With the immediate threat neutralized, Bryan sat down heavily on the toppled shelf. Between the gas mask restricting his breathing and the adrenaline crash from the fight, he was genuinely struggling for air.
He took a moment to steady himself, then stood and stared down at the Stalker's corpse pinned beneath the shelving. His mind replayed the creature's retreat—that deliberate, calculated withdrawal—and a chill crawled up his spine.
In all his years outside the QZ, he'd encountered Stalkers in spore-heavy environments plenty of times. These zones were their hunting grounds—perfect conditions for ambush predators. They hid, they crept, they struck. That was their nature.
But one thing had always been consistent: once a Stalker committed to an attack, it never disengaged. Never retreated.
Until today. This one had sensed danger the moment its fungal armor was destroyed, immediately broken off, vanished into the fog, and waited—biding its time until its prey was distracted before launching a coordinated strike with the Runners.
Bryan's stomach turned. If there had been six or seven Stalkers down here instead of one, using the same hit-and-fade tactics... even if they couldn't land a killing blow immediately, they could bleed a person dry. Death by a thousand cuts.
The thought sent a genuine shiver through him. He committed every detail to memory. If Stalkers were evolving, then Runners and Clickers might not be far behind.
Can't afford to underestimate the Infected anymore.
The fact that a Stalker had gotten that close without him noticing was deeply unsettling. He'd been lucky—no Stage Three Clickers in here, and the total numbers were manageable. Otherwise, this basement would have been his grave.
Time to go.
He retrieved the discarded pistol, turned, and headed for the collapsed stairwell. Climbing over a fallen support pillar with some effort, he dropped down to the far side of the underground mall.
He found an escalator shaft leading up to the ground floor and took the steps three at a time, bursting out into the mall's first level.
Daylight. Bryan squinted, letting his eyes adjust, then ripped the gas mask off and stuffed it into his backpack. The first breath of fresh air felt like resurrection.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT—!
Gunfire. Close. Bryan's whole body jolted, and he threw himself behind a chunk of collapsed wall on pure instinct, certain he'd been spotted.
But no bullets came his way. After a tense moment, he realized the shooting had nothing to do with him.
Pressing himself low, he crept to the building's entrance and peered through a shattered window.
Seven or eight QZ soldiers in full combat gear—helmets, assault rifles—were advancing on a pharmacy across the street in a tactical formation. Whenever a figure appeared in the windows, they opened up with suppressive fire.
The defenders appeared to be Fireflies. Five or six of their dead lay in the street around the pharmacy and its surrounding ruins. The survivors were holed up inside, returning fire with a ragged assortment of weapons—the shots wild, panicked, impacting everything except their targets.
"Are you serious? I walk into this too?"
A firefight between FEDRA soldiers and Fireflies. Bryan was now thoroughly convinced the universe was conspiring against him today.
All he wanted was to haul some supplies to the District E black market and visit a friend. Not save the world. Was that really too much to ask?
He tracked the soldiers' advance. They were pushing toward the Firefly position, steadily moving away from him. A little more distance and he could slip past undetected.
Wait—why does this feel familiar? The thought surfaced unbidden, but he shook it off. He kept his eyes locked on the soldiers until they'd moved far enough, then slipped out of cover.
Fifteen seconds. That's all it took. Bryan ghosted across the street behind the soldiers' line of advance, completely silent, and dropped into a blast crater. He pressed himself flat against the dirt, motionless.
A full minute passed before he lifted his head. No one had noticed. No alarms. He was clear.
Using rubble and ruined walls as cover, Bryan moved quickly through the back alleys. The gunfire continued in the distance—sporadic, violent—but growing fainter with every step. He was pulling out of the engagement zone. Another few blocks and he'd reach the District E entrance.
CRACK—!
A sniper rifle. The sharp report came from a rooftop to his left, and simultaneously, the distant firefight erupted into full-scale assault—automatic weapons hammering, punctuated by screams. FEDRA was going in for the kill.
The sudden shot caught Bryan off-guard. His composure held, but his footing didn't—momentum carried him backward, and his boot came down squarely on a dry branch.
Snap.
The sound was small. In the context of the battle raging nearby, it was nothing. But Bryan's body locked up the instant he felt the branch give way. Of all the luck—
He could only pray the sniper hadn't heard it. Even as the thought formed, his head was already turning, eyes searching for the shooter.
On the rooftop above, the sniper had been focused entirely on the battle—providing overwatch for the assault team. But the sound at his back, small as it was, triggered combat instincts honed by years outside the walls. He whipped around on reflex, eyes scanning the ground below.
They saw each other at the same instant.
Time froze. Again. The same sick joke the universe had played on him in the underground mall, replayed in broad daylight.
"DROP IT!"
Bryan knew he was made the second their eyes met. A curse roared through his mind, but his hand was already moving—ripping the pistol from his waistband, leveling it at the rooftop. He screamed the threat, selling the bluff with every ounce of conviction he had.
The sniper wasn't about to lie there and play target. He rolled sideways, disappearing behind the rooftop's parapet, taking cover against the incoming shot.
The shot never came. Instead, the sniper heard footsteps—rapid, receding. Getting farther away.
He popped up immediately and confirmed what he'd already suspected. The figure was sprinting into the distance. The pistol had been empty—a bluff. The stranger had bought himself a head start with nothing but audacity.
The sniper didn't hesitate. He vaulted off the roof, hit the ground in a controlled roll, and took off in pursuit. His radio crackled to life as he ran:
"Contact—southeast, single unidentified individual. Currently in pursuit. Requesting patrol units intercept."
With the report filed, the sniper drew his sidearm and fired at the fleeing target.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Bryan heard the shots behind him and hunched lower, pouring on speed while weaving behind every piece of available cover. Bullets cracked into walls and pavement around him, throwing up chips of concrete—none finding their mark.
After the initial volley, the sniper stopped shooting. Bryan understood why—firing on the run killed both accuracy and speed. A trained operator would choose one or the other. This guy chose pursuit.
Bryan glanced back. The sniper had holstered his weapon and was running flat out, closing the gap. Professional. Nothing like the green soldiers inside the QZ.
The District E entrance was close, but Bryan knew the sniper had already radioed ahead. Patrol units would be moving to cut him off. Running blindly forward was no longer an option.
He eased off the pace slightly. To get out of this alive, he needed to deal with the tail first.
...
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