People who endure constant oppression typically end up with one of two responses: either they rise up in defiance when pushed too far, or they quietly submit to their fate.
Most, however, choose the former. Even a clay Buddha exudes a sense of resilience; how much more so people struggling to survive in a post-apocalyptic world?
Thomas patted Nathan's shoulder and offered a consoling smile. "Brother, don't let it get to you. In times like these, power speaks louder than reason. If you can't beat them, enduring is all you can do."
"How much more can I endure?" Nathan's voice quivered with frustration. "We came here with over a hundred people. Now there are barely eighty of us left. Thirty portions of food a day—do you know what that even means? Anthony's group gets two loaves of bread and a carton of milk per portion. And us? A single damn pack of crackers!"
Bread and milk?
Thomas and his group had no idea. They had assumed the food distribution was the same for everyone. Hearing this revelation, Thomas's impression of Miles grew even sharper. One thing became crystal clear—Miles was hoarding a massive stockpile of supplies.
"Why don't you join us?"
Thomas finally extended an invitation, his tone casual yet calculated. "We might not have much to offer, but at least we can look out for each other. If Anthony tries to pull this again, we'll back you up."
Nathan hesitated, doubt flickering in his eyes. "What if Miles finds out?"
Thomas let out a chuckle. "Come on, Nathan. If Miles truly cared about you, would he let Anthony keep harassing you like this? He doesn't see you as comrades—he sees you as tools. The more zombies you catch, the more valuable you are to him. That's it."
Thomas wasn't wrong. From the start, Miles had built the extermination team on a principle of survival of the fittest. It didn't matter who caught the zombies, only that the job got done.
"But we… we'd just be a burden to you," Nathan replied, his voice tinged with wariness.
"How so?"
Luther interjected, his tone brimming with impatience. "If you join us, we could—"
"Shut it!" Thomas snapped, shooting Luther a warning glare. Turning back to Nathan, he softened his tone. "There's no rush. You're safer in the mansion district anyway. I just hate seeing decent folks getting pushed around."
They exchanged a few more words before Thomas and his group took their leave. Once they were out of earshot, Thomas's calm facade dropped.
"What the hell were you thinking?" he hissed, rounding on Luther.
Luther bristled. "What did I do?"
"You tried to make him betray Miles on the spot! Do you think someone like Nathan, who's been with Miles this long, would just up and leave without hesitation? He doesn't have the guts, and even if he did, do you think he'd trust us so quickly?"
"I…" Luther faltered, realizing his misstep.
Thomas exhaled sharply. "He hasn't reached his breaking point yet. Give it time. Once he has nowhere else to turn, he'll come to us willingly."
While Thomas's group played their part in this intricate drama, Miles was also busy executing his own plans.
At the break of dawn, he set out with Ryan in their snow-clad SUV. The vehicle barreled down icy roads, cutting through the frostbitten wasteland. Half an hour later, they arrived at the western outskirts of the city.
As the cityscape thinned and the structures grew sparse, navigating became trickier. Without precise landmarks, even the smallest deviation could result in getting hopelessly lost. Thankfully, luck seemed to be on their side.
"This is the western barracks," Ryan explained, pointing to a cluster of snow-covered buildings in the distance. "A full regiment used to be stationed here. I had a buddy who served here, so I've been a couple of times."
Against the vast expanse of white, the military camp looked like a pixelated blur, its outline barely visible beneath the layers of snow. Miles raised his binoculars for a better view, scanning the scene before breaking into a grin.
"Let's go. If there's any treasure left in this world, it's here."
They drove as far as the terrain allowed before abandoning the car. The iron gates of the camp were frozen solid, encased in a thick layer of ice. Donning heavy gloves retrieved from his space, Miles vaulted over the barrier with Ryan close behind.
Their objective was straightforward: weapons.
In this new world, strength was the ultimate currency. While Miles's abilities made him formidable, he was no invincible deity. Against a large-scale attack, even he would need superior firepower.
"Where's the damn armory?" Miles muttered after nearly thirty minutes of fruitless searching.
The relentless snowstorms of the past two months had buried much of the camp. Ground-level structures were almost completely hidden, and even the upper floors were partially obscured. Finding the armory, concealed as it was, proved to be a monumental task.
"Over here!" Ryan called out, waving Miles over.
Ryan's military background served him well. He located a partially exposed entrance to an underground bunker.
Miles frowned at the narrow, snow-filled opening. "It's underground?"
Ryan nodded. "This camp was built along the mountainside. Excavating the terrain for large-scale infrastructure was too difficult, so most supplies and equipment were stored in underground shelters."
Miles sighed, resigned. "Get digging."
From his spatial inventory, he retrieved an excavator—a relic from his earlier scavenging expeditions at a heavy equipment dealership. As the machine roared to life, Ryan operated it with practiced ease, chipping away at the frozen earth.
The excavation took the better part of an hour. Finally, they uncovered a two-meter-wide passageway leading down into the bunker.
"It's open!" Ryan called out triumphantly.
"Keep going," Miles instructed, his tone cautious. "There'll be a reinforced door inside. That'll be even harder to break through."
Another half-hour of relentless digging passed. A muffled crash echoed as the final barrier gave way, releasing a gust of stale, musty air.
They descended into the bunker, their footsteps echoing in the frigid silence.
But Miles's excitement quickly turned to frustration.
"What the hell?" he exclaimed, surveying the empty racks that stretched endlessly before them.
The armory was barren, save for a few scattered remnants—some lubricating oil here, a stray piece of gear there. Miles picked up the canister of oil, his expression darkening.
"Damn it. This was a waste of time."
Ryan, too, looked disheartened but nodded grimly. "It seems your suspicion was correct. The military must have evacuated these supplies long ago. And if that's the case…" He hesitated, his tone turning grave. "Then the soldiers who were stationed here probably relocated with the supplies."
"How many were stationed here?" Miles asked, his voice thoughtful.
Ryan considered for a moment before replying, "This was a full regiment—roughly 3,000 men. And since this is Chicago, a major city, each camp should have a fully staffed defense battalion. That means there are at least 3,000 soldiers in each of the city's four barracks."
Miles's frown deepened. "That's not even counting the police, SWAT, and other specialized forces. If they've all regrouped, then there's a standing force of over 20,000 in the city… maybe more."