Chapter 168: Galloway [5]

That was why I wanted to take my chances with Atlantic City as our next destination despite the risks involved in approaching such a large urban center. Coastal cities—especially ones with significant maritime industries and tourism infrastructure—represented my best opportunity to find functional vessels and potentially locate survivors with sailing experience.

Atlantic City had been a major resort destination before the outbreak, with extensive marina facilities, charter fishing operations, casino-resort complexes with their own yacht services for high-roller guests. If I could find a vessel there capable of ocean crossing, and if I could somehow acquire the knowledge necessary to pilot it safely…

Then maybe—just maybe—reaching Saint Petersburg wouldn’t be completely impossible. Just extraordinarily difficult and dangerous, with odds of success that any rational person would consider unacceptably low.

But I’d stopped being rational about this particular goal the moment Vladislav’s helicopters had disappeared into the sky.

I would reach her. Somehow. By whatever means proved necessary, through whatever obstacles stood in my way, regardless of how many years the journey might take or how many times I’d need to risk death to make progress.

The determination wasn’t negotiable. Wasn’t something I could talk myself out of through logical argument or considerations about probability of success.

There was absolutely no way I would just abandon Elena after witnessing her crying as she’d been dragged away so clearly, obviously reluctantly—pulled toward that helicopter against every fiber of her being that screamed to stay, to resist, to choose her own life rather than accept the gilded cage her father offered.

And it wasn’t only Elena whose situation demanded my intervention.

Alisha.

I knew that she had been the one who’d called her father in the first place—made the decision to contact Vladislav and request extraction despite knowing the cost that choice would carry. She’d done it because she genuinely believed her father was offering the best possible safety for herself and especially for her sister. Elena was infected with the Dullahan virus now, making her a potential high-priority target for Starakians and their technologies who specifically sought Symbiosis hosts. That threat was real and dangerous, making Alisha’s logic sound.

Because in brutal truth, I couldn’t offer the same level of protection that Vladislav commanded. Just by witnessing his arrival—three military-grade helicopters, dozens of professionally trained and heavily armed mercenaries equipped with top-tier weapons and body armor, resources that suggested access to fuel reserves and supply chains that simply shouldn’t exist in this collapsed world—I was forced to acknowledge how utterly outmatched I was in terms of conventional security.

I didn’t hold anything in comparison to that display of organized force except my personal enhanced abilities. My Dullahan powers made me extraordinarily dangerous in direct combat, capable of feats that would seem impossible to normal humans. But an entire private army with military training and unlimited ammunition was objectively superior protection compared to one enhanced individual, no matter how powerful that individual might be.

Even with all my supernatural capabilities, I hadn’t been able to protect Jasmine after all…

All the speed and strength and temporal manipulation in the world hadn’t prevented her infection, hadn’t stopped Jason’s betrayal, hadn’t saved her from transformation and the mercy killing that had followed. My powers had limitations—fatal limitations that meant people I cared about could still die while I watched helplessly.

But that was also precisely why I had absolutely no intention of going to Russia empty-handed, arriving at Vladislav’s doorstep as nothing more than a desperate young man begging for what he couldn’t claim by right or force.

I didn’t know exactly how yet—the specifics remained frustratingly vague, details I’d need to figure out through trial and error and probably extensive failure before finding solutions that actually worked—but I had to find some way to demonstrate that I was genuinely, legitimately capable of protecting both Elena and Alisha. Had to prove through actions and results rather than mere words that I could provide security sufficient to keep them safe from Starakians, from infected hordes, from hostile survivors, from all the countless dangers this nightmare world threw at anyone trying to survive.

Vladislav would never willingly release his daughters to someone he viewed as inadequate protection. Why would he? From his perspective, I was just some random enhanced survivor who’d gotten lucky with his Symbiosis compatibility but lacked the resources, connections, or strategic thinking necessary to truly safeguard valuable assets in long-term sustainable ways.

Rather would he even hand over his daughters even if I had an entire army with me? That was questionable since he didn’t view me really as someone worthy of him and his daughters.

I needed to change that perception. Needed to arrive in Saint Petersburg not as a supplicant but as a legitimate alternative—someone whose capabilities and resources made him a credible protector rather than just another desperate person seeking things beyond his means.

Maybe I sounded arrogant even thinking that way—presuming I could somehow match an oligarch’s security infrastructure, imagining I had the right to take Elena and Alisha as if they were possessions to be claimed rather than people with their own agency. The hubris of believing I could protect them better than their own father with his vast wealth and professional security forces…

I clenched my fists hard enough that my nails bit into my palms.

I wouldn’t be thinking something this seemingly delusional if I didn’t know Elena’s and Alisha’s true thoughts and feelings about their situation. Wasn’t operating purely from my own desires or ego-driven need to be the hero who rescued the damsel in distress.

I knew them well enough by now—had lived with them for two months, fought alongside them, shared intimate moments and vulnerable conversations—to understand what they genuinely wished for deep down. Especially Elena, whose feelings she’d never hidden once she’d decided to trust me with them.

Elena didn’t want to return to her father’s control. Didn’t want the safety he offered if it came at the cost of her freedom and autonomy. She’d explicitly told me multiple times that she’d rather face danger with people she chose to be with than accept security that felt like imprisonment.

And Alisha, despite making the pragmatic choice to call their father, had done so out of desperate concern for Elena’s safety rather than genuine desire to return to Vladislav’s household. She’d sacrificed her own preferences to protect her sister, but that didn’t mean she was happy about it.

Knowing this—truly understanding their actual desires rather than just projecting what I wanted to believe—I simply couldn’t stay still and passively accept them being taken away. Couldn’t just let them go and move on with my life as if those relationships had meant nothing more than temporary apocalyptic companionship.

If I didn’t pursue Elena even after everything we’d been through together, after everything we’d shared and survived and built between us… I would never forgive myself. Would spend the rest of my existence—however long that proved to be—haunted by the knowledge that I’d abandoned someone I loved when she needed me most.

Because Elena wasn’t just a woman I’d happened to meet during the apocalypse and had sex with as part of the Dullahan stabilization process. She was so much more than that biological necessity that had brought us together initially. She’d become part of me in ways I couldn’t fully articulate—woven into my sense of self so thoroughly that her absence felt like missing a limb or vital organ. I genuinely could never be entirely happy without her by my side yeah.

Movement in my peripheral vision pulled me from the emotional spiral I’d been descending into. Three more infected were approaching through the beautiful stone-carved walkway that wound through what had once been carefully maintained gardens—elderly victims like the first one, their bodies showing the characteristic decay and damage that came from months of aimless wandering while the virus kept their corpses animated.

I walked toward them rather than waiting for them to reach me, my footsteps echoing faintly through the continuing light rain that pattered against pavement and overgrown vegetation.

All three were elderly—probably residents of this facility before the outbreak, people who’d come here daily for social engagement and structured activities that helped maintain quality of life in their final years. Now reduced to mindless predator.

I quickly dispatched them using techniques that had become second nature through months of constant practice. The first infected fell to a horizontal slash that separated head from shoulders cleanly. I sidestepped the second one’s grasping hands, pivoting smoothly to deliver a diagonal cut that opened its skull and destroyed whatever neural tissue the virus was using to animate it. The third required two strikes—the first disrupting its approach, the second finishing what the initial attack had started—before its body collapsed into the growing collection of corpses marking my path through the facility.

I continued forward without pausing to examine the bodies, moving deeper into the complex until a large structure on my left caught my attention. It appeared to be the main administrative building—probably where visitors had registered their presence, where staff coordinated activities, where records were kept and community information was posted on bulletin boards that now hung askew or had fallen entirely.

I approached one of the windows and wiped away the accumulated grime and rainwater coating the glass, creating a clear spot large enough to peer through into the building’s dark interior.

Everything inside looked chaotic and disordered—furniture overturned, papers scattered everywhere, clear evidence of panic and violence during the initial outbreak. But with the grey morning light filtering through other windows, I could see well enough to determine that no infected appeared to be present inside currently. The building seemed empty of immediate threats.

The main glass entrance doors were completely shattered, jagged fragments still clinging to frames while most of the safety glass lay scattered across the floor inside and out. The entrance gates beyond stood wide open, suggesting infected had long since left to pursue sounds and movement elsewhere rather than remaining trapped inside enclosed spaces.

It was difficult to determine exactly when the infection had actually reached this particular part of New Jersey. The outbreak for me had started in New York approximately two months ago—that much I knew from direct experience. But how quickly it had spread to surrounding states, which areas had fallen first, what evacuation or containment patterns had emerged… all of that remained unclear without access to comprehensive information sources that no longer existed.

Regardless, it had definitely been months since this facility had been overrun. The bodies were mostly decomposed or missing entirely, probably carried off by animals or simply collapsed into unrecognizable organic material. The blood had oxidized to brown and much of it had been washed away by weather. So it was perfectly normal to not encounter overwhelming numbers of infected here—most had likely wandered away long ago, drawn by sounds from more populated areas or simply following whatever mysterious impulses guided them when no immediate prey was available.

But there was something bothering me now, nagging at my attention like an itch I couldn’t quite scratch.

I didn’t know if it was genuine pattern recognition or just my paranoid misinterpretation of random data, but it increasingly felt like the infected I’d been encountering weren’t moving in truly random aimless patterns. They seemed to be heading in a single consistent direction—toward the south, specifically.

It was subtle enough that I’d initially dismissed it as coincidence or confirmation bias making me see patterns that didn’t actually exist. Not all infected were moving that way, which supported the coincidence interpretation. Their movements still appeared random and directionless most of the time, drawn by immediate sounds or prey rather than following any organized migration pattern.

But a significant number of them—maybe even a majority when I really paid attention and tried to track their general trajectories rather than just their immediate threat vectors—actually did take the same path southward rather than dispersing in truly random directions. When they stopped their sound-drawn behaviors, when no immediate stimulus was directing them, they consistently oriented themselves toward the south and began walking.

The pattern was too consistent to be pure chance. Something was influencing their movement on a large scale, creating a slow migration that wasn’t obvious from moment-to-moment observation but became apparent when you tracked trends over time and distance.

It was deeply weird and genuinely unsettling once I noticed it clearly enough to be certain I wasn’t imagining things.

What could possibly cause that kind of coordinated behavior in creatures that were supposed to be mindless and directionless? Was there some kind of signal drawing them south? Some environmental factor that unconsciously influenced their movement patterns? Or—more disturbingly—was something actively herding them, organizing them the way the Screamer had done but on an even larger scale?

Maybe I was just being paranoid, seeing conspiracies and patterns where only random chance existed. My mental state wasn’t exactly stable right now, between grief over Jasmine’s death, rage and helplessness over Elena’s abduction, exhaustion from constant travel and combat, and the accumulated trauma of months spent surviving apocalyptic conditions. Under those circumstances, misinterpreting random data as meaningful patterns would be completely understandable.

Yeah. There was probably no real reason for concern about infected migration patterns. Just my traumatized brain trying to find new threats to worry about when I should be focusing on immediate concerns like gathering supplies and getting back to the convoy safely.

I turned away from the administration building’s grimy window and continued my search of the facility, deciding to explore the outdoor areas more thoroughly before committing to entering any of the structures themselves.

I didn’t particularly want to venture inside the buildings yet. Maybe because I just wanted to look around a bit before really trying to find anything valuable inside.

The rain continued its steady patter, creating a constant white noise backdrop that would normally mask sounds but which my enhanced hearing could filter through with reasonable effectiveness. Water dripped from tree branches and collected in puddles that reflected the grey overcast sky.

I quickly reached what had clearly been one of the facility’s premium amenities—a large outdoor swimming pool, probably Olympic-sized or close to it, surrounded by concrete decking and decorative tile work that spoke to significant investment in creating an appealing recreational space. Under normal circumstances before the outbreak, this would have been a centerpiece attraction: elderly residents swimming laps for exercise, participating in water aerobics classes, or simply relaxing poolside while socializing with friends.

Currently, the pool was completely unkempt and utterly horrifying to look at.

The water had turned a murky green-brown color, choked with algae growth that thrived without any chemical treatment or filtration system maintenance. Leaves and debris covered the surface in thick mats, creating floating islands of decomposing organic material that gave off a foul smell I could detect even from several feet away.

But the leaves weren’t the worst part. Bodies littered the pool—infected that had somehow fallen in and now floated there stupidly, their decomposing corpses bobbing gently with whatever weak currents the rain created. I counted at least a dozen visible from my position, though more probably lurked beneath the surface or tangled in the pool’s deeper sections where visibility was completely obscured by murk.

How much time had these infected been trapped in this pool, floating there helplessly while their bodies continued the slow process of decay? Days? Weeks? Months, even? The viral animation kept them ’alive’ in some technical sense despite conditions that would have killed any living organism through drowning or exposure, but it clearly didn’t grant them the cognitive capability to escape a situation as simple as being stuck in a pool.

Well, maybe with a bit of luck and random movement, some might eventually thrash their way to the pool’s edge and manage to claw themselves out onto solid ground. But the process seemed extraordinarily arduous for ordinary infected like these—lacking the intelligence to problem-solve or the enhanced physical capabilities to simply leap out of the water, they were effectively trapped until something external changed their circumstances.

Movement around the pool’s far edge caught my attention—more infected wandering the grounds in their characteristic aimless patterns. I observed them with detachment.

When one of them spotted me standing on the opposite side of the pool, its blank eyes somehow registering my presence and it immediately growled and began walking directly toward me.

It didn’t make it more than three or four stumbling steps before the ground simply disappeared beneath its feet. The infected toppled forward with no apparent awareness that it was walking directly into a massive pool of water, hitting the surface with a splash that sent ripples across the algae-covered expanse. It thrashed briefly—more reflex than conscious swimming attempt—before beginning to sink slowly beneath the murky surface.

The sound and movement attracted several other infected wandering nearby. They turned toward the commotion with the viral imperative that drew them to noise and activity, shuffling forward to investigate. Since I was standing on the opposite side of the pool from their current positions, their direct-line approach to reach me led them straight into the water as well.

One after another, they simply walked off the pool’s edge like lemmings following each other over a cliff. Splash. Splash. Splash. Three more infected added to the floating collection, their bodies creating expanding ripples that disturbed the stagnant water and sent waves of foul smell wafting across the deck.

If only all infected were like this—stupid, brainless, easily defeated by obstacles as simple as a body of water they lacked the motor skills to navigate. The apocalypse would be manageable, almost trivial, if these basic shambling types represented the full extent of the threat.

But of course, there had been enhanced versions.

And those were just the ones I’d encountered directly. How many other variants existed that I hadn’t yet met and others like me had? What other capabilities might the Starakians have engineered into their bioweapon that I’d only discover when confronted by something new and deadly?

I clenched the grip of my hand axe harder. I was ready to walk forward to the pool’s edge and finish off the infected thrashing in the water—not strictly necessary since they were effectively neutralized already, and honestly just a waste of energy given how many other threats I’d need to conserve strength for.

But I just…just seeing these things was making me…

“Finally found you.”

I’d just started moving toward the pool’s edge when I heard a voice behind me.

My grip on the hand axe relaxed slightly.

I turned slowly, rain still pattering against my face and soaked clothing.

Cindy was standing about ten feet away on the pathway I’d just walked.

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