The yard was littered with scattered motorcycles, blood trails, and a few gnawed limbs. Still, no infected in sight. Maybe most had already been drawn to the earlier firefight—but that didn't rule out those who had turned inside their locked units.
"Echo, Delta, keep watch. Call out anything incoming."
"Alpha, Bravo—start clearing from the far left," I ordered. "Me and Charlie will take the far right. Once the first floor is clear, we move up."
They nodded in response.
Door by door, we moved. Bravo's expertise showed—his breaching technique swift and controlled. Charlie wasn't as precise, but kept up well. I stood ready with Alpha, covering them from the sides in case anything lunged out.
Minutes passed. The first floor turned up empty. Nothing stirred but dust.
We advanced to the second level. Here, the situation changed—several units were locked. Bravo and Charlie looked back at me.
I made a tapping gesture with my knuckle. Knock first.
They understood what I meant and knocked. A few doors responded instantly—with savage pounding and guttural snarls.
The answer was swift. Several controlled bursts through the wood, each confirmed with a thud as infected dropped.
Room by room, we pressed forward.
3rd Person POV
The commander and his squad continued their sweep through the rest of the rental units. Once the structure was clear, he ordered them to split into two-man teams and begin checking individual houses.
The results were grim. In some, they found an infected person who had turned while locked inside, like the previous case in rental units. Others held scenes of despair—people who had chosen to kill their loved ones before ending their own lives. But more often, they found only silence. Empty homes.
Yet one detail stood out—consistent across nearly every house. The lights were on. Inside and out, bulbs burned steadily, untouched. It was a small but unsettling pattern. The commander noticed it, some theories forming quietly in the back of his mind. But for now, he chose to wait. More answers would come—in time.
Eventually, they stepped into a narrow lawn behind the rows of houses—and the commander's suspicions were confirmed.
A large white marquee tent, trimmed with some hanging lamps that still flickered faintly, stretched out over the grass, anchored near one of the homes. Parked cars and motorcycles circled the area. Inside, chairs draped in white lined the interior. The tables bore the disarrayed remnants of a feast—scattered food now reeking with rot, swarmed by flies, and drink glasses knocked over in the haste of an abrupt departure.
A wedding. Or what was supposed to be.
They didn't linger. No one spoke. The squad simply moved on, continuing the sweep until they reached the river, where the trees thickened into a dense forest.
The air there felt different. Heavier. Like the calm before a storm.
The commander knelt near the riverbank, eyes locked on the treeline. The others remained on guard around him. Alpha approached.
"Sir, we've cleared most of the residential zone. Should we move on to the front area next?"
The commander didn't answer immediately. He ran his fingers through the dirt, studying it. His gaze lingered on the woods beyond.
Then he stood and said, "No. First, gather what food supplies you can from the houses. Doesn't have to be much—just enough to keep us going. Don't forget to gather some flashlights. After that, get whatever can be used as barricades or makeshift traps. Prioritize barbed wire, if there's any. Then I want the gate back up and functional."
Alpha nodded. "Yes, sir."
He hesitated for a moment, watching the commander's expression.
"If I may… what's bothering you, sir?"
The commander gave a dry chuckle, eyes still fixed on the dark wall of trees.
"We're going to have visitors tonight."
⧫⧫ [Time Skip — Few Hours Later] ⧫⧫
05:00 PM
The sun hung low in the sky, casting a muted orange hue across the terrace of the commander's house. A gentle breeze stirred the tree beyond the perimeter fence. On the rooftop, four soldiers sat with their commander, eating in quiet camaraderie. Their meal was humble—canned sardines paired with scrambled eggs. Nothing lavish. Nothing warm.
To a passerby, it might've looked like a group of weary men sharing a rare moment of peace in the middle of hell. But anyone who glanced beyond the terrace would understand the truth—this wasn't a rest born of idleness, but a well-earned pause after hours of grueling work..
The yard below told the story. The battlefield that once swarmed with undead was now clean—cleared of corpses, although the blood traces still remained. The fallen gate stood once again, now reinforced and lashed tightly to a nearby steel pole. The fence and the wall was rimmed with new additions: coils of barbed wire, jagged glass shards pressed into the top, even crude wooden planks studded with nails. Mouse and other improvised traps littered the ground in strategic lines.
A perimeter of pain.
This was a preparation.
Because they knew the hardest part of the work hadn't even begun.
The terrace was silent, broken only by the soft clink of utensils on ceramic plates.
Then Echo emerged from inside the house, stepping into the fading light. He took a seat wordlessly among them. The commander glanced at him and asked, "Where's Foxtrot?"
"Back on the balcony, sir," Echo replied, setting his machine gun beside him. "Said he's more useful keeping overwatch than sitting around down here. Just in case."
Alpha smirked faintly. "He's always been like that, sir. Never really off-duty."
The commander didn't respond to the comment. Instead, he reached toward Alpha and gestured for the radio. Alpha handed it over without a word.
The commander keyed the mic. "Foxtrot, come down. I want everyone present for the next briefing. No imminent threats right now."
A pause, then a crisp reply: "Affirmative."
The commander returned the radio, his expression unreadable.
"Memories," he said, turning his gaze to Alpha. "Any of them starting to come back?"
Alpha nodded slowly. "Some, sir. Still foggy. Most of its… flashes. Combat scenarios. Us, fighting together."
The commander let his eyes travel across the others seated around him.
"And the rest of you?" he asked. "Anything different?"
One by one, they responded.
Bravo's voice was low. "Hostage rescue.."
Charlie leaned forward slightly. "Leading squads through thick zones. Urban missions. Felt like I was used to giving orders… not just following them."
Echo exhaled. "Heat battles. Tight corners. I remember fighting, suppressing, reloading under fire. I can still hear it."
Delta added, "Pulling people out of wreckage. Civilian extractions. Triage under pressure."
Just then, Foxtrot came out from the inside and joined the group.
"I'm here, sir," he said, calm as always. "Some memories returned. High-risk target eliminations. Close-quarter kills. Clean entries. Silent takedowns."
The commander gave a small nod and gestured to the spot beside Echo. Foxtrot sat without further comment, his eyes scanning the horizon one more time before focusing in.
A tense stillness hung in the air—less like rest, more like the calm before a drawn blade.
The four soldiers, having finished their short meal, quietly stacked their ceramic plates and utensils to the side. No one spoke. Even the soft clink of metal against porcelain felt loud against the creeping silence.
The commander sitting cross-legged, elbows on knees.
He looked toward the sky, now awash with deep orange and amber hues, streaked with fading gold where the sun dipped low behind the far mountains. Wisps of clouds caught the light like dying embers, casting long shadows over the land below.
"Any of you have an idea what our next threat might be?" the commander asked, pulling his gaze from the sky to meet each of their eyes in turn.
Alpha spoke first. "Could it be from the woods, sir?"
The commander gave a slight nod.
Charlie raised a hand slightly. "I don't know what the exact threat is, but... is there a connection to nightfall?" He hesitated a moment, then added, "You've been watching the sky a lot, sir. Especially since we got back from the forest."
Another nod. A bit slower this time.
Then Foxtrot offered his thoughts. "Is it the animals, sir? From the lookout, I spotted some empty cages—one still had poultry feathers stuck to the bars. There was also a chain with a dog collar still attached to a pole... the leather looked frayed, like it had been snapped or torn off. I also haven't seen a single bird overhead. If not for the insects still around, I would've thought everything else had fled this area."
The commander looked between them, then exhaled slowly. "None of you are wrong," he said. "I don't know the full picture yet. But I've got pieces."
He glanced in the southwest direction, toward the forest and the river. "Years ago, this place had plenty of dogs. Strays. House pets. Even a few ferals. Same for cats. They were always roaming around. Some neighbors used to let their chickens and ducks wander freely through the neighborhood." He paused. "But lately... near the riverbank, I saw signs—tracks, tufts of fur. It looked like they were headed toward the forest. Not just one or two—but all of them."
A hush fell over the group.
"As for the outbreak," he continued, tone quiet but firm, "we still don't know the origin. Airborne? Contaminated water? Bite from animals? Could be any of them."
He frowned slightly, then muttered more to himself than to them, 'If it were waterborne or airborne, we'd likely be turning by this night... or maybe tomorrow.'
'The system still lists my status as stable... so I don't think we're infected. Not yet.'
Then, aloud, he added, "Still—" and pointed upward, toward the sky now fading into violet.
"I have a feeling... something up there is part of this."
Delta tilted his head. "The sun, sir?"
"Maybe," the commander said. "Or something else. We'll know when the time comes."
With that, he rose from the terrace.
"You all rest a while," he ordered. "Maybe I'm wrong about the animal threat, but we're not taking chances."
Alpha stood instinctively. "Where are you headed, sir?"
The commander placed a hand on his shoulder. "Just getting changed."
Only now did the squad truly notice what he was wearing—simple black t-shirt, blue chino shorts, and flip-flops, with an ankle monitor strapped to his right leg. No armor. No tactical gear. And yet, through the entire battle, he hadn't faltered once. In that moment, something about him shifted—not just a commander, but a comrade, a brother-in-arms who stood and fought beside them. As for the ankle monitor, the squad chose to refrain from asking. This wasn't the time to talk about it—not yet.
As he turned to go inside, he paused mid-step and glanced back.
"And don't forget—clean those plates and utensils. Put them back where they belong."
Then he disappeared through the door.
The soldiers exchanged a few wordless glances.
And without complaint, they started gathering the dishes.