convoy was still out of sight, so he turned to re-enter the mall to help search for usable supplies.
"Huh?"
But just as he turned and started walking inside, a sudden, intense feeling of being watched struck him from the side.
Brian froze mid-step, sharply turning his head to scan the opposite end of the street.
The street was calm. The wind rustled debris across the pavement. The sensation of being watched—gone.
If he hadn't known about other survivors, he'd have dismissed it as paranoia. But now, knowing others were here, the feeling couldn't be ignored.
Brian studied the street for a few seconds, then casually turned back, pretending he'd imagined it. He stepped into the mall.
But the moment he entered, he suddenly accelerated, sprinting up the escalator toward the second floor.
He picked a store with windows facing the street. Just before reaching it, he slowed to a crawl.
Crouching, he slipped inside, quickly found the window, and leaned against the wall. He pulled out his binoculars and began scanning for possible hiding spots.
The buildings across the street were low. On the right: a few restaurants, a pharmacy, a grocery store, and a heritage bank. On the left: a cemetery, its entrance sign reading: Westminster Memorial Gardens.
Beside the cemetery stood two grand, towering churches: Holy Trinity Catholic Church and Christ Presbyterian Church.
Brian slowly panned the binoculars across the area. Aside from the occasional infected shuffling about, he saw no sign of human life.
"Was it just my imagination?"
Finding nothing, Brian slowly lowered the binoculars, muttering to himself. He began to turn away.
But just as he stood up, he caught a sudden, bright flash of light from a tall building inside the cemetery—fleeting, but unmistakable.
Brian froze. He quickly raised the binoculars again. There—near a window—was a human figure. Judging by the small frame, it might be a woman… or a child.
But the moment he spotted it, the figure seemed to sense something. The half-visible body instantly pulled back, and the window went still.
Brian stared at the building for a long time, his brow furrowing. Whoever was in there was extremely alert. He was certain they hadn't seen him —but something had made them retreat.
He tucked the binoculars back into his pack, rubbed his stubbled chin.
Based on what he knew, there were two groups in Peachtree City.
The first: the local residents. They seemed hostile toward outsiders. He wouldn't jump to conclusions based on a single note, but he'd remain cautious.
The second group: outsiders who had entered the town, possibly heading toward the Atlanta Quarantine Zone—his current home. He didn't know if they were still here. This was just an uncertain possibility.
In this post-apocalyptic world, Brian never hesitated to assume the worst of people or groups. The world now ran on jungle law—survival of the fittest.
There were those who helped unconditionally, who trusted blindly. He believed such people existed—he'd seen them with his own eyes. But they rarely survived long. And when they died, it was quick and brutal.
"Assuming that person was a local resident… and this group is hostile toward outsiders… and they already know our location…"
"Captain!"
Elton's voice crackled through the radio.
"Come up to the fourth floor! I found three bodies in a nail salon. Two of them died recently… Ugh… damn, it's so disgusting! You need to see this!"
"Got it. I'm on my way."
Hearing Elton's strained voice, Brian acknowledged, gave one last glance out the window, and turned to leave the store.
Fourth Floor – Mall
As Brian stepped onto the fourth floor, a foul stench hit him like a wall. He waved a hand to clear the air, scanning the area. Elton stood at the entrance of a nail salon, covering his mouth and nose, frantically waving him over.
"What's wrong? Why do you look so pale?"
Brian hurried over. Elton's face was deathly pale, gently patting his chest—clearly disturbed.
"Fine," Elton said, waving a hand. "Just… go see for yourself. The others should be here soon. I'll go meet them."
With that, Elton seemed to remember something, shuddered violently, and rushed toward the elevator—clearly desperate to leave.
Brian said nothing. He looked at the messy nail salon, its floor covered in chaotic footprints—proof that infected had been here recently.
Inside was a back room. The door had been ripped off—obviously Elton's doing.
The room was dark. Brian stepped forward slowly. The stench grew stronger—blood, decay, a mix that would make most vomit.
"Cough… cough…"
He covered his mouth, pulled out his flashlight, and shone it inside. Near the entrance, debris had been piled up—clearly used to barricade the door.
Further in, two male bodies lay in front of the doorway. Their clothes, though soaked in blood, were clearly new.
But when Brian saw the blood on their faces and hands, his heart lurched. He swept the flashlight to the right, deeper into the room.
And what he saw stopped him cold.
He stood frozen in the doorway, stunned, unable to move or think.
His breath caught.
His blood ran cold.
Because at the far end of the room, hanging from the ceiling by thick ropes, were rows of human figures—dismembered, gutted, and strung up like butchered livestock.
The walls were painted red.
This wasn't just a hiding place.
It was a slaughterhouse.