Morning. The rooftop of the Walmart Supercenter. Vincent was alone, still tinkering with the Barrett M82A1.

  Vincent had made up his mind. They would leave on June 1st, crossing the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan, then head through Midtown and the Lincoln Tunnel to exit New York, eventually settling in a quiet rural area in New Jersey. That meant they had about a week left in the Walmart—time for Robbie to recover from his injuries and for Old Mike to finish modifying their vehicles.

  Old Mike had already started the work. He’d downloaded blueprints online, studied them, and was now using the cars in the underground parking lot for the modifications. Age had its advantages—Old Mike had experience. He knew how to weld, something Vincent couldn’t do, and he’d been a professional race car driver in his younger days. When it came to cars, no one in the group knew more than him.

  The Walmart was a treasure trove of supplies. Even if they didn’t have everything they needed for the modifications, they could always find substitutes.

  *Bang!*

  A gunshot echoed in the distance. Vincent peered through the scope at the car over a kilometer away. It was still intact, but as he adjusted the scope, he saw where his bullet had landed—about fifty meters off target, shattering the window of a clothing store. The M8 armor-piercing incendiary round had ignited some of the clothes inside.

  Vincent sighed, rubbing his shoulder. The recoil was brutal. While most adults could handle it, firing a few rounds without proper training left his shoulder sore and swollen. The Barrett was an anti-materiel rifle, designed to take down light armored vehicles and helicopters. It wasn’t easy to control.

  As Vincent stood up, he heard footsteps behind him. Turning, he saw Robbie hobbling up the stairs with a crutch.

  "Barrett?" Robbie asked, his eyes landing on the rifle. He’d been drawn by the gunfire.

  "Want to give it a try?" Vincent offered with a wry smile. "I’ve fired a few shots. Not great." He knew Robbie wasn’t a sniper, so he hadn’t thought to ask for his help before.

  "What’s the target?" Robbie leaned on the railing, tossing his crutch aside.

  Vincent adjusted the scope and stepped aside. "The red car down there."

  Robbie took position, crouching slightly as he gripped the rifle. He paused, feeling the wind, then aimed and fired.

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  In the distance, the red car burst into flames, followed by the delayed sound of the gunshot.

  *Boom!*

  The car exploded moments later.

  "Missed," Robbie muttered, standing up. He’d aimed for the gas tank but hit the car instead. The incendiary round had ignited the vehicle, which eventually caused the explosion.

  "You hit it?" Vincent asked, raising his binoculars to see the flames.

  "Of course. It’s a stationary target at one kilometer. Not hard for someone with training," Robbie said matter-of-factly. As a former soldier who’d nearly made it into the special forces as a sniper, hitting a car-sized target at that range was child’s play. Real snipers could hit moving targets the size of a human head at 1.5 kilometers, and the best could make shots at two kilometers.

  "If I couldn’t hit that, I’d be embarrassed to call myself a soldier," Robbie added.

  "Teach me," Vincent said, his excitement evident.

  "Sure," Robbie agreed. He had nothing but time on his hands.

  True snipers were rare, requiring rigorous training in mindset, physical endurance, and tactical thinking. They often operated alone, far from support, and had to master camouflage and survival skills. Vincent didn’t need to become a full-fledged sniper—he just wanted to improve his accuracy. With his natural composure and sharp mind, he had the potential.

  For the rest of the day, Vincent practiced under Robbie’s guidance, though not with the Barrett. Instead, he used an AK-47. A skilled shooter could adapt to different rifles, and while the Barrett’s 12.7mm rounds were too precious to waste, the AK-47 was a suitable alternative for training.

  The next day, others joined them on the rooftop—Christine, Mannila, and Jason. Over the past two days, they’d gathered all the supplies they needed for the journey. Old Mike was still finalizing the vehicle modifications, and Laura, already a good shot, didn’t need practice. Bovin had declined to join, remaining aloof. Vincent didn’t push him; Bovin didn’t seem to offer much value to the group.

  Under Robbie’s instruction, the group practiced with both pistols and rifles. Proper shooting posture was crucial—incorrect form could lead to injuries, especially with high-recoil weapons like the Desert Eagle. Vincent had some experience from shooting ranges, but the others were novices. They’d been using whatever felt comfortable, which often led to sore shoulders and wrists.

  In the afternoon, the group descended to the underground parking lot. The massive space, covering over 20,000 square meters, had seven regular entrances and one for large vehicles, capable of holding over 2,000 cars. The lot had been cleared of zombies early on, using silenced pistols to avoid drawing attention.

  On their first day at the Walmart, Vincent and Old Mike had selected two vehicles for their escape: a Jeep Grand Cherokee and a truck. The truck, used for delivering goods to the Walmart, would be heavily modified. Steel mesh would reinforce the windows, and the truck’s body would be weighted to prevent it from being overturned by zombies. Blades would be welded to the sides to cut through any zombies that got too close, and gun ports would be added to the cargo area for defense.

  The Jeep would serve as a backup, useful in case of emergencies like a flat tire or an accident. Over the next few days, the group split their time between morning shooting practice and afternoon vehicle modifications.

  Finally, June 1st arrived.