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🕑 Added 2025-05-09 08:34:01 +0000 UTCStay Alive
Chapter 12 - Searching for Supplies
A trip from Austin to Midland, Texas, used to take about two and a half hours by car. By plane, it was even less. But in this new world, where engines attracted the infected like blood draws predators, traveling stealthily was more important than speed.
Alan and his group arrived on modified motorcycles: one was his, and the other he had found days earlier, abandoned near a mechanic’s shop.
The journey was tense but uneventful. Upon arrival, they set up in what seemed to have once been a roadside restaurant. The place was somewhat removed from the center of Midland, making it safer. Few infected wandered the area, and the reinforced windows of the place offered minimal but effective protection.
Alan had chosen this spot for a simple reason: the low population density. Midland was never as large as Houston or Dallas, making it a good place to hide, plan, and, with some luck, survive.
A few days after settling in, Alan decided to go out alone in search of supplies. It was his style: he didn’t like carrying anyone else, nor explaining his plans. He simply got up one morning and left without a word.
Along the way, he made sure to avoid the infected, taking backroads, staying away from open fields, and hiding when necessary. Then he saw it: a police station.
Above the entrance arch, it read in large letters: "Midland Police Department." The state emblem still hung there, dusty but intact. The official vehicles in the parking lot were covered in a thick layer of ash and dirt. No one was patrolling. No one was shouting. Only the wind.
On the ground, the dry bloodstains suggested that the infected had passed through here more than once.
Alan walked slowly toward the building. His knee still hurt, a remnant from a past fight, so he limped slightly.
The interior wasn’t as chaotic as Austin. There were signs of a last stand: empty bullet casings on the floor, overturned desks, and bullet marks on the walls. Alan’s footsteps echoed in the place, and that echo stirred several infected who staggered out from a nearby office.
But Alan didn’t flinch. He was never the type to panic over six or seven infected in an enclosed space. He was armed, experienced, and, above all, tired. Tired of having to carry his life.
What kind of man would fear death with those feelings?
"Argh!"
"These seem slower..." Alan thought as he observed how the group of infected grew overconfident with their numbers.
To fight them, Alan kept his distance, made use of the environment, and took down the infected one by one with a long machete. When it was all over, the air smelled of rust, dry blood, and humidity.
He made his way to the second floor, crossing through disheveled offices and open file cabinets. In one room, he found something different.
Bodies.
Several.
At least twelve humans and a dozen infected. But these latter ones were already dead... and Alan hadn’t killed them.
The human bodies were seated in front of a window, covered by a desk dragged into place as a barricade. Two infected lay on top of the desk, facing them. Another infected was on the human side, as if it had managed to breach the defense, but it was also dead. All of them had gunshot wounds to the head.
There was something symbolic about that scene. A final stand.
Alan examined the bodies. One of the humans had a clean shot to the head. The other, to the temple. Probably one killed the other and then took their own life. The scattered shell casings told the story: they fought until there was no other option.
He knelt down, took one of the pistols. Empty. No magazine. Then he picked up the fallen police hats and, carefully, placed them on the bodies of the fallen officers... even on the infected one that seemed to have been one of them before dying.
It was a gesture of no practical use. But in a world where humanity was vanishing, Alan felt those small acts held more value than ever.
Every person who had fought the infected to the end deserved to be remembered as a hero. Alan gave them an informal military salute, turned, and limped out of the building, heading to another place where he might find food, ammunition, or hope.
"They fought well..." Alan murmured, his thoughts heavy.
