With the immediate threat gone, Brian slumped onto the toppled cabinet, utterly exhausted. Wearing the gas mask during such intense combat had left him short of breath.
After catching his breath for a moment, he slowly stood up, his eyes fixed on the Stalker's corpse pinned beneath the cabinet. He replayed the creature's earlier escape in his mind, his expression flickering with suspicion and disbelief.
Due to the underground mall's enclosed, damp, and chilly environment, wherever Cordyceps spores gathered, Stalkers were almost always present.
Brian had encountered Stalkers in spore-filled zones before during missions. In those conditions—where human vision was severely limited—the infected thrived, turning the fog into their perfect hunting ground.
But no matter how stealthy or ambush-oriented they were, one thing had always been certain: once a Stalker committed to an attack, it never retreated. Ever.
Yet today, that rule had been shattered. This Stalker—faced with danger—had instantly turned and fled into the mist, hiding to strike again later.
And that was just one Stalker. Brian's blood ran cold at the thought: what if six or seven of them were now roaming the spore fog together? Even if they couldn't kill a target outright, they could wear a person down—slowly, relentlessly—until there was nothing left.
He made a mental note of this alarming development. If Stalkers were evolving, Runners and Clickers might be changing too.
"Looks like I can't afford to underestimate the infected anymore," he muttered to himself.
He shuddered, realizing how close he'd come to death. If there had been more infected—or worse, a Stage-Three Clicker—he wouldn't have made it out alive. He'd only survived because the numbers were low and the threats limited.
"Gotta get out of here—now!"
He retrieved his discarded pistol, turned, and sprinted toward the stairwell. With effort, he clambered over a collapsed support column and leapt lightly to the far end of the underground mall.
Finding the elevator shaft leading to the first floor, he took the stairs three at a time, bursting onto the ground level in seconds.
Emerging from darkness into daylight, Brian squinted against the sun. Once his eyes adjusted, he pulled off his gas mask, stuffed it back into his pack, and took deep, grateful breaths of fresh air.
Da-da-da—!
Suddenly, gunfire erupted outside.
Brian flinched violently and instinctively dove behind a nearby concrete barrier, convinced he'd been spotted.
But when no one came rushing in after several tense seconds, he realized—the shooting wasn't aimed at him.
Crouching low, he crept forward and pressed himself against the doorframe, peering through a cracked window.
Outside, seven or eight quarantine-zone soldiers—dressed in tactical gear and helmets—advanced cautiously toward a pharmacy in the southwest, assault rifles raised. Every time a figure so much as peeked out from cover, they unleashed suppressing fire.
On the other side, what appeared to be rebel fighters were holed up in and around the ruined buildings near the pharmacy. Five or six of their comrades already lay dead on the ground. The survivors, armed with a chaotic mix of mismatched firearms, fired back in panic—but their shots were wild, pinging harmlessly off walls and dirt, nowhere near hitting their targets.
"Damn it! Of all the days—this had to happen?!"
Brian groaned inwardly. He was just transporting some supplies to the Sector E black market, swapping for a few essentials, and delivering some food—not on some world-saving mission! Did fate really have to test him like this?
As the soldiers pressed closer to the rebel hideout—and farther from his position—Brian calculated the distance. Once they moved a bit further, he could slip past unnoticed, avoiding the firefight entirely.
"Huh… why does this plan feel so familiar?" The thought popped into his head unbidden.
He didn't dwell on it. Keeping his eyes locked on the distant soldiers, he waited until they were far enough away—then silently slipped out from cover.
In just over ten seconds, he darted across the street, slipping behind the soldiers without a sound. He dropped into a bomb crater nearby, flattening himself against the earth. Not a single footstep betrayed his passage.
He lay there motionless for a full minute before cautiously lifting his head. Confirming no one had noticed him, he rose slowly to his feet.
Using rubble and ruins as cover, Brian moved swiftly but carefully through the alleyways. Gunfire still echoed in the distance, but he did his best to stay silent—though the dry leaves underfoot still whispered with every step.
As the distance grew, the gunfire faded. He knew he was now beyond the soldiers' effective range. Just a few more kilometers, and he'd reach the entrance to Sector E.
BANG—!
The moment Brian emerged from the alley, a sharp sniper shot rang out from a rooftop nearby.
Instantly, the distant firefight intensified—shouts and screams of pain erupted as the soldiers launched their full assault on the rebels.
Caught off guard, Brian nearly stumbled—but his nerves held. He knew the shot wasn't meant for him. Still, in his momentary loss of balance, his foot snapped a dry branch behind him with a loud crack.
His body froze. A look of utter despair crossed his face beneath the mask.
Please… please don't let him have heard that.
He turned his head slowly toward the rooftop—just as the sniper, startled by the sudden noise behind him, instinctively twisted around to look down.
Their eyes met.
Time froze once again—eerily reminiscent of his encounter with the Stalker underground.
"You're dead!"
The instant Brian saw the soldier's gaze lock onto him, he knew he was exposed. Cursing under his breath, he yanked his pistol from his waistband, aimed straight at the sniper, and bellowed—making his hostile intent unmistakably clear.
The sniper, realizing he'd become a sitting duck, rolled off the roof's edge in one fluid motion, vanishing from sight to avoid the incoming bullets.
But no shots came.
Instead, he heard the sound of rapid footsteps fading into the distance.
The sniper cautiously rose to his feet—and sure enough, the figure was already sprinting away. He'd been tricked. That pistol was probably empty.
Without hesitation, the sniper leapt from the roof, rolled on landing, and took off in pursuit. Into his radio, he barked:
"Report! Unidentified individual spotted southeast! I'm in pursuit—request immediate patrol support ahead!"
After relaying the alert, he drew his sidearm and opened fire at the fleeing figure.
Bang! Bang! Bang—!
Hearing gunfire behind him, Brian gritted his teeth and hunched lower, sprinting faster. He weaved between cover, desperate to avoid the bullets.
The shots whizzed past—smacking into walls and pavement—but missed him entirely.
Seeing his shots were ineffective, the sniper stopped firing on the run. It was slowing him down and hurting his accuracy. Better to close the distance first.
Noticing the gunfire had ceased, Brian glanced back. The sniper had stopped shooting—he'd recognized the ruse. "Smart one," Brian thought grimly. "These outside operatives are definitely sharper than the quarantine soldiers."
He was now only a short distance from the Sector E entrance—but he knew the sniper had already called for backup. Patrol units would be waiting ahead to intercept him.
He couldn't just keep running blindly.
Slowing his pace slightly, Brian's expression hardened. If he wanted to escape cleanly, there was only one option:
He had to deal with the tail chasing him—once and for all.