After deciding what to do next, Jason holstered the Beretta with an automatic motion, wiped the Damascus knife clean once more on Tony's shirt, and began quickly searching the bodies. The earlier noise had attracted several Walkers, and with his sharpened senses, he could hear them approaching, so he would have to move fast.
He found the keys to a Ford F-150, two extra 9mm magazines, a shotgun… and a Colt M1911.
The pistol immediately caught his eye. It had straight, well-defined lines, with an elongated and symmetrical profile. The smooth slide extended over the metallic frame, both finished in a lightly polished silver that reflected light discreetly. The grip panels, made of dark textured wood, featured a checkered pattern that suggested firmness and tradition. The ventilated trigger and the skeletonized hammer added subtle details to the overall design. Compact yet robust, its structure conveyed a blend of mechanical simplicity and balanced proportions—a classic piece, functional and elegant in its own way.
He was momentarily surprised to see such a rare weapon in the hands of that trash gang. Still, he didn't waste time: after confirming the safety was properly engaged, he tucked it behind his waist, secured against the waistband of his pants and concealed by his shirt.
In addition, he found shotgun shells compatible with the weapon. Without hesitation, he loaded it and slung it across his back. Next, he examined the backpacks more carefully, finding drinks, food, and other weapons: two pistols accompanied by five 9mm magazines, a Zippo lighter, and a combat knife.
He quickly stowed the magazines, the lighter, and the knife: the mags carefully inserted into the pouches, the knife hidden at his back, well-adjusted against his body.
Finally, his eyes fell on a chain. He picked it up as well, assessing its potential usefulness before pocketing it.
There was nothing else of value there.
Jason grabbed the backpacks with food and drinks and returned to Duke, calmly skirting the Walkers that had been drawn by the earlier noise. He moved with calculated steps, avoiding unnecessary attention.
It took only a few minutes to reach the horse, which remained exactly where he had left it—restless, but safe. Jason patted the animal's strong neck for a brief moment before untying it. Then, he firmly secured the backpacks on its back, adjusting the straps so they wouldn't sway during the journey.
He led Duke through an even narrower alley, passing behind an abandoned commercial building that formed a kind of natural protected courtyard, surrounded by high walls and enough debris to block the view from the main street.
There, he tied the reins to a rusted iron bar attached to the wall.
He stroked the horse's muzzle, keeping his voice low and firm as he murmured:
"Stay quiet. I'll be back soon."
Duke snorted softly but obeyed.
Jason returned to the black Ford F-150. The vehicle was in reasonable condition: half-full tank, good tires, engine that started on the second try. He tossed the backpack onto the passenger seat, checked the weapons, and decided to go after the group to kill them.
Luckily, he had read a geography book that detailed every place in Georgia, and he also had a detailed map of the entire region. Highway 45 was exactly where Tony had said: 15 kilometers north, following the main road for 8 km and then taking a secondary exit to the right. The abandoned motel was a known landmark—a two-story L-shaped building with a faded sign and a large parking lot.
Easy to find.
He drove carefully, keeping a moderate speed to avoid drawing unnecessary attention. The road was almost empty, with a few abandoned cars and isolated Walkers that he either ignored or ran over when necessary.
Fifteen minutes later, the motel appeared on the horizon.
Jason slowed down, turned off the engine 200 meters away, and parked behind a curve, concealing the vehicle among dry trees and a fallen billboard. He got out silently, checked the weapons, picked up a Beretta in his right hand and the knife in the other…
He approached quietly, using the trees and abandoned cars as cover.
The motel was there: two stories, peeling paint, broken windows on the ground floor, three old pickup trucks parked in front—two pickups and a van—with thin smoke rising from an improvised chimney on the second floor.
Jason counted mentally.
Tony had said thirty; he saw movement in at least four different windows. With his sharpened senses and his mind quickly processing the sounds he heard, he confirmed that the fat trash had told the truth…
He tightened his grip on the Beretta.
And began approaching from the side, using the shadow of the dry trees and the abandoned cars as cover. His movements were precise, silent, almost ghostly—body low, short steps on the balls of his feet, controlled breathing, exactly as the books on camouflage and infiltration had taught, elevated to absolute perfection by [Perfect Mastery].
Jason skirted the main parking lot, avoiding the line of sight from the second-floor windows, and found a side door on the ground floor—an emergency exit, rusted and slightly ajar, probably used by the guards to smoke or urinate without leaving the perimeter.
He pushed it slowly and entered without making a sound…
The inner corridor was dark, lit only by an improvised bulb hanging from an exposed wire. The smell of mold, sweat, alcohol, and something rotten…
But there was movement on the ground floor.
Four men on watch.
Three armed with old MP5 submachine guns slung across their chests, and a fourth with a baseball bat reinforced with rusty nails, using it as a prop while smoking a cigarette. They were scattered: two near the main staircase, one leaning against the wall talking quietly, the one with the bat sitting on a broken plastic chair near the back door.
Jason didn't hesitate.
He holstered the Beretta with an automatic motion. A gunshot would be too loud, drawing unnecessary attention. Instead, he adjusted his grip on the Damascus knife, feeling the familiar weight in his hand.
He knew he had to be fast. Precise. Silent…
He couldn't leave any of them alive.
Yet there was no nervousness. No doubt. His mind entered a state of absolute focus, as if the rest of the world had been reduced to distant noise. His breathing slowed. His steps became light.
His honey-colored eyes turned cold, empty of hesitation, seeming to glow with something primitive, almost inhuman. In them was the same intensity of ancestral hunters—men from forgotten eras who faced creatures larger and stronger than themselves, surviving only through precision, instinct, and cold blood.
He moved slowly…
The first was the one smoking, leaning against the wall. Jason emerged from the shadows as if projected for that exact moment. His left hand clamped over the man's mouth, the right drove the blade into the base of the skull—clean entry through the nape, exit through the silently surprised open mouth. The body went limp. Jason caught him before he fell, lowering him slowly to the floor…
The second, one of those by the stairs, turned his face at the minimal sound of movement. Jason was already there. He advanced in a perfect lateral step, spun his body, and buried the Damascus knife in the left armpit, straight into the heart. The man opened his mouth to scream, but Jason muffled it with his forearm, twisting the blade once before pulling it out. Hot blood ran down his arm. The body dropped to its knees, then to the side…
The third by the stairs realized too late. He turned with the MP5 raised; Jason kicked low, hitting the knee with precision—a dry crack. The man fell, almost screaming if not silenced by him. Jason stepped on the hand holding the submachine gun, crushing the fingers, and drove the knife into the throat. Wet gurgle, silence.
The last one, the one with the bat, stood up from the chair, eyes wide, mouth open to scream.
Jason was faster.
He advanced in two steps, spun his body in a perfect circular motion, and landed a spinning kick to the man's temple. The impact broke his neck with a dry snap…
The body fell like a rag doll, the bat rolling across the floor.
Four bodies on the ground in less than twenty seconds.
Absolute silence on the ground floor.
Jason took one controlled deep breath.
He looked at the fallen weapons: three MP5s, full magazines, one with an improvised holographic sight. He sheathed the Damascus knife, picked up the cleanest MP5 with a full magazine, and slung the strap over his shoulder. He checked and saw it was fully loaded…
After doing all this, Jason climbed the stairs slowly, each step placed with exact weight on the balls of his feet to avoid creaks. The MP5 hung from his right shoulder, finger off the trigger, barrel pointed down and forward. His sharpened senses captured everything: the smell of old cigarette smoke mixed with sweat and alcohol, the distant rumble of an improvised generator at the back of the building, the murmur of male voices coming from the second floor…
From what he could identify, there were ten men. They were scattered: some in rooms, others in the main corridor, at least three in the common room on the floor. None seemed on high alert; most were relaxed, drinking, talking loudly…
Jason reached the top of the stairs and stopped in the shadow of the railing. The corridor stretched left and right, lit by improvised bulbs hanging from exposed wires. Open and closed doors along the hallway, voices leaking from some.
He chose the nearest door on the right—a small room, probably used as storage or a guard post. Two voices came from there: one deep and slow, the other faster and irritated.
Jason took one controlled deep breath. He knocked on the door: three light, casual taps, as if he were one of them…
The conversation stopped.
Footsteps approached.
The door opened.
A tall man with a full beard and a dirty plaid shirt opened it, right hand on the knob, left hanging relaxed at his side. He frowned upon seeing a stranger with an MP5 on his shoulder and cold eyes… Before he could open his mouth to scream or draw the gun he carried at his waist, Jason advanced.
His left hand clamped over the man's mouth, the right drove the Damascus knife into the base of the neck—clean entry through the carotid, exit through the nape. The body convulsed once, eyes wide in silent shock…
Jason caught him before he fell, pulling him into the room and closing the door with his foot.
The second man, shorter, bald, holding a golden AK-47—probably a commemorative or customized edition, chrome with gold details on the bolt and handle—was standing near the window, turning at the same instant.
He opened his mouth to scream.
Jason was already in motion.
With a quick wrist flick, he threw the knife he had used to kill the other man—the blade spun once in the air and embedded itself exactly in the center of the man's forehead. The impact snapped his head back, eyes rolling. The golden AK fell from his hands and clanged on the floor. The body collapsed backward, dead before hitting the boards…
Jason crossed the room in two silent steps, crouched beside the body, and pulled the knife from the forehead with a firm motion.
He wiped the blade on the dead man's shirt and returned it to the sheath.
Silence.
He heard footsteps in the corridor.
Someone approaching…
The door burst open.
A young guy, maybe 19 or 20, disheveled brown hair, wide eyes, entered with a pistol in his hand, the barrel trembling slightly.
"Hey, what was that noise? I heard a—"
Before he could finish his words, Jason was already there—he had moved the moment he heard the footsteps in the corridor. The Beretta rose straight, the cold barrel pressing against the young man's forehead before he finished the sentence. The kid froze, his face draining of all color, turning paper-white. His eyes filled with pure terror; his hands shook so much the pistol nearly fell.
Jason placed his index finger to his lips.
"Silence…"
The young man swallowed hard, nodding frantically, tears beginning to form at the corners of his eyes.
Jason stared at him for two seconds. Though he was just a kid, he was with that trash group that did those things to the women. So he wasn't a good person… Taking that into account, without hesitation, he spun the Damascus knife in his left hand and drove it into the young man's neck. The body convulsed once, eyes still wide in shock, and collapsed to the floor…
He caught the body before it made noise, lowering it slowly beside the other two.
After thinking about what to do next, Jason left the room silently, closing the door behind him with an almost inaudible click. The corridor was empty, but his sharpened senses captured the sounds of the floor: heavy breathing, low murmurs, the occasional creak of a bed or chair. He moved along the left wall, steps light as falling leaves, MP5 slung over his shoulder, Damascus knife in his right hand, ready.
At the end of the corridor, he saw two men—one tall and muscular with tattoos on his arm, the other short and bald with a scar on his scalp—walking toward the stairs leading to the third floor: an improvised addition on the motel's roof, probably a reinforced attic for lookout or storage. They talked quietly about "guard shifts" and "who gets the next woman."
Jason stopped in the shadow, letting them pass without seeing him.
When their footsteps echoed on the stairs above, he advanced to the next room on the left, door ajar, faint light leaking through the crack. He entered slowly, body leaning forward. Two men sleeping in an improvised bunk bed: the top one, thin, snoring loudly with a pistol on his chest; the bottom one, fat, lying on his side with a rifle within reach. Weapons close enough to grab if they heard any noise…
Jason made no sound.
He approached the bunk like a ghost. The Damascus knife rose slowly, drove into the temple of the bottom man—clean entry, exit through the other ear, instant silent death. The body convulsed once, but Jason held his shoulder with his free hand, cushioning the movement.
The top one kept snoring.
Jason stepped onto the edge of the lower bunk in a silent motion, leaned over the frame, and repeated: blade to the temple, clean death. The snoring stopped mid-breath. He held the body to keep it from rolling off the bunk, laying it back carefully.
Silence.
He left the room, wiped the blade on the fat man's shirt downstairs, and continued to the next ones.
The following room had a man alone, sitting on the bed cleaning an old pistol. Jason entered like a shadow, left arm wrapping around his neck from behind, knife slicing the carotid in an upward motion. Blood spurted, but the scream died in the throat. The body slumped forward, the pistol falling to the floor with a muffled thud.
Next room: two men playing cards, sitting on the floor. Jason waited at the door until one turned his back, advanced—knife to the nape of the first, hand clamping the mouth of the second. The survivor struggled for a second; Jason twisted his neck with a dry snap, breaking the spine.
The last room on the floor was larger, used as a common area. Three men there: one drinking straight from the bottle, another sleeping on the couch, the third standing, looking out the window.
Jason hid behind the half-open door, waiting.
The one at the window turned, muttering something about "more idiots coming." Jason attacked: knife to the base of the skull of the drinker, then a kick to the knee of the turning one, followed by a blade to the throat. The sleeper woke with the noise; Jason stomped on his chest, crushing the trachea with his heel before he could scream…
Absolute silence on the second floor.
Ten dead on the floor.
Twenty dead in total, including the four from the bar.
In a few hours, he had killed twenty people…
The easy part was over.
Now came the hard part.
The rest of the group was upstairs, gathered in a circle, drinking and talking as if the world hadn't ended outside. Unlike the others, they weren't separated or at a disadvantage in the environment. If he attacked head-on, there would likely be a shootout, and he could end up taking a bullet, since it was ten against one…
Jason paused for a moment, assessing.
Maybe he could wait for one of them to come down to check the silence…?
His honey-colored eyes gleamed with another possibility: use the Walkers to invade the building and force chaos. In the middle of the confusion, he would eliminate them all…
But he discarded the idea almost in the same second.
Too risky. He could lose control of the situation.
He could also set fire to the motel?
But if the motel burned or was completely overrun, he would lose weapons, ammunition, and food—resources too valuable to waste.
No.
The only option left was to do it the same way as before.
He checked the MP5, pulling the bolt with a dry, contained click, ensuring it was ready. He inhaled deeply, feeling the air fill his lungs as his mind cleared of any noise…
When outnumbered, he would have to use his genius to devise a plan. Fortunately, he had many guerrilla tactics in his mind from the books he had read…
But plans are merely plans; no one could predict what would actually happen…
All he knew was that he had to kill the rest of the group and return to Maggie…
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(A/N: Advanced chapters have been posted on my Patreon, and releases there will be more regular.
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