A few hours later.
The hum of the helicopter blades filled the air as I held Alice close. She trembled against me, her face buried in my chest, and I stroked her hair gently, trying to calm her. The events of the past few hours had shaken us both, but I needed to be strong for her.
"It's okay, Alice," I whispered, though the words felt weak. "We're safe now."
I stared out the small window of the helicopter, my mind wandering to darker thoughts. Memories of my parents flashed before me—before my regression, I had watched them succumb to the infection. Their faces, once full of warmth, twisted into the mindless hunger of the undead. The thought of them still out there, shambling among the horde, clawed at my chest. Were they still roaming the streets of New York, or had someone put them out of their misery?
Part of me didn't want to know.
Nearby, the soldiers were busy on the radio, their voices steady and professional.
"Echo-Two, this is Falcon-One. Survivors retrieved: two civilians, one male, one female. ETA to Safe Zone: 20 minutes. Over."
"Copy that, Falcon-One. Ensure decontamination protocol on arrival. Over."
I strained to catch every word, my curiosity about their procedures mingling with the faint hope that this "Safe Zone" was truly safe. One soldier turned toward me, his face hard but not unkind.
"You're lucky we found you," he said, his voice gruff. "Not many make it out alive from areas swarming with infected. Especially with…that thing you described."
I nodded grimly. "The Wing of Death."
The soldier's expression darkened. "Command's been warning us about it, but seeing one in action… Hell, it makes the other infected seem tame."
The helicopter touched down with a jarring thud. The doors slid open, and we were met with the noise and chaos of the survivor camp. The first thing I noticed was the sheer number of people. Some sat slumped against walls, their eyes hollow. Others cried openly, remembering the loved ones they had lost. A few wandered aimlessly, like ghosts searching for something they'd never find.
Upon exiting the helicopter, we were greeted by a team of medical check-up. They were conducting a medical test on us to determine whether or not we were infected or not.
It is to be expected as the world is not the same, kindness is no longer a thing it's about the survival of the fittest.
After they were done checking on us a soldier greeted us.
"This way," barked one of the soldiers, motioning for Alice and me to follow.
We walked through the camp, past rows of makeshift tents and barricades. People worked tirelessly—carrying supplies, patching up defenses, and tending to the injured. Children huddled together in silence, their faces pale and thin. The air smelled of sweat, blood, and desperation.
Alice clung to me as we passed by a young woman sobbing over a photograph. I squeezed her hand, hoping to shield her from the worst of it.
Inside a small briefing room, we sat across from several officers. A grizzled man with a scar running down his cheek addressed us.
"We've identified several types of infected," he began, pulling up a whiteboard with crude drawings of zombies. "Walkers, Runners, Screamers, Spitters, Heavy Zombies… And now, thanks to your report, we've confirmed the existence of the 'Wing of Death.'"
I feigned surprise as he continued. I already knew this, of course. What they didn't know—and what I did—was that the infected were still evolving. This was just the beginning.
"The Wing of Death poses a serious threat to any survivor groups or military operations," the officer said grimly. "We're working on strategies to counter it, but without heavy firepower, we're at a disadvantage. The longer we wait, the more mutations we'll face. We need to be ready for anything."
Over the next two days, Alice and I settled into the camp. I volunteered for the defense forces, joining the other recruits in grueling drills and firearms training. I needed to be strong, not just for myself but for Alice. If the camp fell, I would fight to the last breath to protect her.
Alice found a place helping in the kitchen and medical tent. She prepared meals, bandaged wounds, and provided comfort to those who needed it. Watching her smile, even faintly, as she worked gave me hope.
On the second night, a crackling radio message broke through the camp's routine.
"This is Bravo-Team. We've located two survivors near the outskirts of Zone 7. Requesting permission to bring them in. Over."
The camp supervisor, a stern woman named Captain Reyes, frowned. "Zone 7? That area's overrun by zombie. Are you certain they're alive?"
"Affirmative," came the reply. "One male, one female. They're barricaded in a convenience store. Sending coordinates now. Over."
Reyes hesitated, then nodded. "Permission granted. But stay vigilant. We can't afford any mistakes."
The camp buzzed with anticipation as preparations were made to receive the newcomers. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. Two survivors, in an area swarming with infected? It didn't add up.
But I dismissed the feelings that I am fearing because as the saying goes "Don't judge a book by its cover."
Back in our tent, Alice and I shared a simple meal of canned fish. She stared at her plate, her thoughts clearly elsewhere.
"Brother," she said softly, "do you think Mom and Dad are okay? Do you think they're…alive?"
I froze, the question cutting deeper than I expected. "Alice," I began, forcing a smile, "I'm sure they're out there. And we'll find them. I promise."
But even as I said it, doubt gnawed at me. New York City was a deathtrap. If they were still alive, it would be a miracle.
The next morning, I stormed into Captain Reyes's office, determination burning in my chest.
"We need to search New York City," I said, my voice firm. "There could be more survivors there."
Reyes didn't even look up from her desk. "Denied. We don't have the fuel for a three-day trip."
"But—" I replied.
"End of discussion," she snapped.
Frustrated, I left her office, my resolve only growing stronger. If they wouldn't go, I'd find another way...