"Be careful. Don't rush."
"Handle with care!"
"…."
Inside the shopping mall.
Elton stood on the third floor, directing ten male civilians as they entered the supermarket one by one, carefully carrying supplies down to the first-floor hall. He repeatedly emphasized caution—no rushing, no dropping anything. Most of the goods were glass-jarred canned food, fragile and valuable.
The ten men understood the importance of their cargo. Every movement was deliberate and cautious. They watched their footing closely, terrified of slipping and shattering their load.
On the ground floor, several women packed the supplies into cardboard boxes, sealed them with tape, and labeled each with a black marker. Once labeled, the boxes were neatly stacked in a growing pile.
Two rookie soldiers stood nearby, closely supervising the civilians, watching for any sign that someone might try to sneak supplies into their pockets.
Wade stood in front of a store mirror, his combat uniform removed. He wiped at the dried red blood on his arms and torso with a damp cloth.
At the center of the hall, Mike had gathered firewood from outside and lit a small campfire. The crackling flames cast flickering light across the increasingly dark mall.
Above the fire, a large pot bubbled with boiling water, steam rising in slow curls. Inside, rabbit meat—hunted by Norman on his way back—simmered for their dinner.
Mike sat beside the pot, a freshly killed rabbit in hand, carefully skinning it with practiced ease.
Cindy, the woman they had rescued, had found a chair and sat nearby, her eyes constantly scanning everyone around her, as if memorizing every detail.
Near the main entrance, a table had been set up. Brian and Norman stood beside it, a large map of Peachtree City spread across its surface, marked with colored lines—red, green, and yellow.
Both men leaned over the table, studying the map in low voices, ensuring no one else could overhear.
Norman pointed to a section in the southern part of the map, outlined in red.
"I've been observing all day. The southern area—especially near Peachtree Lake—is heavily infested with infected. I strongly advise avoiding that zone. There are too many infected. We don't have the manpower to handle it."
He moved his finger to the northern region, marked in green.
"The rest of the city has fewer infected, especially in the north. But given the presence of other survivor groups, I suspect they've already cleared this area. Anything useful was likely scavenged long ago."
Finally, he pointed to the southwestern section, outlined in yellow.
"As for the survivor group you mentioned—finding them was easy. Their base is near Mcintosh Lake, at a large golf course. They've fenced it off, built shelters, grow crops, and fish in the lake. I can't tell their exact number, but from what I saw, it's not many—probably under a hundred."
Brian listened in silence, not interrupting once. Only when Norman finished did he speak.
"Did you spot any signs of other survivor groups?"
"Other survivor groups?"
Norman looked up, confused at first. Then realization dawned. He slowly shook his head.
"I saw a few figures moving around the town, but they appear and vanish quickly. I can't confirm if there are others."
"…Yeah. I see."
Brian wasn't surprised. If the other survivor group was still here, they'd be hiding deep—avoiding detection at all costs.
He paused, about to speak again, when a rich, savory aroma drifted from the fire. The smell of cooking meat filled the air—intoxicating, mouthwatering.
Brian checked his watch. Almost eight o'clock. He glanced at the exhausted quarantine zone civilians still hauling supplies. He gave Norman a light slap on the shoulder.
"Break time."
Then he walked to the center of the hall and clapped his hands, drawing everyone's attention.
"You're all done. Go rest. Dinner's ready."
At his words, the fatigue on their faces melted away. Smiles broke out. They finished their tasks and sat down, eager.
Their eyes locked onto the steaming pot. In the quarantine zone, they only received cold, pre-packaged rations. A hot bowl of meat soup was a rare luxury.
—Gluuug…
One by one, they swallowed hard. Their stomachs growled loudly.
Brian sat in a corner, watching them with a faint smile. He pointed at them and said to Elton:
"Give each of them a fruit can and some extra food. Let them eat their fill."
"But… is that okay?" Elton hesitated, glancing at Brian, then at the supplies.
"Just do it. No more questions," Brian snapped, giving him a sharp look. "Why hoard it? Whatever's left will just get wasted by the higher-ups. Better that the ones who worked hard get a full stomach. They'll need the energy tomorrow."
"Fine. You're the boss."
Seeing Brian's firm stance, Elton shrugged. He didn't care, as long as it didn't affect him.
When the civilians received their food, they looked at Brian in disbelief, then with deep gratitude. They knew that without the captain's order, no soldier would dare distribute supplies.
They ate with joy. A bowl of hot soup—such a simple pleasure, yet it felt like heaven.
The two rookie soldiers watched silently. They exchanged a glance, eyes gleaming with understanding. They didn't stop it. Instead, they nodded, whispering to each other.
Brian saw it all. He knew exactly what they were thinking: Report him when we return. Get a reward. Boost our careers.
A cold smirk tugged at his lips. He didn't care. But will they even make it back to report? That wasn't certain. And what they'd do next… wasn't something outsiders should know.
He glanced at Cindy, sitting a few meters away. Her eyes darted around, calculating. Another problem.
He sighed quietly. No real frustration. It was only the first day. He'd handle it. Maybe the mission would end sooner than expected.
1:00 a.m.
The sky was pitch black. On the mall's ground floor, over a dozen makeshift sleeping mats covered the floor. Soft snores and breathing filled the air.
The campfire burned low. Mike sat beside it, head drooping, eyes closed. He was supposed to be on watch—but had fallen asleep.
On one of the mats, Cindy lay with her eyes open. She kept turning her head, watching Mike.
She had been awake for half an hour, confirming the soldier was truly asleep. She couldn't believe military discipline was this poor. Was this a trap? she wondered.
But she watched and waited. Nothing. No signs of deception.
Her heart quickened. He's just a kid in his early twenties. Seems naive. Not faking it. If I don't act now, I may never get another chance.
She looked at the four sleeping soldiers. Their chests rose and fell steadily. They seemed deeply asleep. The civilians slept too. Norman had gone upstairs earlier, saying he didn't like sleeping in a crowd.
Cindy hesitated no longer.
She slowly slid out of her mat, stood barefoot, and tiptoed toward a nearby store. It had a window leading outside—the reason she'd chosen this spot to sleep.
Before entering, she glanced back at the soldiers. Confirmed they were asleep. A flicker of disdain crossed her face. Then she slipped inside.
Three minutes later, she emerged just as quietly. In her hand, something glinted faintly. She scanned the area, returned to her mat, and within minutes, pretended to fall asleep.
But what she didn't know was that, the moment she lay down, Brian and three other soldiers—seemingly deep in sleep—slowly opened their eyes.