Van guided the silver Chevy Express with the convoy, eyes fixed on the black column rising from the ruins ahead.
Every vehicle gave the town a wide berth. A few miles south, razor wire stretched across the highway, glinting in the sun.
Private cars clogged the approach. Van veered off-road, climbing a dune for a better angle.
Caroline peered through the rifle scope. "Checkpoint."
Another one. Van's jaw tightened. "They planning to sterilize the whole region?"
Caroline adjusted the focus wheel. Then she froze. "Texas National Guard."
She spotted the Lone Star insignia and the white "TX" markings on the vehicles below.
Murphy took the rifle, pressing his eye to the glass. "What's the Texas Guard doing this far out?"
He lowered the weapon, mouth hanging open. "Tanks. They've got armor."
This checkpoint packed heavier heat than the previous roadblocks—naked force designed to terrorize rather than redirect.
Van watched in the side mirror as vehicles tore up from behind, kicking up dust storms. Within minutes, the new arrivals overtook the Express, racing toward the wire.
They didn't slow down. They aimed for the checkpoint like it wasn't there.
"What's wrong with them?" Van checked the rearview. "More coming."
Murphy tracked them through the scope. "They're hitting the wire! Breaking through!"
Lead cars smashed into the concertina barriers. Drivers didn't kill the engines. Wheels spun, throwing sand, wedging vehicles into the mesh.
More cars piled into the breach. The wire groaned and collapsed.
Guardsmen poured from the sentry posts, weapons raised, shouting commands at the gap.
The drivers didn't care. They rammed stalled vehicles aside and punched through.
BANG.
Gunfire. Murphy jerked back from the scope. "They're shooting at the civilians!"
A desert-camouflaged tank rumbled forward, diesel smoke belching, trying to plug the hole with its bulk.
But new gaps opened everywhere. The Guardsmen lost control.
"The parked cars are moving!" Murphy yelled. "Everyone's rushing the checkpoint!"
Van listened to the gunfire, watching the chaos in the mirror. His eyes narrowed.
He turned the key. The engine roared.
"We breaking through?" Caroline gripped her rifle.
Van nodded. "Those cars behind us aren't running from fear. They're running from something worse."
The checkpoint dissolved into anarchy. Three tanks couldn't seal the breaches.
Van dropped the Express down the dune, aiming for the thinnest cluster of Guardsmen.
Through the gaps in the wire, he weighed the timing. Then he floored it.
" Dogs! " Caroline screamed. " They're here! "
Van checked the mirror. Dark shapes streaked across the sand behind them—dozens of infected hounds, galloping toward the checkpoint at impossible speed.
"Too many." Van's voice was flat. "Seatbelts. Brace."
Murphy shoved the rifle into Caroline's lap and dropped into his seat, slamming the partition shut.
Van buried the pedal. The Express leaped forward, sand spraying from the rear tires.
Caroline watched the mirror. The dogs closed the distance fast.
Because of the panic, Guardsmen focused on the wire breaches and traffic, nobody spotting the canine wave rushing from the desert.
The pack overtook the stragglers. Caroline watched a hound launch from the sand, using momentum to shatter a hatchback's rear window. It tumbled inside.
The red compact swerved violently and rolled. Metal crunched against asphalt.
The dog crawled from the wreckage, shook its head, and kept running.
More vehicles flipped under the assault. Unbelted passengers ejected from rolling cars, still airborne when the hounds caught them.
Van saw it all in the mirror. He gritted his teeth and punched through a torn section of wire.
Cars piled against the barrier. The dogs hit right behind them.
The Guardsmen finally saw the threat. Too late.
A dozen hounds breached the perimeter. They moved with tactical intelligence—bite and move, bite and move, spreading chaos.
Guns stuttered. Then a Guardsman who'd been tackled rose to his feet, eyes bloodshot, and lunged at his squadmate.
Hesitation killed them. The remaining Guardsmen clustered tight, heavy machine guns on the APCs chattering.
Three tanks formed a triangle, protecting the survivors.
A hound leaped at the armored circle. Airborne, it exploded into meat and bone under concentrated fire.
More followed. Most died in the air, but enough landed inside the perimeter.
The clustered formation became a death trap. One bite inside the circle triggered a chain reaction.
Van watched in the rearview as the horde flooded the checkpoint.
"They're finished."
APCs buttoned up hatches and lurched forward, engines smoking.
Infected swamped the unprotected Guardsmen and refugees.
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An M1117 Guardian tried to grind through the swarm, crushing a dozen rotters before bogging down.
Dogs swarmed the stranded vehicle. As more piled on, they actually pushed the eight-ton armored car sideways.
A nearby tank fired into the mass while trying to crush the attackers, but soon it too wore a coat of climbing bodies.
The tank's turret spun, grinding infected into paste, but gore and slime smeared across the optics and cameras.
The M1117's M2 Browning thundered overhead, while its Mk 19 grenade launcher thumped rounds into the surrounding sand.
The tank reversed hard. It had to break out or die.
Van watched the fireball bloom. The Guardian tipped onto its side, auto-cannons silent, ammunition exhausted.
The remaining heavy vehicles crawled with infected. Turret rotation crushed some, but the tanks spun in circles, blind and burning through ammo.
The APCs fled.
As the armor retreated, Van knew the Guardsmen were dead.
Tanks couldn't outrun the horde. Limited ammunition couldn't clear the mass. Once the viewports clogged and the belts ran dry, they became steel coffins.
The Express overtook several stragglers, but Caroline's voice cut through the engine noise: "They're still coming."
The horde hadn't stopped at the checkpoint. They were still hunting.
The desert south of the checkpoint.
Cars sank into the sand every hundred meters, axles buried to the frame. Drivers stumbled out, waving frantically, screaming for traction.
Van didn't lift his foot from the pedal. The Express roared past, dust blasting through their open windows.
You don't have to outrun the tiger. Just the man beside you.
Murphy gripped the steel partition, head tilted, listening to the engine note.
"Boss, she's choking!" Murphy shouted.
"Slow down! Now!"
Van eased off the accelerator. "Status?"
"Too much speed! Sand's recycling into the intake!"
"Stop! We need to mask the grille or she'll seize!"
Murphy hammered the seatback. Van stomped the brakes.
The Chevy slid to a halt. Murphy threw herself out. "Pop the hood!"
Van yanked the release. Murphy lifted the latch, recoiling from the heat. Sand coated every surface inside the bay. She used a cardboard scrap to fan the grit away, spitting as passing vehicles kicked up fresh clouds.
"Give me cover!" Murphy yelled. "Something to block the grille!"
Caroline fanned frantically beside her. "The pack! There are BDUs in the bags!"
Van reached back, seized the backpack, and vaulted out. He tossed it to Murphy.
Murphy caught the bag and ripped out two tactical T-shirts. "Tear these!"
Van shredded the fabric. Murphy stuffed the wadded cloth behind the grille, packing the gaps.
"Good enough! We'll flush it later!"
CLANG.
Murphy slammed the hood down.
Caroline snapped her rifle up. "Contact! Dogs!"
Three infected hounds crested the dune behind them, legs pistoning.
Van spun toward the driver's door. He reached for Murphy—
A black shape launched from the sand.
Murphy disappeared under sixty pounds of twisted muscle and teeth. The impact drove her into the dirt.
Van's ears rang. He grabbed the Mossberg from the cab and jumped down.
Murphy had her pack wedged against the hound's jaws, forearms locked, keeping the snapping teeth inches from her throat. The beast thrashed, wrenching the pack side to side, tearing the straps.
The teeth slipped closer.
CRACK.
Van swung the shotgun like a bat. The steel receiver caved in the hound's skull, sending it tumbling across the sand.
He seized Murphy's collar and hurled her behind him. The shotgun pumped. Van fired into the twitching body.
[ SYSTEM NOTIFICATION ]
[ EXPERIENCE GAINED: +20 ]
Another hound launched from the dune, leaping for Van's exposed back.
Its head exploded mid-air. Blood and brain matter sprayed across the Chevy's flank.
Van didn't look back. He knew the shot. He grabbed Murphy and shoved her through the side door.
"Move!"
Caroline dropped the bolt on her rifle, chambering another round, and dropped two more approaching shapes before diving into the passenger seat.
Van slammed his door. Before he could grab the wheel, the world froze.
[ VEHICLE SYSTEM: LEVEL UP ]
[ CURRENT LEVEL: 5 (5/540) ]
[ SELECT UPGRADE REWARD: ]
[ OPTION A: CUSTOM CONFIGURATION MODULE ]
[ OPTION B: DIMENSIONAL EXPANSION (+20% INTERIOR/CARGO) ]
[ OPTION C: REINFORCED RAMMING PROW ]
Van ignored the prompt. He twisted the key. The V8 coughed, caught, and roared.
"No more redline," Murphy gasped from the back, sprawled across the seat. "Don't care how strong this engine is... desert'll kill it."
She remembered the throw. One second on the ground, the next airborne, landing behind Van's legs like a duffel bag.
"Thanks," she said. Then again. "Thanks."
Van checked the mirror. The passenger module displayed Murphy's status: [ REPUTATION: TRUSTED ]
He eased into the southbound traffic. Speed stayed moderate, but it was enough.
Caroline watched the dogs recede into the dust. She exhaled.
Van met her eyes in the mirror. They spoke at the same time.
"You too—"
They stopped. Murphy laughed—a short, sharp bark.
"We're in the same boat now," she said.
Van's grip tightened on the wheel. He answered in Mandarin, "一条绳上的蚂蚱(We're in the same boat now)."
Caroline smiled. She ejected her magazine and handed it back to Murphy. "Load these."
"Copy that." Murphy took the mag, thumbs working rounds into the feed lips.
Ten miles north, at Centennial.
The Lieutenant checked his Humvee's oil pressure while four paratroopers secured the perimeter around the drop zone. A C-17's engines faded into the eastern sky.
The platoon leader carried pure suppression loadouts—M249s and Mk 48s. Heavy stuff.
Three AH-64D Longbows thundered overhead. Behind them, ten M1117 Guardians from the New Mexico National Guard rumbled down the highway, turrets scanning.
The Airborne commander approached. "Ready?"
The Lieutenant checked his watch and nodded. They synchronized timepieces.
The Lieutenant climbed into the Humvee's TC seat. The airborne element formed up behind the Apaches, advancing into Centennial's outskirts.
"What happened here?" The driver lit a cigarette, eyeing the empty streets.
The Lieutenant waved off the offered pack. "Doesn't matter. We punch through two towns and reach the extraction grid on schedule."
The driver tossed the cigarettes to the three soldiers in back. He pointed at the helicopters. "One's breaking off."
The Lieutenant knew. That Apache carried the spotter team hunting for a specific heat signature. He checked his watch again but said nothing.
Then the firing started.
"Browning .50s," said the soldier in back. "The Guardians are engaging."
The driver exhaled smoke. "What target needs that much suppression? This town go traitor?"
Rocket pods lit up the southern skyline—Hydra 70s ripping into buildings.
The Lieutenant's squad stared. "Invasion?"
Once the pathfinders cleared the route, the Lieutenant tapped the dashboard. "Drive."
The Humvee rolled forward. They passed through the kill zone paratroopers had carved through the town.
Bodies carpeted the asphalt. Not bodies—pieces. Torsos without limbs. Heads separated from necks.
The soldier in back pressed against the window. "Animal wounds. Like a pack of wolves went through."
They followed chem-lights deeper south. The devastation grew denser.
The driver's knuckles whitened on the wheel. They'd seen combat overseas, but domestic carnage on this scale turned stomachs.
At Centennial's southern edge, the Airborne commander waited beside a smoldering barricade.
"Bayard's ten clicks south. Should be lighter resistance there—we're bogged down clearing this nest. Good luck."
He turned back to his radioman before the Lieutenant could respond.
The Humvee accelerated onto the open highway. The Lieutenant's PDA chirped. New data packet.
He opened the file.
[ TARGET PROFILE ]
[ NAME: CAROLINE JANE ]
[ HEIGHT: 170 CM (5'6") ]
[ AGE: 26 ]
[ FEATURES: BLONDE SHORT-CROP, LIGHT BLUE IRIS ]
[ CLEARANCE: TOP SECRET / ARCHANGEL ]
[ LAST CONFIRMED: TRAVELING IN SILVER PANEL TRUCK ]
The Lieutenant stared at the photograph. A woman with ice-blue eyes and hair like pale gold looked back at him.
He glanced up at the desert horizon where a dust plume marked the refugee trail south.
"Faster," he told the driver.
The Humvee's engine growled, eating the miles toward Bayard.