Shh-shh-shh!
On the desolate streets of the ruined city, hurried footsteps crunched through layers of dry leaves, producing a constant rustling sound.
The sniper—dressed in standard-issue combat gear—sprinted forward like a hunting leopard, arms pumping, eyes locked onto the fleeing figure ahead. He wouldn't let his prey slip away.
His shoulder-mounted radio crackled with confirmation: his squad leader had authorized pursuit, and forward patrols were already responding. He was certain it wouldn't be long before this unarmed runner was cornered and captured.
But just as he rounded a building's corner, the target vanished from sight.
The sniper didn't panic. He simply heightened his alertness, wary of an ambush from the blind spot.
Yet when he burst past the corner, not only had the footsteps stopped—they'd disappeared entirely. The fugitive was gone.
Instantly, the sniper halted. He raised his pistol slightly and scanned the surroundings with sharp, practiced eyes.
He could feel it—the man was nearby, hiding among the ruins, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Clearly, the runner had realized he couldn't outrun him forever. Now, he intended to end this chase—here and now.
"This guy… isn't ordinary."
As he crept forward step by cautious step, the sniper recalled the fugitive's agile movements, instinctive dodges, and extraordinary stamina.
Any average rebel would've collapsed from fear or exhaustion long ago. But this one? He moved like a ghost.
"He's either elite rebel commando… a top-tier smuggler… or maybe even one of our own."
He'd heard rumors—everyone had—that quarantine soldiers often colluded with smugglers. The higher-ups turned a blind eye because the smugglers kept them well-supplied. As a low-ranking grunt, he couldn't do much about it.
But illegal was still illegal. Whoever this man was, catching him would be a clean win—even his superiors couldn't fault him for that.
His eyes dropped to the ground. Among the scattered leaves, he spotted subtle disturbances—trails leading toward a nearby convenience store.
Frowning at the dust-covered windows, he didn't enter. Instead, he raised his pistol and fired.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Crashhh!
Bullets shattered every pane of glass, sending shards raining onto the dusty floor. The noise served two purposes: intimidating anyone hiding inside—and signaling his position to nearby comrades.
Now that the windows were gone, he peered inside. Empty shelves and counters lay buried under thick dust, swirling gently in the breeze. Down the central aisle, a single set of fresh footprints led straight inward—and stopped abruptly at a rear exit, which stood slightly ajar.
"Damn it!"
Cursing under his breath, the sniper rushed in without further inspection—too eager to lose his quarry.
But the moment he crossed the threshold—
A heavy object crashed down from above.
Before he could react, it pinned him to the floor. A powerful hand seized his hair and slammed his head against the tiles—once, twice, three times. Blinding pain exploded behind his eyes, and everything went black.
Huff… huff…
Brian wiped sweat from his brow. The threat was neutralized—for now. Without hesitation, he drew his knife and slit the sniper's throat in one swift motion.
Blood gushed from the wound, spreading rapidly across the floor. The metallic stench of blood filled the air.
"Sorry, brother," Brian murmured, rising from the body.
Truthfully, if the soldier hadn't seen his face, he wouldn't have killed him. But letting him live meant risking exposure. Once the quarantine authorities had his description, not only would he be hunted—he'd drag Sarah down with him. She was his girlfriend now; her safety was on the line too.
So he'd made the only choice he could.
"Hurry! The gunfire came from up ahead!"
Shh-shh-shh!
Just as Brian stood there, lost in grim reflection, voices and footsteps echoed outside—three or four soldiers closing in.
He snapped his head up, took one last look at the corpse, then bolted through the open back door. Within moments, he'd slipped past the search party and vanished into the depths of the urban ruins.
Minutes later, a soldier followed the scent of blood into the store. Seeing his fallen comrade and the pool of crimson beneath him, he knelt, checked for a pulse—and found none.
With a quiet sigh, he keyed his radio:
"Report. Sniper from Team XXX located… deceased. Throat cut. Scene shows signs of—"
After eliminating the sniper and evading the patrols, Brian finally reached the passage leading into Sector D.
When he stepped into the central plaza—half swallowed by overgrown vegetation, half reduced to rubble by bombing—he knew, at last, he was truly safe.
Beyond this point lay the largest black market inside the Atlanta Quarantine Zone, jointly operated by the three most powerful smuggling syndicates in the region.
The quarantine government's upper echelons were well aware of its existence—but the smugglers paid them so generously in supplies that they not only tolerated it but actively forbade soldiers from approaching, citing "security protocols" and other fabricated reasons.
Brian walked calmly across the plaza. He sensed hidden eyes watching him from the shadows, but he paid them no mind. He headed straight for the main building, pushed open the door of a food shop, and descended the stairs into the underground.
Thud-thud… thud-thud-thud.
He rapped a coded rhythm on the iron door at the bottom, then simply pushed it open.
Inside stretched a brightly lit corridor. By the entrance sat a bare-chested brute, who glanced up at Brian—covered in dust, mud, and looking thoroughly battered—and grinned.
"Well, well! Brother, looks like you ran into some serious trouble out there."
"Don't even get me started," Brian sighed, brushing dirt off his clothes. He walked over to three storage lockers near the door, opened the one labeled Norsen, and placed his pistol and gas mask inside.
He checked his backpack—contents intact—zipped it shut, and strode deeper into the corridor.
After a few minutes, he climbed the stairs at the far end.
And suddenly—chaos.
He emerged into the underground level of what had once been a department store. Harsh fluorescent lights bathed the entire space in sterile white. Former retail counters had been cleared out and repurposed: now, smugglers sat behind them like merchants in an ancient bazaar, waiting for customers.
Every stall overflowed with goods.
One sold metal components—car parts, radio tubes, appliance motors—stacked high in organized piles.
Another displayed rows of sealed chemical containers: acids, solvents, reagents—each carefully labeled.
Nearby, racks of clothing hung neatly sorted—shirts, trousers, scarves, boots—all scavenged from the old world.
In a corner, dozens of emaciated people huddled around food stalls, clutching ration cards tightly, eyes gleaming with hunger as they stared at sizzling grills.
The vendors here used modified street carts from the pre-Catastrophe era—but their ingredients were grim: skinned rats and small wild animals roasted over open flames. The meat sizzled, releasing an oddly tempting aroma that made the starving crowd salivate.
Beside these stalls, rusted iron sheets had been welded into crude cages. Inside, skeletal dogs whimpered weakly.
These animals were specially captured from the outside and smuggled in—not for food, but for entertainment. The sons of quarantine elites had recently developed a taste for dogfighting. Once the dogs died in the pits, their carcasses were brought back here, butchered, and sold as meat—every ounce of value extracted until nothing remained.
And this was only a fraction of the market.
Elsewhere, vendors hawked strange curiosities: pre-war books, broken electronics, medical supplies, even preserved specimens. Crowds surged between stalls, haggling, trading, surviving.
This—this teeming, lawless, vibrant underworld—was the heart of Atlanta's largest black market.