Carver forced down his anger and kept listening.
"Mr. Lorenzo really knows what he's doing," a third voice chimed in, dripping with flattery.
"If he hadn't come to Knoxville on business right before the apocalypse, and if he hadn't known a few of our bosses, we'd probably still be scrounging around the city like rats, fighting walkers for canned food. No way we'd be living like this—guns, heavy weapons, our own territory!"
"Yeah, the Red Scarf Gang—now that's a name people recognize! Haha! From now on, this whole area answers to us!"
"Shh! Don't go shouting the gang's name around! Lorenzo said we're an organization now—we've got rules!"
"Rules, my ass. But the way he and Wagner handle things… heh. I'd better keep my mouth shut."
Carver quietly backed away and continued upward.
He climbed another floor. This one looked like the core area.
At the end of the hallway was a double-door room. Two Red Scarf guards stood watch outside, holding AR rifles. They looked more professional than the others, their expressions alert.
Bright light leaked through the crack of the door. Carver could even hear faint classical music drifting out.
It felt completely out of place in the middle of the apocalypse.
Carver didn't dare get any closer. He had already noticed more patrols moving through this area.
He memorized the location and began to withdraw.
Meanwhile, down on the basement level, Bossie had made a discovery of his own.
The lower level was much larger and had been converted into a warehouse and a set of crude holding cells.
The warehouse was stacked with supplies—from canned food to crates of ammunition. There were even several modified motorcycles.
And inside the cells were prisoners.
Most of them were survivors—gaunt, yellow-faced, and hollow-eyed.
Men and women alike. There were even one or two who looked like National Guard soldiers, wearing torn uniforms and covered in wounds.
"Bastards…" Bossie cursed silently.
He watched as two Red Scarf guards dragged a woman out of one of the cells while she struggled and begged.
"Shut up! Mr. Lorenzo needs people for the production line. You should be grateful!" one guard snapped, kicking her impatiently.
"No! Please! I'll die! That place will explode!" the woman screamed desperately.
"Good. Saves us food," the other guard said coldly. "The last idiot already blew herself up."
He dragged her roughly toward the staircase leading to the parking garage.
Bossie's fists clenched until his knuckles cracked, but he forced himself to stay put.
His mission was reconnaissance, not suicide.
He carefully memorized the positions of the warehouse, the cells, and the guards, then slipped quietly back into the stairwell.
Fifteen minutes later, the two met again in the stairwell connected to the parking garage.
"How'd it look?" Bossie whispered.
"About three floors above are being used as living quarters. Roughly sixty people. They're decently armed but poorly disciplined. On the top floor there's a heavily guarded room—probably where the leader stays. There are likely a few more people inside.
They call themselves the Red Scarf Gang. The leader's named Lorenzo. Sounds Italian. Apparently he was an arms dealer before the apocalypse. The key point is—
this group ambushed the last evacuation convoy of National Guard troops and civilians."
Bossie nodded and added quietly,
"The basement holds warehouses and cells. At least twenty survivors locked up. Plenty of supplies too, including vehicles.
And those workers in the factory earlier—most of them are probably captured civilians and National Guard troops. I counted about four guards there, but I couldn't tell their shift rotations."
Carver finished the summary.
"Total enemy numbers are probably between sixty and seventy. They're well armed, but aside from the core guards, most of them are sloppy.
That leader, Lorenzo, seems capable. He's managed to pull different gangs together under one banner. This place is easy to defend and hard to assault, but it's not airtight."
"That's enough. Let's move."
They had learned everything they needed. Every extra second here meant more risk.
The two retraced their route.
Avoiding the occasional lazy patrol, they made their way back near the underground parking garage exit.
The exit was sealed by a heavy electric gate. Next to it stood a small guard booth where a man was nodding off.
Bossie glanced at Carver.
What's the plan?
Carver grinned, flashing white teeth, and pulled a small device from his tactical vest—a flashbang.
"Same old trick. Draw them one way, slip out the other."
He waited for the right moment and snapped his arm forward.
The flashbang arced through the air, sailing past the guard booth and landing among a pile of empty oil drums in the far corner of the parking lot.
BOOM—CRACK!!!
A thunderous blast and a blinding flash exploded through the enclosed space.
"What the hell?! Enemy attack?!"
The guard in the booth jolted awake and grabbed his rifle in panic.
He turned toward the explosion. The entire parking garage erupted into chaos. Shouts echoed from inside the building as people started running.
In that brief moment of confusion—
Carver and Bossie burst from the shadows.
They vaulted over the not-so-tall electric gate in one smooth motion, landing silently before disappearing into the pitch-black wilderness beyond.
Behind them, the Red Scarf Gang's base exploded with shouting and curses.
But there was no organized pursuit.
They hadn't even figured out where the attack came from—or who the enemy was.
Carver and Bossie kept running until the building was far behind them and completely out of sight.
Only then did they finally slow down to catch their breath.
"Hahaha… let those bastards sort it out themselves," Carver chuckled, hands on his knees.
Bossie allowed himself a rare smile as he steadied his breathing.
"Let's move. Leah and Mike are waiting. Time everyone learned the truth about Lorenzo and his Red Scarf Gang."
After another half hour of running—
"Damn… that was one hell of a sprint," Bossie said between breaths, leaning against the rusted rear wheel of an old school bus while scanning the road behind them for pursuers.
"We need to report back fast," Carver said, straightening up. "Let's find a vehicle and get back to the industrial park to meet Leah and the others."
They began searching the nearby streets.
In the apocalypse, finding a working vehicle often came down to luck.
They passed several cars that looked mostly intact—but either the gas tanks had been siphoned dry, or all four wheels were missing.
"Damn scavengers stripped them clean!" Carver kicked a car tire in frustration.
The dull thud echoed down the street, drawing a few distant, answering howls from walkers.
Bossie said nothing.
His gaze drifted toward a bicycle shop on the corner that had long since been looted.
The door hung open. Inside was a mess.
But…
He stepped inside.
A few minutes later, he came back out pushing two mountain bikes that looked absolutely battered.
The wheels were slightly warped. The chains were rusty.
But they still turned.
One of them had no seat.
The other had badly bent handlebars.
"No way. Bossie, you're serious?" Carver stared at the two "relics" in disbelief.
"Still faster than walking. And quieter," Bossie said flatly as he started straightening the bent handlebars.
"Unless you'd rather run all the way back. Or you think that school bus will start."
Carver groaned and grabbed the bike without a seat.
"Damn it… my ass is going to suffer tonight…"