Chapter 184: Scouting Atlantic City [7]

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The gunshots continued to ring out through Atlantic City’s broken streets, each report echoing off empty buildings and creating overlapping sound waves that transformed the urban landscape into an acoustic nightmare.

We had reached what appeared to be the city’s center—or at least deeper into the urban core than the residential outskirts where we’d first encountered Rico’s group. Though darkness made precise navigation difficult and the apocalypse had transformed recognizable landmarks into twisted ruins, I could identify distinct architectural shifts that indicated we’d penetrated into more developed areas.

Houses gave way to larger multi-story buildings. We passed what had clearly once been a school—a sprawling institutional structure with broken windows and a playground where rusted swings moved with ghostly motion in the ocean breeze.

We’d moved past the majority of the residential blocks, which meant we were definitely getting closer to the commercial and tourism districts that Atlantic City was famous for. Though the legendary Boardwalk—that 5.5-mile stretch of oceanfront entertainment that was supposedly the world’s first and longest, opened in 1870 and lined with casinos, hotels, amusement parks like Steel Pier, and the historic Boardwalk Hall—still seemed quite a distance away. Maybe several more miles through increasingly dense urban terrain.

Well, we didn’t have time for sightseeing or reaching the oceanfront tonight anyway. Survival took precedence over reconnaissance objectives.

Thankfully, that sniper hadn’t made any additional appearances. No gunshots from elevated positions, no bullets whizzing past our heads, no indication that we were being stalked or targeted by hostile human forces. Either the shooter had withdrawn after his failed attempt on Clara, or he was following at a distance we couldn’t detect, waiting for a better opportunity.

Only the infected represented our main immediate problems, and they were being dealt with relatively easily by Rico’s group. Their shooters demonstrated reasonable competence—not military-grade precision, but adequate accuracy and fire discipline for the threat level we were facing. Ordinary infected fell in steady streams, their corrupted bodies dropping to pavement as bullets found skulls and destroyed the motor control centers.

“Here! We’re getting close to the safe place!” Rico’s voice boomed through the continuing gunfire. “Everyone take the right turn ahead! Move but maintain formation!”

We all pivoted right at the indicated intersection, our combined group flowing through the street corner with surprising coordination considering we’d been enemies threatening to kill each other less than twenty minutes ago.

“Hang on, Clara, we’re almost there,” Martin said, his voice tight with worry and exhaustion. Supporting Clara’s weight while maintaining the necessary pace was clearly taking its toll on him—I could see the strain in his posture.

Clara, sweating profusely with a face that had gone beyond pale into an almost grayish cast that screamed shock and blood loss, barely managed a weak nod in response. She was bleeding through the makeshift bandage Rachel had applied to her shoulder—dark stains spreading across the fabric in patterns that indicated the bullet wound was far from stable. The projectile had definitely broken bone based on the wound angle and Clara’s obvious agony with any arm movement. Bone fragments might be creating additional internal damage, vessels might be torn in ways that simple pressure bandaging couldn’t address.

I looked at her with genuine worry gnawing at my chest. Clara had been nothing but helpful and kind since I’d met her at Jackson Township.

It was always against the good people such things happened…

“Don’t worry about her—we have a doctor in our group,” Rico said, apparently noticing my concerned expression. “He’ll be able to treat that gunshot wound properly. Give her antibiotics, remove any bone fragments, suture the vessels if necessary. She’ll survive if we get her there in time.”

“Really? You mean there’s an actual medical doctor in that building you’re taking us to?” Sydney asked with obvious relief.

“Not exactly in that building, no,” Rico replied with ambiguity. “That place isn’t actually where we’re permanently staying and living. It’s more of a… strategic fallback point. Emergency shelter with cached supplies. Our main place is elsewhere.”

His evasiveness was completely understandable and actually indicated intelligent operational security. He was being appropriately wary about revealing his community’s actual location to unknown people his group had nearly executed minutes ago. Anyone would do the same—and anyone who didn’t practice such caution probably didn’t survive long in post-apocalyptic conditions where information about your home base could get you killed, especially when another group of humans could be actually this hostile…

“Whatever specifics don’t matter to me,” I said, trying to keep irritation out of my voice with limited success. “As long as we can reach safety where Clara can receive treatment, and where no one will be pointing guns at us again without cause. That’s my only requirement at this point.”

“Boy, I already told you—we genuinely thought you were with Callighan’s forces,” Rico repeated, his voice taking on an edge of defensive irritation as he glared at me. “Our people indicated enemy scouts wandering in this sector, your approach matched their patterns as well…”

“You thought we were enemies based on barely any evidence, and your response was attempting execution without any communication, identification attempts, or verification?” I couldn’t keep the cold anger out of my voice now. “What exactly would you have done after shooting us all down and then discovering we had absolutely nothing to do with Callighan? Apologize to our corpses? Bury us somewhere with heartfelt regrets before returning to your routine like nothing happened? Would that have satisfied your conscience?”

I had to address this issue directly because the casual willingness to shoot unknown people without even asking basic identifying questions first was fundamentally stupid and morally bankrupt. It was exactly the same thoughtless, paranoid violence that had characterized that sniper’s attack.

If the shooter was indeed working with Callighan’s faction, then he’d apparently seen us, assumed we were associated with Rico’s group based on zero actual evidence, and tried to kill us without verification or consideration that we might be uninvolved third parties. That kind of shoot-first-never-ask-questions mentality was how human civilization completely collapsed even beyond what the viral outbreak had caused.

I could have died from that bullet. Clara could have died—still might die if we didn’t get her proper treatment soon. And for what? Because paranoid, trigger-happy survivors couldn’t be bothered to verify targets before attempting murder?

That was unforgivable.

“You don’t understand how complicated things have gotten recently,” a voice interjected before Rico could respond. The speaker was the middle-aged woman I’d heard Jake call Molly earlier—probably in her late forties or early fifties, with graying hair tied back in a ponytail. “The tensions between our group and Callighan’s people have escalated dramatically over the past few weeks.”

She was actually the most mature and emotionally restrained person I’d observed in Rico’s group during our limited interaction, though she maintained the same wariness they all displayed.

“But yes, I can apologize on Rico’s behalf for the aggressive reception you received,” Molly continued. “Rico is all muscles and very little brain when it comes to nuance and interpersonal communication, so please try to understand his limitations. We’ve suffered significant losses recently that have made everyone… reactive. Less careful about verification than we should be.”

At her words, the others in Rico’s group fell into heavy silence, their faces showing complicated emotional landscapes that ranged from grief to anger to bitter resignation. Whatever losses they’d suffered clearly remained raw psychological wounds.

“You mean Callighan or his people have killed members of your community?” I asked, hoping desperately that the answer would be different but already knowing with sinking certainty what Molly would confirm.

She nodded briefly, her expression dimming with remembered pain. “Several. In various incidents over the past month.”

“Why… why would humans kill other humans like that?” I asked dumbstruck.

It was maybe a naive question—even childishly idealistic given human history. Murder, war, genocide, these things had characterized human civilization long before the viral outbreak. But somehow, after the apocalypse, after humanity had been reduced to maybe one percent of pre-outbreak population with infected filling every corner of the world, cooperation should have become the obvious survival strategy. People should be working together to fight the infected threat, not killing each other over scraps.

Molly smiled bitterly. “Despite sounding quite mature and competent in most respects, you reveal a certain naiveté with questions like that,” she said gently. “I suppose you and your group have had very different experiences of life after the outbreak than we have. Different encounters with what survives of human nature when civilization’s constraints are removed.”

She was right about that, I realized a bit.

The first group I’d encountered after the outbreak had been my high school classmates gathered in the gymnasium. Some had been annoying, frustrating to deal with. But none of them had tried to murder me I mean.

Then came Lexington Charter School. They’d maintained careful boundaries and hadn’t fully trusted us, but when the Infected attacked the library, both groups had worked together to escape. We’d separated afterward before leaving, but that separation had been peaceful. No one had tried assassinating the other group or stealing resources through violence…or maybe that guy who tried to use to violence to steal our short waves radio but he was an exception

And then Jackson Township’s Municipal Office community led by Margaret—the first truly established settlement we’d encountered—had welcomed us with genuine warmth.

My experiences with other people had been, I was now realizing, extraordinarily fortunate. Almost unnaturally positive in terms of human interactions.

Yeah, I’d met genuinely wonderful people…

I honestly hadn’t even conceived it was possible for two survivor communities to be actively killing each other in sustained conflict before tonight. The concept seemed so fundamentally counterproductive, so obviously suicidal for the species, that my brain had rejected it as a realistic scenario. But here we were, learning about exactly that kind of human-on-human violence while running through infected-infested streets.

I supposed this was really human-like to find conflict everywhere…

“Who exactly is this Callighan guy, anyway?” Sydney asked. “Because he really has the most stereotypical villain name I’ve ever heard. Like, did his parents know he’d grow up to be an apocalyptic warlord?”

I found myself equally curious about this figure despite Sydney’s attempt at humor. Callighan represented a significant unknown variable in our plan to settle here —a hostile human faction with territorial control, organized ’military’ capability, and apparent willingness to murder anyone who didn’t submit to his authority.

If Callighan truly controlled major portions of Atlantic City including the prime beachfront real estate we’d been hoping to evaluate for settlement, then we might need to fundamentally rethink our entire plan.

“Later,” Molly said curtly. ” Right now, focus on surviving the next five minutes.”

Her gaze snapped forward as new infected shambled into view ahead, emerging from side streets and doorways drawn by the sustained gunfire that had been announcing our presence across multiple blocks. The loud report of weapons resumed immediately—BANG BANG BANG—as Rico’s shooters engaged the fresh wave of threats.

I continued following the group’s formation through Atlantic City’s darkened streets, maintaining my rear security position while my enhanced senses processed the chaotic environment. But then something made me stop mid-stride, my entire body going still as one particular sound cut through the chorus of gunfire and infected growls.

“Do you hear that?” I asked Sydney, grabbing her arm to halt her forward momentum.

“Hm?” She raised one eyebrow questioningly before focusing her own enhanced Dullahan hearing in the direction my attention had locked onto. Then her eyes widened with sudden recognition and alarm. “Wait, it sounds like a…”

“Stay here with the group,” I said, already moving before consciously deciding to move. “Make sure Clara gets to safety.” I added to make sure she didn’t follow me.

I left the protective formation under everyone’s shocked eyes, breaking away from the group and sprinting perpendicular to our established route toward the sound only Sydney and I could properly detect.

“Does that kid have a death wish?!” Molly’s dumbfounded voice carried clearly despite the distance opening between us. “What the hell is he doing?!”

“Ryan!!” Rachel’s cry followed immediately.

But I ignored them all, trusting my enhanced capabilities and knowing with bone-deep certainty that I’d heard what I’d heard. My legs pumped faster, eating up distance as I navigated the urban terrain fast.

If there was one thing I’d learned to trust absolutely, it was my Dullahan-enhanced senses. And I had definitely heard a scream—human, terrified, young, coming from maybe two hundred yards northwest of our current position. Someone was in desperate trouble.

I vaulted over a low chain-link fence surrounding what had once been a children’s playground—rusted swings swaying gently in the ocean breeze, a slide covered in graffiti and weather damage, a merry-go-round frozen in place by corrosion. My boots hit packed earth on the other side, and I immediately pivoted left toward where the scream had originated.

Several infected noticed my rapid movement and lurched into intercept trajectories, their corrupted nervous systems responding to the stimulus of fast-moving prey. But I didn’t have time to engage them properly—every second I wasted fighting infected was a second that unknown person might be dying.

I clenched my hand axe tighter. The first infected reached for me with blackened, rotting fingers, its jaw hanging slack and oozing dark fluid. I swung with enhanced strength and precision, the axe blade bisecting its skull horizontally and sending the severed top portion of its head spinning away into darkness while the body crumpled.

Two more infected converged from my flanks, trying to surround me. I didn’t stop moving—instead I shifted angles and timing, my reflexes allowing me to thread through gaps that would have been impossible for normal human reaction speeds. One infected’s grasping hand passed inches from my jacket. Another’s teeth snapped shut on empty air where my shoulder had been a microsecond earlier.

I dodged smoothly between their shambling forms, not engaging because engagement meant delay. Instead I used momentum and superior speed to simply bypass them, leaving the infected clutching at nothing while I continued my sprint deeper into Atlantic City’s maze.

That corner ahead—right there!

The sound came again, louder and more desperate this time: “H…Help! Someone please help me!”

I pivoted hard right at the intersection, my vision immediately processing the scene ahead with crystalline clarity despite the darkness.

There—exactly as my senses had suggested—I saw a young girl who appeared to be in her early teens, maybe thirteen or fourteen years old. She was on the ground, having apparently fallen or been knocked down, now desperately crawling backward across broken pavement. Her clothes were torn and filthy, her face streaked with tears and dirt.

Three infected walked toward her, their shambling gait covering ground slowly but relentlessly. The girl’s back hit a wall—literally nowhere left to retreat—and her hands scrabbled uselessly against brick.

“N…Nooo! Stay away from me!!”

I didn’t need Time Freeze for this.

I immediately rushed forward at full enhanced speed, closing the thirty-foot distance in perhaps a second and a half.

“No—Nooo!!” The girl’s scream peaked as the first infected reached toward her with grasping, corrupted fingers.

My hand axe left my grip in a perfectly calculated throw, the weapon spinning end-over-end through the air with force and perfect trajectory.

The axe blade planted itself deeply into the first infected’s skull with a wet THUNK sound, penetrating through the frontal bone and destroying enough brain tissue to shut down motor function instantly. The infected’s reaching hand froze mid-grasp, then the entire body toppled forward as strings were cut.

But I was already moving to recover my weapon and engage the remaining threats. I spotted a weathered park bench positioned conveniently at the perfect angle for my approach. My boot hit the bench seat, compressed, launched me upward in an arcing leap that carried me over the falling first infected.

Mid-flight, I grasped my axe handle and yanked the weapon free from the infected’s collapsing skull with a spray of dark blood and brain matter. The momentum of my pull combined with my forward trajectory to position me perfectly for the next strike.

The second infected had only begun turning toward me when my axe blade connected with its head at eye level. The horizontal swing bisected its skull cleanly through the ocular cavities and nasal bridge, the weapon continuing through with enough force to send the severed upper portion of the head flying while the lower jaw and body continued forward for another step before collapsing in a heap.

Two down. One remaining.

The third infected had finally processed that it faced a threat and was attempting to shift from pursuing the girl to engaging me.

But…

Slow.

I didn’t even need to close distance. My axe left my hand again in another throw, this one targeting the third infected’s forehead. The weapon flew true, the blade punching through the infected’s skull dead center between its eyes and emerging slightly from the back of the cranium. The infected went rigid, already dead but not yet fallen, suspended in that half-second between brain death and physical collapse.

I landed softly on the ground then. The third infected toppled forward like a cut tree, hitting the pavement with a heavy thud that cracked concrete. I stepped forward, planted my boot firmly on the infected’s chest, and pulled my axe free with a wet sucking sound. Dark, thick blood coated the blade making me wince a little.

“Disgusting as always…”

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