The road ahead was no longer a road; it was a path.
It was a scar carved into the earth—blackened by fire, smeared with blood, littered with broken limbs, crushed skulls, and the remains of things that had once been human.
The convoy had stopped again.
For the fourth time.
Engines idled low, rumbling like restrained beasts, while the survivors scattered in small groups, collapsing wherever they could find shade or cover.
Some leaned against armored vehicles.
Others sat directly on the ground, too tired to care about the filth soaking into their clothes.
The smell was unbearable.
Rot. Blood. Burned flesh. And beneath it all, the faint metallic tang that never seemed to fade anymore.
"Do you know why the boss's face is so dark today?"
The question was whispered, cautious, as if speaking too loudly might summon something worse than the zombies.
"I don't know," came the reply. "He's been like that since this morning. Since before we even left the villa."
