Chapter 178: Scouting Atlantic City [1]

It didn’t take particularly long before our entire scouting party had completed final preparations and departed from Galloway Township, driving off into the deepening dusk in two vehicles—our car taking point position ahead of Martin’s car following approximately thirty feet behind.

Rachel sat in the driver’s seat, her hands resting lightly on the steering wheel with the kind of relaxed competence that came from years of driving experience. I occupied the passenger seat beside her, positioned where I could maintain clear sightlines in multiple directions and communicate easily with both the driver and the passengers in back. Sydney and Christopher had claimed the rear seats, their equipment and weapons stowed carefully around them in the limited cargo space.

We weren’t driving fast—maintaining speeds well below what the empty roads would theoretically permit. The reasoning was simple and strategic: first, darkness was falling rapidly across the landscape, transforming the world into shifting shadows and uncertain shapes that made high-speed navigation genuinely dangerous. Driving too fast in these deteriorating visibility conditions would mean we’d have minimal time to react if infected suddenly appeared in our path, potentially resulting in collision damage to the vehicle that we couldn’t afford to repair.

Second, we were being extremely cautious with the car itself, treating it as the valuable and essentially irreplaceable asset it was. Vehicles in the apocalypse represented life-or-death survival tools—transportation for evacuations, mobile shelter, cargo capacity for supplies, ramming capability against infected threats. Damaging one through reckless driving would be catastrophically stupid when replacement options were limited to whatever abandoned vehicles we might find, most of which had been sitting unused for months and would require extensive mechanical work to restore to functional condition.

Moreover, despite the low statistical probability, we all maintained vigilant watch through the windows, our eyes constantly scanning the darkening landscape for anything unusual or noteworthy. Potential survivors holed up in buildings we passed. Interesting locations that might yield valuable supplies. Defensive positions that could serve as fallback points if we needed emergency shelter. Vehicle garages that might contain useful parts or tools.

The journey itself became an exercise in tactical flexibility and risk management. We encountered several roads where the concentration of infected wandering aimlessly was simply too dense to safely navigate—dozens of shambling bodies creating human obstacle courses that would force us to slow down or stop, potentially attracting even more infected to our location through noise and movement.

In those situations, Rachel would consult briefly with me, then make the decision to divert completely onto alternative routes rather than risking passage through dangerous concentrations. Each detour added time to our journey but preserved our safety and vehicle integrity. Better to arrive late than not arrive at all.

The result was that reaching Atlantic City—which under normal pre-apocalypse conditions would have been maybe a twenty-five minute drive from Galloway—took considerably longer than initially expected. The sun had fully set by the time the city’s distinctive skyline finally loomed ahead of us, silhouetted against the darkening eastern sky.

Atlantic City rose from the coastal landscape like a monument to human ambition now fallen silent—casino towers reaching toward the stars, the famous boardwalk stretching along the Atlantic Ocean coastline, the Absecon Lighthouse standing as a sentinel overlooking everything with its 171-foot height making it the tallest lighthouse in New Jersey. All of it now presumably infested with infected and devoid of the millions of tourists and residents who’d once might have filled these streets with life and noise and constant motion.

When we finally reached the main arterial road leading directly into the city proper—a wide boulevard that had once carried endless streams of vehicles toward casino parking garages and beachfront hotels—Rachel brought our vehicle to a smooth stop just before the point where the road transitioned from suburban surroundings into urban density. The location provided good visibility in multiple directions while still offering escape routes if we suddenly found ourselves in danger.

“We start our reconnaissance here,” I said quietly. “This serves as our entry point and fallback position.”

Rachel nodded acknowledgment, her hands moving through the sequence of shutting down the vehicle—transmission into park, engine off, emergency brake engaged. The sudden silence that followed the engine’s cessation felt almost oppressive after the constant background hum we’d been surrounded by during the drive. Now we could hear everything: the faint sound of wind moving through abandoned buildings, distant creaks and groans of deteriorating structures, the ever-present possibility of infected growls that could emerge from any direction.

We all exited the car simultaneously, doors opening with soft clicks and closing with carefully controlled pressure to minimize noise. Martin’s vehicle pulled up behind us moments later.

I moved to the trunk, opening it to reveal our carefully organized equipment and weapons. Each person had their designated gear already prepared, but I went through the mental checklist anyway, verifying everything was present and functional. For myself, I selected my trusted hand axe—the same weapon I’d been carrying since that first scavenging run in Jackson Township, its handle worn smooth by now months of constant use and its blade showing the inevitable dulling that came from cutting through infected flesh and bone. I also took a handgun from the weapons cache, checking that it was loaded and that I had spare magazines readily accessible.

Obviously, as Sydney had pointed out earlier with her characteristic bluntness, using firearms in an urban environment filled with infected was stupid under normal circumstances. The noise would attract every infected within hearing range—potentially hundreds or even thousands in a city as densely populated as Atlantic City had been. Gunfire was essentially ringing a dinner bell announcing fresh prey to everything capable of responding to sound.

But ’stupid under normal circumstances’ didn’t mean ’never use under any circumstances’. We carried the firearms specifically because death danger situations did arise where hand weapons proved insufficient or inefficient. If we got completely overwhelmed by sheer numbers, if we encountered Enhanced Infected that could only be stopped through massive trauma, if we needed to create diversionary noise deliberately—in those worst-case scenarios, having firearms available could mean the difference between survival and becoming infected ourselves.

Rachel, Sydney, and I each took handguns along with our preferred melee weapons, while Christopher selected an assault rifle from the trunk. The heavier firearm made him grimace slightly—it was bulky, awkward to carry, required more ammunition, and generally wasn’t his preferred loadout. But I understood completely why he’d chosen it tonight.

Christopher had taken the assault rifle specifically because we had Brad, Kyle, and Billy accompanying us. Three unpredictable, inexperienced troublemakers who might create situations requiring heavier firepower to extract them from. If those idiots did something catastrophically stupid—and the probability seemed unfortunately high—Christopher wanted maximum capability to provide covering fire during whatever rescue operation became necessary.

He quickly slung the rifle over his shoulder, settling it into position on his back where it would remain accessible but not interfere with his hand axe, then performed a brief function check to ensure the weapon was properly loaded and ready.

“Here I thought we specifically weren’t supposed to be bringing guns on this reconnaissance!” Billy’s voice emerged from Martin’s vehicle as he climbed out. “You’re breaking your own rules already!”

“Well, we didn’t predict that three complete morons would decide to accompany us against our recommendations,” Sydney retorted with acid sweetness, not even bothering to look in Billy’s direction as she checked her own weapon. “Given that unfortunate development, anything can happen, so we’re not taking any unnecessary risks. Consider the firearms to be the ’Brad’s faction does something monumentally stupid’ contingency plan.”

Billy’s face flushed dark red even in the dim light, his expression twisting with barely-suppressed anger. He glared at Sydney with obvious hatred, but seemed unable to formulate a verbal response that wouldn’t prove her point about his group being problematic.

“Alright everyone, let’s calm down and focus on the mission,” Martin spoke, stepping between the two groups to prevent further escalation. “The firearms are purely precautionary—emergency backup in case of worst-case scenarios. But don’t use them unless you genuinely need them for survival. We’re heading inside what was once a significantly populated tourist city. We have absolutely no reliable information about current conditions after nearly three months since the initial outbreak.”

He paused, letting that sink in before continuing. “Atlantic City had a permanent resident population of around forty thousand people, but during peak tourist season—which was happening when the outbreak occurred—the city would swell to well over a hundred thousand people on any given day. If even a fraction of those people are now infected and still present in the city… we could be looking at tens of thousands of infected concentrated in a relatively small urban area.”

The numbers created a sobering mental image. Long Branch had been bad enough with its infected concentration, and that had been a much smaller city. Atlantic City represented a potential nightmare scenario of infected density.

“Don’t worry about that—we can all handle groups of infected just fine, right Brad?” Christopher said with cheerful confidence that was obviously provocation designed to test Brad’s bravado. “You three have so much experience dealing with infected, I’m sure you’ll have no problems at all.”

Brad snorted dismissively, his expression radiating contempt. “Worry about your own ass first. And why the fuck are we doing this scouting mission at night anyway? This is the stupidest possible timing—should have come during daylight when we can actually see what we’re dealing with.”

“Infected have extremely poor vision in general, and it deteriorates even further at night,” I explained with patience I didn’t particularly feel. “They rely almost entirely on sound and smell to locate prey. Which actually works significantly in our advantage specifically because the city will likely contain large numbers of infected. Darkness makes it considerably easier for us to move undetected through areas with high infected concentration.”

Besides taking advantage of our Dullahan-enhanced vision—which performed amazingly well in low-light conditions, far exceeding normal human capability—that had actually been my plan from the beginning. Rachel, Sydney, and I possessed genuine night vision that would allow us to navigate confidently in darkness that would leave normal humans stumbling blind. We were exploiting that specific advantage.

“So it’s getting dark, and you’re seriously telling us to move around in pitch black like this?” Kyle retorted with aggressive skepticism. “That’s even more dangerous, genius. We won’t be able to see threats coming until they’re right on top of us!”

If I openly stated that Sydney, Rachel, and I possessed enhanced vision allowing us to see clearly in darkness and would be leading and protecting everyone else, Brad’s faction would probably just laugh and mock us again, dismissing the claim as more ’bullshit superpowers’ they didn’t believe in. There was no point trying to convince the willfully ignorant.

“We have extensive experience with night operations—just follow our lead closely,” I replied dryly, too tired of arguing with people who actively resisted accepting basic reality. “Or alternatively, you’re welcome to scout on your own using whatever approach you think is superior. We’re not forcing anyone to follow our plan.”

Brad glared at me, his hands clenching and unclenching as if he was seriously contemplating physical violence. But I simply ignored his hostile stare, turning my attention instead toward the others who were actually contributing productively to mission preparation.

“We move together as a tight formation,” I said clearly. “I’ll lead the front with Sydney flanking slightly to my right. Martin and Clara will take our left and right sides respectively, maintaining watch on our flanks. Rachel and Christopher will cover our rear, preventing anything from approaching undetected from behind.”

Everyone I’d named nodded acknowledgment—Rachel, Sydney, Christopher, Martin, and Clara all understood their assigned positions and the reasoning behind the formation. Six experienced survivors who’d proven their competence repeatedly, who could be trusted to maintain discipline and execute their roles effectively.

The three people I purposefully hadn’t named stood slightly apart, their body language radiating resentment.

“Hey, what about us?!” Billy asked. “You didn’t give us any assignments! What are we supposed to do?”

I glanced at him briefly while checking my Glock, verifying the ammunition count and that the magazine was properly seated. Seventeen rounds in the magazine plus one in the chamber. After confirming everything was correct, I secured the handgun inside my jacket’s internal pocket where it would remain readily accessible but wouldn’t interfere with my axe work.

“You three stay inside the protective circle we’re forming,” I said flatly, not bothering to soften the implication that they were being treated as liabilities requiring protection rather than assets contributing to group security. “And most importantly, don’t do anything unnecessary. No loud talking, no sudden movements, no wandering off, no trying to prove how tough you are. Just stay quiet and follow instructions immediately when given.”

“This bastard!!” Brad’s control finally snapped completely. He surged forward with aggressive intent, closing the distance between us with obvious plans to escalate this into physical confrontation.

But Martin intercepted him smoothly, stepping directly into Brad’s path and placing one firm hand on his chest to stop his forward momentum. Martin’s expression had hardened into something genuinely stern—no more patience, just clear warning that he would not tolerate this behavior endangering the mission.

“You still have options, Brad,” Martin said quietly. “You can accept Ryan’s organization and follow instructions. You can return to Galloway and wait with the others rather than participating. Or you can attempt to scout on your own using whatever approach you prefer. Those are your three choices. But what you absolutely cannot do is attack Ryan who is more experienced and create internal conflict that will get everyone killed. Choose wisely.”

Brad stood there trembling with suppressed rage, his face flushed dark red and his breathing harsh. For a long moment I genuinely thought he might choose violence anyway, consequences be damned, just to satisfy his wounded ego.

But finally—reluctantly, resentfully—Brad stepped back. His jaw remained clenched tight enough that I could see muscles jumping, and his eyes still burned with hatred when they met mine. But he accepted staying within our protective formation rather than choosing any of the alternatives Martin had offered.

“Fine,” Brad ground out through gritted teeth. “We’ll stay in your precious circle. But this doesn’t mean I trust any of you.”

“Neither do I.”

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