After a few minutes, the screaming stopped. Moments later, Andrew stepped out of the storage unit and said flatly, "Bring the map. He's more cooperative now." The three men exchanged uneasy glances before one of the soldiers walked to the Humvee and retrieved the map, handing it to Andrew.
Taking it without a word, Andrew returned inside, now followed by the two soldiers and, after a moment of hesitation, the police officer as well .
Inside, the raider was slumped in the chair, sweat pouring down his face, his body trembling. His shirt was soaked and partially burned at the contact points, with red, blistered patches on his chest and arms. His breathing was ragged, and his defiant expression had twisted into a grimace of pain and fear. A thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth, his eyes—wide and unfocused—kept darting to the cables still lying on the table.
Stopping next to the raider, Andrew unfolded the map and said, "Now, I want you to point out where your base is located , try anything and i will make you regret it ."
Then Andrew unsheathed his combat knife and cut the duck tape that was restraining his hands .
Grimacing in pain, the raider scanned the map and slowly raised a trembling finger, pointing to a location near the edge of a forested area. "It's there… Crescent Ridge Resort," he muttered. "Used to be some fancy gated hotel and golf course. Now it's ours."
Andrew studied the area, then glanced sharply at the raider. "What about numbers? Weapons? How many of you are there?"
The raider clammed up, lips pressed tightly together, his silence defiant. Andrew's tone darkened.
"I suggest you speak. If you don't… we go for round two. But this time, I'll be using the blowtorch."
Fear crept into the raider's eyes. He swallowed hard. "I... I'll talk, okay?! You crazy bastard "
Exhaling, the raider finally spoke. "We were around thirty in total before… with the losses from the failed ambush, should be less now."
Andrew frowned. "What about weapons?"
"Mostly pistols, some shotguns, and a few AKs," the raider replied. "They're still at the hotel, guarding the Holdouts."
Andrew narrowed his eyes. "The Holdouts?"
"Yeah," the raider nodded. " There were people who were already at the resort when we found the place and took over. We didn't kill 'em ....not many anyway—figured they were more useful kept in line. We roughed 'em up, made 'em do stuff , have our fun ."
At those words, everyone in the room frowned, unease settling over them. Seeing that there was no more useful information to extract, Andrew moved to restrain the raider again. As the bindings were secured, the man began to thrash and snarl.
"You're all dead, you know that?" he growled, venom in his voice. "You got lucky once, but next time—next time we'll gut you . We'll burn your trucks, drag your people out screaming. You think you're safe? You're nothin'. Just another bunch of dead men walkin'."
Andrew, unfazed, stepped forward and gagged him again, cutting off the tirade. He leaned in close, voice cold and deliberate.
"The information you gave better be right," he said, his gaze sharp and unwavering. "Because if I find out you lied—if we walk into a trap—" he paused, letting his eyes drift meaningfully to the blowtorch nearby, "—you'd better pray the dead get to you before I do. I won't be as gentle next time."
The raider locked eyes with him for a second, and nodded , understanding that he was serious.
After that, all four left the storage unit and locked it behind them. With the map in hand, Andrew led the way toward the main building where everyone had gathered. At the front entrance, Corporal Whitaker was waiting.
"We got what we needed from the raider," Andrew informed her. "Any issues while I was gone?"
Whitaker shook her head. "No, sir. Everything's under control. The families of the two soldiers are here, just as expected."
But Andrew noticed something off—Whitaker's shoulders were tense, her eyes troubled.
"What is it?" he asked.
She hesitated before answering. "It's about the ambush. The raiders we took down... they turned. But when we checked the bodies, there weren't any bite marks. Nothing to explain how they were infected."
Before Andrew could respond, the police officers jumped in , "Yes . I saw it happen here too. A woman died— due to hearth complications, far as we could tell. No bites, no wounds. A few hours later, she was one of them . We thought that she somehow got infected."
Andrew stayed silent for a moment, but not out of surprise. He already knew the truth , that everyone carried the virus. Bite or no bite, once someone died, they turned.
He'd known this moment would come. Now the only question was how to explain it in a way that won't cause panic—and accept.
After some time, Andrew sighed. "With what we've seen… it's possible that we might be all carrying the virus."
That shocked everyone into silence.
A soldier broke it: "How is that even possible?"
Another added, voice rising, "Does that mean we'll all turn into one of those things?"
Before panic could spread, Andrew raised a hand. "Calm down. Listen to me—no one's turning, alright?"
"But you just said we might all be infected," Whitaker said, trying to keep her composure.
Andrew rubbed his forehead, already feeling the weight of the conversation. "Yeah… but it's not something that makes you sick while you're alive. From what we've seen, whatever this is—whatever caused it—it only activates after death. You don't turn just because it's in you. You have to die first."
The group looked shaken, absorbing the implication.
"So even if you die from, say… a heart attack…" one of the soldiers began.
"You'll still turn," Andrew finished, quietly. "Unless someone puts you down first."
Eventually, Whitaker asked, "What are we going to do, now—do we tell the others?"
Andrew didn't hesitate. "We don't inform the civilians. That kind of news will only cause panic, and we can't afford that right now. Our priority is dealing with the raiders."
Then he turned to the police officer. "You can tell your partner—but keep it between you two. Don't let this spread."
The officer gave a firm nod, clearly understanding the implications. "Good," Andrew said. "Now let's gather everyone and prepare a plan of attack."
They entered the main building—a large, single-story structure that looked like it had once served as an administrative office or operations center for the public works department. The interior had been hastily rearranged to accommodate the influx of survivors. Makeshift sleeping areas were spread across the floor, made from sleeping bags, cots, and blankets. The air carried a mix of disinfectant, sweat, and exhaustion.
Inside were women huddled with their children, a few elderly folks seated quietly in the corners, teenagers whispering among themselves, and men helping unload supplies or checking on others. Near the back, one of the wounded soldiers lay on a stretcher with his leg bandaged, a volunteer applying fresh gauze. Two soldiers were sitting with their families, visibly relieved to be reunited. The other three walked the perimeter of the room, their rifles slung but eyes still sharp.
...
Aside from the injured soldier and the civilians, everyone had gathered in an unused room. Andrew unfolded a collapsible table in the center, spread the map across it, and began briefing the group on the intel he had extracted from the captured raider. He laid out the location of the enemy base, their estimated numbers, and the weapons they possessed.
Then he asked, "What's the confirmed number of raiders killed in their failed ambush?"
Private Kyle stepped forward. "Eleven, sir."
Andrew nodded. "Including the one we captured, that makes twelve. The bastard didn't give an exact number, but even after those losses, we should expect around twenty left."
"We're still outnumbered," Specialist Diego added. "One man down leaves only nine of us."
Andrew nodded again, his voice firm. "That's true. But remember — they're not soldiers. They're uncoordinated, undisciplined. If we strike smart and fast, we can take them by surprise."
No one objected.
Taking advantage of the silence, Andrew continued, pointing at the map. "We're not taking the main road into the resort — it's too exposed. Instead, we'll cut through the forest." He traced a route with his finger. "We move through the woods, get close to the fence, and scout the area. Once night falls, we move in."
Someone asked, "What if we run into walkers?"
Andrew replied, "Alert the rest of the group, and try to deal with them quietly. Keep noise to a minimum. And one more thing—"
He picked up a backpack from the floor, set it on the table, and unzipped it. Inside were several pistols and magazines, taken from the raiders.
"Everyone takes one sidearm and three mags. If things go south, switching to your sidearm is faster than reloading your rifle."
One by one, the group armed themselves.
"Good. Now, for transport—we're not using any of our military vehicles. If we're seen in those, they'll know it's us. We'll take the van parked outside instead."
"They won't expect us to attack," Andrew said, his tone steady. "So we have to press our advantage."
He fell silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on the map before him.
"One last thing," he said finally. "You all remember how the raiders we killed during the ambush turned into walkers?"
Everyone nodded, expressions tightening. Whitaker and the two soldiers who had already been informed remained quiet, letting Andrew continue.
"We've discovered something—something that changes everything," Andrew said. "There's a possibility that we're all infected. The virus doesn't do anything while a person's alive. But once you die… no matter how — even without a bite — you turn."
A wave of unease swept through the room. The soldiers exchanged anxious glances, murmurs breaking out.
"How is that possible?" one of them asked.
"So what—you just die, and that's it? You become one of them?" said another, a trace of fear in his voice.
"What if I get shot or bleed out?" someone else asked. "I don't want to wake up trying to eat my own squad."
Andrew raised a hand, his voice calm but commanding. "I need you all to listen to me. Yes, it's frightening. But as long as you're alive, you're in control. This doesn't change how we operate. It just means we have to be even more careful with our wounded."
The room grew quieter as the weight of his words settled in.
"I know it's hard to process," he added. "But panicking won't help us. That's why—" he looked at each of them "—this doesn't leave this room. The civilians can't know, not yet. If we tell them now, we'll spark fear and chaos, and we can't afford that."
After a long pause, the group nodded one by one, understanding the gravity of what they had learned.
"Good," Andrew said, his voice firm once more. "Now, we shift our focus. We have two hours—get rest, check your gear, eat something if you can. When the time comes, I want everyone ready to move. We hit them hard and fast ."
They gave short, determined nods, the fear now tempered by purpose.